Column One

Confession

I don't know how to begin, but I do know how I want it to end. Soon.

"Yes?"

It's not that I want to sound ungrateful.

"But you do."

Guilty as charged. Father, forgive me. It's the greatest of His gifts, and yet all I want to do is close it up, gift wrapping and all, and mark it Return to Sender.

"Say 10 Hail Marys. Use the Rosary beads. Rouse yourself, man. And remember to draw the curtains of the booth behind you. There's a long line outside. You're not the only sinner in the world, you know, much as you might like to think so in your damnable self-absorption. Don't flatter yourself. Te Deo. Now go in peace, my son."

Wait.

"Why? So you can go on feeling sorry for yourself?

I'm not sure. Not any more. I was sure when I got here, but now . . . I don't know. You've confused me.

"You've only confused yourself, my son, taking brass for gold, the Gospel for the counsel of the Father of Lies--for He still goes to and from the land, and up and down in it. I know Him well, and He knows us better than we do ourselves. That's His trick. His trade secret. Get thee behind me, tell Him, and stop flattering yourself. I see your kind all day long, and nights, too. Just look around you at the world your God, your ever loving God, has made. His wonders never cease, day by day, night after starry night. The light of those stars may be reaching us only now, but think how many millennia ago it began its journey across intergalactic distances--light years away."

But He keeps pursuing me. Like some kind of Hound of Heaven:

I fled Him, down the nights

and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

I fled Him,

down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind;

and in the mist of tears

I hid from Him,

and under running laughter.

Up vistaed hopes I sped;

And shot, precipitated,

Adown Titanic glooms

of chasmed fears,

From those strong Feet

that followed, followed after.

But with unhurrying chase,

And unperturbed pace,

Deliberate speed,

majestic instancy,

They beat--and a Voice beat

More instant than the Feet--

All things betray thee,

who betrayest Me.

Very well, Father, you've made your point. I've always been a sucker for poetry. Maybe because there's no arguing with it. Yes, there's logic to it. And a lot more. Just ask any poet. Or try your hand at iambic pentameter yourself. 'Tain't easy, On the contrary, it takes hard work, persistence, unremitting attention. A readiness to correct and be corrected every minute, a line-item veto a minute. This business about its being just inspiration may hold true for the few exceptions among us, but not for ordinary beings like me. Maybe that's why I need Him, Father, to remind me that I'm no poet, thank God.

Paul Greenberg is the Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial writer and columnist for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.

Editorial on 05/01/2016

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