Musterion

Rock is alive, though we classify it as inorganic matter. Its lifespan is the length of the universe, so it doesn't say 'hello' because it can't perceive our brief fly-by; its day is a thousand of our years. It reproduces with other rock in sheol, in the secret guts of the earth.

Maybe, or maybe not - but maybe the poetic language offers a door for reflection about the eternal God and Man's brief sojourning. Maybe there is some truth to the wording, just as the world is a globe though it isn't.

'Aha,' says the empiricist, 'rock is inorganic, case closed. Onto- comes before theology, if there is to be such a latter. Logic judges Revelation.'

Judges? No, Revelation sets the bones of logic.

Musterion stands in one place, and we often can't find him; he often finds us. He walks a tight-rope in flip-flopped scenery, and he looks strange to us; he looks strangely at us.

The Word was made flesh; the Word was made strange, and it dwelt among us.


-r