Rebel Song

From the Introduction to "Rebel Song": My beautiful wife has always supported my writing. She has been more than patient, perpetually encouraging my various creative endeavors. It’s not easy living with someone who devotes countless hours to “artistic” work that generates little income and far too often deprives her of my availability and my time. But if I did not write, I would suffer emotionally and spiritually. If I did not write, my thoughts would have no release and my family would find me even more insufferable than I already am. So I am deeply grateful for the tolerance and understanding shown to me by my wife and my children. Their love and acceptance encourages whatever is good in me and tames the demons with which I constantly wrestle. If everyone on earth could know such unconditional love for even a moment, then this world would surely begin to heal. My wife is also my de facto editor. She lets me know when my writing is too strident, too pedantic, or too loquacious. She kindly but forthrightly advises me to simplify, shorten, and temper my work. “Too many big words”… “Too long”… “Too redundant”…“Too provocative”… she will often say. And she’s usually right. I talk too much. I preach too much. And my writing suffers from the arrogance of a man who always thinks he has something to say. But after many years of marriage my wife still hasn’t told me to shut up. Maybe she should. I’ll let the reader decide. The artist is inherently self-centered, and yet the artist is constantly striving to create something that transcends himself. At his worst, the artist’s words and work do nothing more than reveal his own narcissism. But at his best his creativity reaches out to touch the very edges of the universe. My words are undoubtedly still mired in this terrestrial realm. Yet I take hope from the insight of Miguel de Cervantes who wrote, “There is no book so bad that it does not have something good in it.” [Don Quixote] This book was written with my wife’s sage advice in mind. Some of the material is excerpted from my first book, MYSTERY and MEANING: Christian Philosophy & Orthodox Meditations, a much larger work that contains more in-depth expositions of a theological and philosophical nature. But I hope that these simple offerings of poetry and prose will be easy to read and easy to understand. And most of all, I hope that my words will usher the reader into a deeper commitment to peace, life, humanity, and love. The fire of my words is intended to purge, liberate, and heal, not to disparage and destroy. I pray that the reader will keep this in mind. I must also emphasize that while the views and opinions in this book are deeply shaped by my Orthodox Christian faith, this book is by no means intended to be a dogmatic statement of the Orthodox Church. I am not a Priest or a prophet or a teacher or a saint. I am just a simple child of God – as are we all – offering up the convictions of my heart and soul in the hope that they will somehow contribute to peace, love, and healing in the world. I am a pilgrim – constantly seeking direction, constantly begging bread, and doing my best to share what I have been given with my fellow travelers on this trod through creation. I can identify with Nikos Kazantzakis when he begins his interpretational biography of St. Francis of Assisi with the following words: “I had taken up my quill to begin writing many times before now, but I always abandoned it quickly. Each time I was overcome with fear. Yes, may God forgive me, but the letters of the alphabet frighten me terribly. They are sly, shameless demons – and dangerous! You open the inkwell, release them; they run off – and how will you ever get control of them again? They come to life, join, separate, ignore your commands, arrange themselves as they like on the paper – black, with tails and horns. You scream at them and implore them in vain, but they do as they please. Prancing, pairing up shamelessly before you, they deceitfully expose what you did not wish to reveal, and they refuse to give voice to what is struggling, deep within your bowels, to come forth and speak to mankind. As I was returning from Church this past Sunday, however, I felt emboldened. Had not God squeezed those demons into place whether they liked it or not, with the result that they wrote the Gospels? Well then, I said to myself, ‘Courage, my soul! Have no fear of them! Take up your quill and write!’ But I immediately grew fainthearted once again. The Gospels, to be sure, were written by the holy apostles. One had his angel, the other his lion, the other his ox, and that last his eagle. These dictated, and the apostles wrote. But I…?” Writing is indeed a dangerous and presumptuous endeavor. And yet I share the sentiment of Flannery O’Connor, who wrote: “When a book leaves your hands, it belongs to God. He may use it to save a few souls or to try a few others; but I think that for the writer to worry is to take over God’s business.” So, this is just another “Rebel Song.” It is in God’s hands now. I pray that He will resurrect a divine melody out of any discordant notes. +GMK+