They Err in Vision

Ah, the proud crown of the drunkards of Ephraim,
       and the fading flower of its glorious beauty,
       which is on the head of the rich valley of those overcome with wine!
Behold, the Lord has one who is mighty and strong;
       like a storm of hail, a destroying tempest,
like a storm of mighty, overflowing waters,
       he casts down to the earth with his hand.
The proud crown of the drunkards of Ephraim
       will be trodden underfoot;
and the fading flower of its glorious beauty,
       which is on the head of the rich valley,
will be like a first-ripe fig before the summer:
       when someone sees it, he swallows it
       as soon as it is in his hand.

In that day the LORD of hosts will be a crown of glory,
       and a diadem of beauty, to the remnant of his people,
and a spirit of justice to him who sits in judgment,
       and strength to those who turn back the battle at the gate.

These also reel with wine
       and stagger with strong drink;
the priest and the prophet reel with strong drink,
       they are swallowed by wine,
       they stagger with strong drink,
       they err in vision,
       they stumble in giving judgment.
For all tables are full of filthy vomit,
       with no space left.

“To whom will he teach knowledge,
       and to whom will he explain the message?
Those who are weaned from the milk,
       those taken from the breast?
For it is precept upon precept, precept upon precept,
       line upon line, line upon line,
       here a little, there a little.”

For by people of strange lips
       and with a foreign tongue
the LORD will speak to this people,
       to whom he has said,
“This is rest;
       give rest to the weary;
and this is repose” —
       yet they would not listen.

Isaiah 28:1-12

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Forgiveness is Complex

I’m a bit depressed.  I stopped writing last night on p.30 of my script, just as my protagonist, Winston Greene, is about to launch into what I am calling The Siddhartha Monologue.   I had figured it for a good day’s work, and was sure I’d be able to pick it up full steam in the morning.  

Instead, I managed to accomplish nothing whatsoever all day.   I’ve been restless all day, and brooding.  It’s almost ten at night, and I am still hung up on getting something done, although it now seems completely unlikely.  It’s as though I won’t let myself rest until I’ve at least made a decent start on the monologue.   

The thoughts I’ve been entertaining seem to be prohibiting me from working on my script.  Although I thought I had forgiven the professor, I must have been deluding myself.  For me to presume myself to be more capable of forgiveness than I actually am now appears to be nothing more than wishful thinking on my part.  It irks me to believe that there is an all-loving, all-understanding God who has forgiven me; and yet I cannot forgive my fellow man.

The unforgiveness I harbor toward this fellow is particularly evident in my thought processes as I mull over the darkness of Scene Three.  In my estimation, it is the scene most likely to have warranted the main thrust of his criticism.  When I read the words “over the top political references that get in the way of the story,” the first thing I thought about was the Ice in Hell sequence in that scene.   But because the professor did not tell me specifically what he meant by “over the top political references,” I didn’t know for sure.  As I tried to express in the 7th paragraph of my post, A Whole Lot of Love, the extent to which I have been plagued by this unknowing increases steadily the more time goes by.  This is why I have compared my Writer’s Block to a progressive illness, in the sense that alcoholism or drug addiction is considered to be progressive (at least in theory.)

If this is the case, then my earlier announcement that the block had been broken would have no more merit than a drug addict’s announcing that he or she had been healed.   My block might have been in remission, but somewhere behind the scenes the insidious disease that brought this block into being still rages with a fury, waiting to strike again.

That disease – is hatred.   Hatred for my fellow man.   Hatred for the Almighty who, despite having forgiven me, had dealt me a hand so impossible, it makes me feel that, had He been more merciful from the start, there might have been nothing to forgive me for.  

So I have scheduled an appointment to discuss my issue with my pastor, who seems to be a very kind and understanding, insightful man.   When I brought up the matter, he said something very succinct, but at the same time very profound:

Forgiveness is complex.

If only I had known, when I first set about to write a new musical about classism in America, how horribly complex it would be.