Same Old S#!*alon

skybalon, n. Greek: rubbish, refuse, dung; this can refer to any of a number of rotten, decaying things, all that is worth getting rid of

All things are wearisome;

Man is not able to tell it.
The eye is not satisfied with seeing,
Nor is the ear filled with hearing.
That which has been is that which will be,
And that which has been done is that which will be done.
So there is nothing new under the sun

For the heart of this people has become dull,
With their ears they scarcely hear,
And they have closed their eyes,
Otherwise they would see with their eyes,
Hear with their ears,
And understand with their heart and return,

And I would heal them.’.

But they will say, ‘It’s hopeless! For we are going to follow our own plans, and each of us will act according to the stubbornness of his evil heart.’

“For from the least of them even to the greatest of them,
Everyone is greedy for gain,
And from the prophet even to the priest
Everyone deals falsely.

But whatever things were gain to me, those things I have counted as loss for the sake of Christ. More than that, I count all things to be loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them but rubbish (skybalon) so that I may gain Christ,

Ecclesiastes 1:8-9, Matthew 13:15, Jeremiah 18:12, Jeremiah 6:13, Philippians 3:7-8

The Fallow Field

Photo by Charlie Bongo

The master calls a rest long overdue.

"I do not like it" thought the fallow field as weeds sprang up where bumper crops had grown, where purpose had been clear and tall in tidy rows.

"I do not need it" said the field against the sorrow of its injured pride, against the grief of other fields producing still along its sides.

"I don't accept it," cried the field as it felt its soil warmed by longer days, and it felt the shade of foreign leaves collecting strength.

But what's a field to do but wait?

It cannot choose its seed or guard its place.

It cannot mend its soil or summon rain.

It cannot withhold what foreign roots will take.

And so, the foreigners grew.

And how thoroughly they soon had taken over, with their uncultured flowers and unwelcome thorns, some new and some the field had seen before.

And how it irked the field, how for the old it yearned, seeing the memory of its tidy rows hidden beneath their patterns too complex to be discerned

And how it vexed the field to feel its own resistance fade, to feel the toll of daily consternation, to feel the subtle lure of finally resting in their shade.

The master watched it patiently

His tenants working other fields of bounty

His plan in motion nourishing the subtleties

His affection undetected by the field of weeds.

The allotted time came due

"I never thought this rest would grow on me. How welcome and strange" the field spoke to the weeds, "What at first I thought a burden has relieved an unseen weight."

"I never thought I would enjoy the sight of you. I am amazed. You look different as I see what I have gained, something lost inside has been replaced"

"I never thought my strength would grow through needing you." the field said to the weeds, "What I thought you stole of me is what I needed to give away."

"Have I judged you wrong?"

"Have you been working with my master all along?"

"Have I despised the very thing that made me strong?"

"I'm such a fool. I'm such a fool. I'm such a fool!"

"You're such a field. That's true".

"But fields are only fools to shun the light you now embrace." said the weeds. "Only the seasoned love to see us. The new are never glad we came."

"I see that's true. I'm better off to rest in what the master knows, when I should next enjoy your shade and you should next enjoy my furrows.

"I fear I may still need you, when Spring restores my bounty as before," said the field as days grew short. "My heart may cave to its exhausting appetite for more."

"We're never far," said the weeds. "We're off to see your neighbor down the road. We'll stay in touch, now that you've learned to see beyond your tidy rows.