He who sits upon the throne, at the very center of all that is, is listening. He listens to the very heart of things. His angels serve him, even reflect his holy intent, but they are not, and could never be him. And he has this amazing capacity to let us all know, all of us, how much he appreciates what we do for him. This immediate and holy affirmation only spurs us on to more. No earthly melody has ever been so rich. I know we would speak of music and art as touching the heavenly but I am so sorry, this is what the greatest of our artisans only could allude to. Metaphors are good. It's what we had. But this! This is the referent. And it is everyone, and it is alive! Authors wrote of their books as having a life of their own. Musicians had told the same. The colors of Van Gogh… brilliant. The fugues of Bach… exquisite. The words of Donne… heart-pounding. I thought I knew life, then, but here… we live. And what we sing, or say, what we create… continues to grow and engender our living intent. For one reason, He who listens and affirms, breathes on us and what we do. Golems and Frankenstein monsters are tragic. Pygmalions and gholas are curiosities. Yet they are just symbols and images. They are imaginary. But like the red clay of Adam and Eve, the Maker's breath gives our holy inventions life.
Sitting at the center, He who listens to the heart of things now stands. And all that is, grows silent. Silence pervades. Peace is not an idea. It is palpable and present and beautiful. Peace waits. Settling deep down upon us all, peace like a quiet river waits.
Then, as if every dawn that ever was took their cue from this, He opens his mouth and ever so gradual, sings a song of ageless mercy. Each note like wind, rain, and flower slowly rise and fall and surround us all. Chill to wake, warm to comfort, and note to sound to word tells the story of the dreams of God. If rocks could weep, to this tale, they would drench the earth and break the hearts of angels. Tender love, to make the world, and worlds past knowing, care that created arms to embrace, and memory to echo the moments of embracing. He who is love, never knew to not love to the very essence, and yet to face the unloving and still to love. O dear heart! To swim in the ocean of love that knows no limitation and yet to swim alone! Pity not him who, full in love, lives beyond the need. No! We all say "No!" We all sing "No!" We shout we whisper we reverberate, God is God, and He is not in need. "Look" we marvel. He weeps for the unloving! And we, all, join the great mourning: the memory, the prophecy, the moment. And now we hear the still, small, Spirit whispering "love is more." And like a tidal wave we are bowed down to prostrate, hearing the blessed reverberation "love is more."