Profundity and Clarity

In a strange way, I feel like profundity is equivalent with difficulty. If a piece of art confuses me, or if a poem baffles me, or if a movie leaves me scratching my head, I assume that what I’m observing is quite deep. I believe there to be a meaning hidden below the surface of the medium, and the entire piece becomes a puzzle to figure out. I consider the small details, I hypothesize about possible hints, and I attempt to read between the lines to unravel the mystery hidden in the uncertainty. I noticed this recently when I read T. S. Eliot, or when I listened to Coldplay, or when I watched Eraserhead. I found myself incredibly intrigued (and, at the same time, incredibly confused) by the hiddenness and seeming vagueness of the art. I also found myself inspired by these stories and lyrics, wishing I could write something so deep. Continue reading

Questions

Is God still good when I have been so wrong?
Or when I’m wronged, does love still win the day?
I read that he’s been with me all along,
But can it be when pain and sorrow stay?
Or might it be that his exalted might
Is meant not to pluck out but to uphold?
And could it be my eyes so weak of sight
Cannot perceive his plan of ages old?
Could he be working all things for my good
Although it seems that he is nowhere near?
Is this my furnace, this my cross of wood,
That shows me through my death that God is here?
How can I then bemoan the fiercest throes,
The holy forging, sanctifying blows?