Lonely Moon

Another Mark Heard favorite.

Our world doesn’t offer hope, despite what they say. Without a God who is ever present, I think this would describe me. I am thankful that I am not an “orphan,” living “by the light of the lonely moon.”

LONELY MOON
by Mark Heard.

Was a child and a newcomer to the ways of the world
Eyes ablaze with the light of high noon
Just to love and to be loved was all he wanted
By the light of the lonely moon

They taught him to capture and tame wild pathos
Sold him distractions and made every day seem the same
Caught the Holy Ghost lurking in his cellar and threw Him out
Leaving just a lonely name

Soon they took everything that he lived for
So he asked them to please take his life too
They denied him existence but they let him live
In a lonely room

He would suckle at the bosom of Mother Earth
But his experience poisons that thought
He falls prey somehow
To the silence of the deep-space dark
Of this lonely blue rock

Now his path is lit only by the light of falling stars
The embers fall to scorch and cut his face
He wants to believe in his unbelief
In a lonely place

But they buried his conscience
Near to the grave of God
Sealed his soul up in a tomb of tears
And they scattered his ashes East of Eden someplace
On a lonely breeze

Was a child and a newcomer to the ways of the world
Eyes ablaze with the light of high noon
Just to love and to be loved was all he needed
By the light of the lonely moon
By the light of the lonely moon

Ode to an Orphan

In commenting on the 20th century Malcolm Muggeridge said, “If God is dead, somebody is going to have to take his place. It will be megalomania or erotomania, the drive for power or the drive for pleasure, the clenched fist or the phallus, Hitler or Hugh Heffner.” My premise is that Anna Nicole Smith was the epitome of an Orphan of God; living in a culture that has shaken it’s fist at an Almighty God. It’s tragic . . . I agree with Mike, from Mike’s Blog.

“Here is a woman who was filthy rich. Her net worth was somewhere around 400 million, yet she still couldn’t get away from the pain in her life. She turned to drugs, materialism, escapism, and other isms’s to find comfort for her wounded soul. Anna Nicole is a metaphor of the psyche of many in America today: we are desperately seeking to be loved and accepted yet frustrated when we discover that money, wealth and power aren’t enough.”

Anna Nicole had everything that we are being sold. There has got to be more!

I like Diana Butler Bass‘s comments from God’s Politics:
“But lack of respect does not create stable identity – as was obvious with Anna Nicole’s problems with illness, depression, and drugs. Both justice and peace proved elusive. In her final interview, she told the reporter that everyone she knew had “stolen a piece” of her. She died alone in a casino hotel, with her final taped conversation a tortured reflection of the confident sexual icon she attempted to be.”

It’s tragic and it reminds me of Mark Heard’ssong, “Orphans of God” which I quoted in my first post:

“But they have packaged our virtue in cellulose dreams
And sold us the remnants ’til our pockets are clean
‘Til our hopes fall ’round our feet
Like the dust and dead leaves
And we end up looking like what we believe”
from Mark Heard’s song Orphans of God

So, here’s to an “orphan” of our age who was born Vickie Lynn Hogan and died Anna Nicole Smith.

May the God Who is There save us from ourselves.

The Orphans of God

THE ORPHANS OF GOD

by Mark Heard, From the album Satellite Sky

I will rise from my bed with a question again
As I work to inherit the restless wind
The view from my window is cold and obscene
I want to touch what my eyes haven’t seen

But they have packaged our virtue in cellulose dreams
And sold us the remnants ’til our pockets are clean
‘Til our hopes fall ’round our feet
Like the dust and dead leaves
And we end up looking like what we believe

We are soot-covered urchins running wild and unshod
We will always be remembered as the orphans of God
They will dig up these ruins and make flutes of our bones
And blow a hymn to the memory of the orphans of God

Like bees in a bottle we are flying at fate
Beating our wings against the walls of this place
Unaware that the struggle is the blood of the proof
In choosing to believe the unbelievable truth

But they have captured our siblings and rendered them mute
They’ve disputed our lineage and poisoned our roots
We have bought from the brokers who have broken their oaths
And we’re out on the streets with a lump in our throats

We are soot-covered urchins running wild and unshod
We will always be remembered as the orphans of God
They will dig up these ruins
And make flutes of our bones
And blow a hymn to the memory of the orphans of God