Isaiah was a poet, that is to say, a prophet. He was sorrowful and heart-broken, as was his God. They both were jilted lovers. And their almighty wrath and woe sprang from the most inhuman of failures of that most divine of tests: the betrayal of love.
Jonathan Edwards was no poet and therefore no prophet. He was no dreamer and therefore could never truly be popular. Instead, he was a knower. He had the certainty of the literalist, that is to say, the certainty of being wrong. His wrath came not from betrayal by mankind, for that would first require a romance with it. Edward’s wrath came from complete and utter love of himself. Edwards was no resurrection man; no believer in his brothers and sisters. How could he if his own Father did not believe in them? He and the God he claimed to hear, were merely angry and disappointed in humanity. And both almost seemed to have a sort of glee in the punishment of man, along with an expectancy, maybe even a hope of this grand mistake’s failure. Jonathan Edward’s God was a respecter of persons who punished for punishment’s sake alone. In a truly hair-raising display of cosmic extortion, Jonathan Edward’s God would dangle His children like insects over a fire; watching as they squirmed, only too happy to drop them if they would not capitulate. But there was no glee in Isaiah’s God. Though the hand of his God may have been stretched out still, yet His eyes remained burning with tears. For unlike the Edwardsian God, Isaiah’s God dreamed. And those God-sized dreams became Isaiah’s: of children coming home; of a poisoned root blossoming again; of a bride waiting only for her groom’s voice. Wrath and love, woe and joy. Isaiah mingled these in the God of redemption. Jonathan Edwards never did. No mingler, this one. No, he was as monolithic as he was monomaniacal. To me, if anyone were to ever truly awaken in Jonathan Edward’s world, he would awaken to a moonscape; not arise to a world shining ‘neath the glory of the Sun. Comments are closed.
|
Archives
April 2022
Categories
All
|