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The New Name

To him that overcometh, I will give a white stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it.— REV. ii. 17.
I say, in brief, the giving of the white stone with the new name is the communication of what God thinks about the man to the man. It is the divine judgment, the solemn holy doom of the righteous man, the "Come, thou blessed," spoken to the individual. 
In order to see this, we must first understand what is the idea of a name,— that is, what is the perfect notion of a name. For, seeing the mystical energy of a holy mind here speaks of God as giving something, we must understand that the essential thing, and not any of its accidents or imitations, is intended.
A name of the ordinary kind in this world, has nothing essential in it. It is but a label by which one man and a scrap of his external history may be known from another man and a scrap of his history. The only names which have significance are those which the popular judgment or prejudice or humour bestows, either for ridicule or honour, upon a few out of the many. Each of these is founded upon some external characteristic of the man, upon some predominant peculiarity of temper, some excellence or the reverse of character, or something which he does or has done well or ill enough, or at least, singularly enough, to render him, in the eyes of the people, worthy of such distinction from other men. As far as they go, these are real names, for, in some poor measure, they express individuality.
The true name is one which expresses the character, the nature, the being, the meaning of the person who bears it. It is the man's own symbol,— his soul's picture, in a word,— the sign which belongs to him and to no one else. Who can give a man this, his own name? God alone. For no one but God sees what the man is, or even, seeing what he is, could express in a name- word the sum and harmony of what he sees. To whom is this name given? To him that overcometh. When is it given? When he has overcome. Does God then not know what a man is going to become? As surely as he sees the oak which he put there lying in the heart of the acorn. Why then does he wait till the man has become by overcoming ere he settles what his name shall be? He does not wait; he knows his name from the first. But as— although repentance comes because God pardons— yet the man becomes aware of the pardon only in the repentance; so it is only when the man has become his name that God gives him the stone with the name upon it, for then first can he understand what his name signifies. It is the blossom, the perfection, the completion, that determines the name; and God foresees that from the first, because he made it so; but the tree of the soul, before its blossom comes, cannot understand what blossom it is to bear, and could not know what the word meant, which, in representing its own unarrived completeness, named itself. Such a name cannot be given until the man is the name.


George Macdonald
Excerpt from Unspoken Sermons 

Illustration by David Sankey


Ambler, No. 34 [On Taking the Common Highway]

"A Mooreland Road"
Oil on Canvas - Date Unknown
Charles John Holmes 


Subzero Hunt


Draw closed the curtain of the woods
as you trace a boot-stamped furrow
through tree-lined fringe;
cabin lights dwindle to a thin haze
before headlamp and trail remain
your only guides, the beam
whetting edges of muddled tracks,
labyrinthine in their aimless wind,
some hoof, some heel, some overlaid,
as though prints tread by some mythic creature.
Listen beyond your heartbeat’s reverberant brush,
fabric against fabric, beyond the hum
inside yourself, to this—a pure, intimate silence,
where even whispered breath
disrupts the untouched scene. Rustle, snap, crunch,
snug your rifle to palm and shoulder,
the heft of icy metal, the single shot within.
Up the stand, settle to chair, and stop
all but your scanning eyes. There is a pull to the immobile
that the cold cannot ignore, a welcoming,
to inhabit the stowed reserves of warmth
sunk down beneath the flesh. This begins your meld
with the backdrop of the land,
like an optical illusion in reverse,
tucking back into obscurity,
another fallen log, another branch
sheathed in frost, another acorn or apple core
cratered in the snow. When the deer pad in with the dawn
to feed, when you raise and aim and fire
and drag the gutted carcass away,
the blood warm on your hands,
the blood flowing hot, afresh in your stiffened legs,
you may think back to that morning wait,
that readiness to endure, and wonder
if a piece of you remains, never to thaw,
frozen to the roost.

Bryn Homuth
A log cabin, in the Minnesota wilderness
11 December 2014

"Fox in Snow"
Oil on Canvas - Date Unknown
Tom Stephenson 


Ambler, No. 33 [On Doing Nothing]

'Tis hard to find a whole Age to imitate, or what Century to Propose for Example. -- Sir Thomas Browne

NT; (c) Erddig; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

There is perhaps no greater fear for the modern educator than the fear of running into his own student in public. In times of these trials grown men have been known to dive under objects with the swiftness of a sergeant diving into a trench. It is indeed a grave moment when an educator hears some random voice call out "Mr. S----?" And this only occurs when one finds himself in a store he has no business shopping at. Alas, that is what Christmas has unfortunately become, and it is with great sorrow that the Ambler sees this inevitable practice in his future. In any case, there exists in the mind of many an educator, and perhaps student, the odd sense that their students probably have little in common with them. Thus we find it rather awkward and alarming when our students enjoy the same activities we do. But all this is only meant to lead up to a few experiences I have recently had with my own teacher and much older and wiser professor.


It can be truly said that the best classes ought to be had over beer and tobacco. But since the modern world is absolutely bent on making sure man cannot smoke anywhere, I suppose we must settle for beer. The best class, I say, is the one that meets over beer as men once did regularly. And that's another modern morbidity--that men do not gather round great pints of ale and have real, genuine discussion. The modern man is to busy doing things, and it's ironic that nothing ever gets done. It is perhaps a paradox to say that the first thing a man ought to do in order to get something done is to drop everything and get nothing done; it is to drop everything and accomplish everything; it is to drop everything so that your mind can be free and open to contemplate the wild adventures ahead of you; it is, in short, to drop everything and think--or, better, to drop everything and drink. Four men gathered 'round brown, red, gold, or black hued pints will create enough lively discourse to approach any situation with a clear-minded objective.

It is in this very setting that I have had the privilege to have class with an older professor who--as most of the older ones do--has more knowledge stored in his brain than the rest of the department combined. It is a real shame that simply because the older professors refuse to gab about their gender, they are looked at as old dinosaurs who can't contribute to the current academic conversation. Why anyone would want to contribute to a conversation in which no consensus can be had on even the most fundamental of facts is beyond me, and perhaps that's why the old professors are so happy and yet so annoyed. I would say the old professor is happy he no longer has to engage in a conversation in which the only reason we know twice two is four is because the academic community has reached a consensus founded on dialogue. Of course, this same academic community will tell you the consensus easily could have been that twice two is twelve, or fourteen, or even--for the sake of interdisciplinary studies--a box jellyfish or an adverb. The old professor can enjoy himself because he has reached a point in his career where his discipline is not regulated by the standards of another discipline. It seems that the best basis in which to judge mathematics is is math, not philosophy, and the best to judge a man's philosophy is truth, not gender.


So it was that I sat at a table with another colleague and this older professor. It was by far the best class I had because it was the most natural. A man should be able to sit down with a much older man over a beer and have the most fruitful of conversations--ours being the prose style of Hilaire Belloc and how a writer should properly imitate his style. Indeed, it is a false assumption that men have nothing in common with the older generation. It is likely that we actually have more in common with the dead than the living. For the dead often did things that we only talk about doing. Those who came before us went on long ambles and had more terror and adventure in a ten mile trek than we could ever get out of 100.

And perhaps that is the big difference between the Ages. Men once made mountains out of molehills, now we only get annoyed at the molehills, if we even see them. Why just the other day, I was traveling home from work in my car and this very thing occurred. I usually take the same route every day, as routine is a very real blessing from above. However, as I made my way home, it happened that my way was blocked, and, annoyed, I tried a different. This too was blocked, and it was not until the third or fourth roadblock that I completely gave in and lit out for the outskirts of town, fuming. But I must admit that about halfway through the debacle, I thought to myself that a true ambler would not get annoyed but would stop his car and see what the ruckus is all about. Now, it is true that had I been ambling in the way of an ambler, I would have been far more inclined to stop and take a gander, for my way would not have been so easily obstructed. In any case the point of this very incoherent and unfocused rambling is that the modern man should be less concerned about doing things--for truly, he does little as it is, and he should be more concerned about what's done to him. That is, he should look at the world not as some space where he does this or that. He should realize the world is full of wild and unexpected adventures. Mere existence ought to fill him with enough wonder that he does not feel obligated to do anything but breathe. I do not mean "obligated" here in a moral sense but in a productivity sense. And even in that sense it is only meant to question true productivity. Running around to fill in our schedules with as many entertaining activities as we can is not as productive as taking an hour a day to contemplate the wonder of the thumb. And if we only began to see the wonder and creativity in the smallest of things, we may be more excited to see the grandeur of the big things.

Sam Snow,
Written with Little Direction,
Manhattan, Kansas,
December 6th, 2014

Transcribed by Adam the Scribe II
Kansas State University,
December 9, 2014

Photo: "A Group of Gentlemen Drinking"
By Joseph van Aken (Attributed to),
Oil on canvas, n.d.


The Unfinished


Schubert’s 8th in B minor floats it to me
in two movements, down the channel
of a violin’s sorrowful cry—
the fragile raft of the incomplete
buoyed again, bound
for the most distant of waters,
for a harbor beyond reach.
Its waterlogged planks splinter
and sag beneath ages of cargo:
Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia,
towers spearing through clouds;
Chaucer’s nameless pilgrims on horseback
to Canterbury, hoof-tracks erased
as they’re clopped into dirt;
Da Vinci’s Gran Cavallo crumbling,
arrow-gouged legs frozen mid stride.
It’s as if each is two works in one,
the piece that is and the piece that is not.
At symphony’s close, I soak
in the stillness of an end not quite an end,
satisfaction present and still missing,
a feeling I knew once before, on a drive
through urban China—
road lined with skyscraper sketches,
one fenced by bamboo scaffolding.
At a distance, the trellis appeared
like blank ledger lines on staff paper,
spaces to fill in between.

Bryn Homuth
While riding the coattails of an inspiring orchestral performance
December 4, 2014

"London Symphony Orchestra Recording Shumann's 3rd Symphony"
Oil on Canvas - 1968
Ruth Tomlinson