 After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google, Podomatic, Player FM and Deezer. Listen to other Forecasts here. Continuing from last time, Josh discusses the second chapter of Thomas Merton on the Vocation of Writing. For Merton, the Christian writer must maintain integrity in prophetically witnessing to the truth and to the life of the age to come. In so doing, the writer also restores language, freeing people from false depictions of reality. At its heart, Merton writes, communication is a path to communion. Josh Seligman is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast.
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 Frederick Frary Fursman, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons 'The Tables Turned' by William Wordsworth Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. Frederick Fursman (1874–1943) was an American impressionist painter.
William Wordsworth (1770–1850) was an English poet. By Miriam Seligman Far out in the distance There's a tumble of waves That sweep to the shore And wash through the caves. They dance high and low To a softly sung tune, Drawn in and out By the light of the moon. Far out in the distance There's a keening of gulls That swims through my thoughts, At my heart gently pulls. They bring back the memories Of bright summers' days, Where, in the sand, A child still plays. Far out in the distance There's a flurry of wind That shapes the white clouds And clothes them with wings. It sifts through my hair As I stand on the cliffs Laying down my burdens Which it lovingly lifts. Far out in the distance There's a land I can't see Where a King walks through meadows, Beneath golden trees. It flows through my mind Like a comforting dream, Refreshing and cleansing; A life-giving stream. Miriam's other work on Foreshadow: The Sandpiper and the Sea (Photography, 2021)  'Night on the Southern Shore', Nikolay Nikanorovich Dubovskoy, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons 'The Night' by Henry Vaughan John III. 2 Through that pure virgin shrine, That sacred veil drawn o'er Thy glorious noon, That men might look and live, as glow-worms shine And face the moon: Wise Nicodemus saw such light As made him know his God by night. Most blest believer he! Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes Thy long-expected healing wings could see When Thou didst rise! And, what can never more be done, Did at midnight speak with the Sun! Oh, who will tell me where He found Thee at that dead and silent hour? What hallowed solitary ground did bear So rare a flower; Within whose sacred leaves did lie The fullness of the Deity? No mercy-seat of gold, No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone, But His own living works did my Lord hold, And lodge alone, Where trees and herbs did watch and peep And wonder, while the Jews did sleep. Dear Night! this world's defeat; The stop to busy fools; care's cheek and curb; The day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat Which none disturb! Christ's progress and His prayer-time; The hours to which high Heaven doth chime. God's silent, searching flight; When my Lord's head is filled with dew, and all His locks are wet with the clear drops of night; His still, soft call; His knocking-time; the soul's dumb watch, When spirits their fair kindred catch. Where all my loud, evil days Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent, Whose peace but by some angel's wing or voice Is seldom rent; Then I in heaven all the long year Would keep, and never wander here. But living where the sun Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire Themselves and others, I consent and run To every mire; And by this world's ill-guiding light Err more than I can do by night. There is in God--some say-- A deep but dazzling darkness; as men here Say it is late and dusky because they See not all clear. Oh, for that Night! where I in Him Might live invisible and dim. Nikolay Dubovskoy (1859–1918) was a Russian landscape painter.
Henry Vaughan (1621–1695) was a Welsh writer and a medical physician.  After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google, Podomatic, Player FM and Deezer. Listen to other Forecasts here. Thomas Merton was a writer and a Trappist monk. In today's Forecast, Josh goes through the first chapter of Thomas Merton on the Vocation of Writing, edited by Robert Inchausti, identifying and commenting on Merton's writing about vocation and the ministry of writing. Ultimately, Merton says we are all called to become new creations in Christ and participate in Christ's work of making all things new, and writing is one of the ways we can do that. Merton also points out limits of language and tensions between seeking union with God and writing about that experience. Josh Seligman is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast.
 'The Repast of the Lion', Henri Rousseau, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons 'Night' by William Blake The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower, In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight. Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing; And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are cover'd warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm. If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit. And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold, And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold. Saying, 'Wrath, by his meekness, And, by his health, sickness, Is driven away From our immortal day. 'And now beside thee, bleating Lamb, I can lie down and sleep; Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee and weep. For, wash'd in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold.' Henri Rousseau (1844–1910) was a French post-impressionist painter.
William Blake (1757–1827) was an English poet, painter and printmaker. By Brooke Wickline you don’t see what i see. reflections show what i hide; eyes strain over lumps, hands scrape across scars tracing jagged & rough lines whose shapes alter as the sun declines. abnormalities scour my frame tucked away in a facade of shame. you don’t see what i see Beloved, you do not see what I see. before Me, in darkness, I melded you together cultivated in My likeness; fearfully & remarkably composed. as streams curve & mountaintops descend, so your flesh rounds; as brilliant stars light the sky, so blemishes sprinkle your skin. many may see a coarse and battered stone encircled in jagged edges. but My Treasure, there lie glittering hues gleaming unaware, a heart with beauty beyond compare. Cherished, you don’t see what I see precious is your heart of greater value than gold. seek Me in glowing splendor & truth will behold. I tell you the truth My Child, you do not see what I see, but how I long for you to agree. Brooke Wickline is pursuing a BA of Writing with a minor in Visual Arts from Point Loma Nazarene University (USA). In her writing, she depicts Christ's creation and teachings through her use of imagery to emphasize the small beauties in life and the reimagining of scripture. When she isn't welding a pen, she likes to read comic books, draw, or take care of her many plants.
 'water oyster and pearl' by Michael Steiner, CC BY-SA 3.0 'A Song to David' by Christopher Smart (excerpt) Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, And drops upon the leafy limes; Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: Sweet is the lily's silver bell, And sweet the wakeful tapers smell That watch for early pray'r. Sweet the young nurse with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; Sweet when the lost arrive: Sweet the musician's ardour beats, While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, The choicest flow'rs to hive. Sweeter in all the strains of love, The language of thy turtle dove, Pair'd to thy swelling chord; Sweeter with ev'ry grace endu'd, The glory of thy gratitude, Respir'd unto the Lord. Strong is the horse upon his speed; Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, Which makes at once his game: Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; Strong thro' the turbulent profound Shoots xiphias to his aim. Strong is the lion—like a coal His eye-ball—like a bastion's mole His chest against the foes: Strong, the gier-eagle on his sail, Strong against tide, th' enormous whale Emerges as he goes. But stronger still, in earth and air, And in the sea, the man of pray'r; And far beneath the tide; And in the seat to faith assign'd, Where ask is have, where seek is find, Where knock is open wide. Beauteous the fleet before the gale; Beauteous the multitudes in mail, Rank'd arms and crested heads: Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild, Walk, water, meditated wild, And all the bloomy beds. Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; And beauteous, when the veil's withdrawn, The virgin to her spouse: Beauteous the temple deck'd and fill'd, When to the heav'n of heav'ns they build Their heart-directed vows. Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, The shepherd king upon his knees, For his momentous trust; With wish of infinite conceit, For man, beast, mute, the small and great, And prostrate dust to dust. Precious the bounteous widow's mite; And precious, for extreme delight, The largess from the churl: Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, And alba's blest imperial rays, And pure cerulean pearl. Precious the penitential tear; And precious is the sigh sincere, Acceptable to God: And precious are the winning flow'rs, In gladsome Israel's feast of bow'rs, Bound on the hallow'd sod. More precious that diviner part Of David, ev'n the Lord's own heart, Great, beautiful, and new: In all things where it was intent, In all extremes, in each event, Proof—answ'ring true to true. Glorious the sun in mid career; Glorious th' assembled fires appear; Glorious the comet's train: Glorious the trumpet and alarm; Glorious th' almighty stretch'd-out arm; Glorious th' enraptur'd main: Glorious the northern lights a-stream; Glorious the song, when God's the theme; Glorious the thunder's roar: Glorious hosanna from the den; Glorious the catholic amen; Glorious the martyr's gore: Glorious—more glorious is the crown Of Him that brought salvation down By meekness, call'd thy Son; Thou that stupendous truth believ'd, And now the matchless deed's achiev'd, Determin'd, dar'd, and done. Michael Steiner (b. 1955) is a German visual artist and magnetic painter.
Christopher Smart (1722–1771) was an English poet.  After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google, Podomatic, Player FM and Deezer. Listen to other Forecasts here. This Forecast explores the vocation of writing and the Christian vocation more generally through a short personal essay and clips from guests discussing their vocations in various capacities. Whether writers or not, whether single or married, whether ordained or lay, through whatever situation we find ourselves in, God calls all of us to be transformed in the likeness of Christ. Will we follow? Host: Josh Seligman Outline of today's Forecast, including links:
An excerpt of 'Seeking Vocation and the Ministry of Writing' by Josh Seligman It was during my first year of university that I first heard of writing as a vocation. Pastor and writer Eugene Peterson was visiting my campus for a public interview, and towards the end, when asked what advice he’d give to people considering becoming writers, he said, ‘Do it. We need all we can get. There’s never enough storytellers. There are a lot of people who want to write stories, but they don’t want to go through the discipline, the agony, the immersion in life it requires to tell the truth with all this. No, I think writing is one of the sacred callings.' Peterson’s words inspired me. I was one of those people considering becoming a writer, and he prompted me to ask questions like What does it mean for writing to be a vocation? How does that correspond with other Christian vocations? Might this be my calling? Such questions compelled me to study and practise writing at university and beyond. At the same time, I knew that my Christian faith called me to love my neighbour and serve people’s practical needs. I got involved in various ministries at my local church, and when I was invited to serve as an intern there during my final year of university, I gratefully said yes: it seemed a way to deepen my participation there. But when I shared this news with someone who knew me well, they asked, 'Might interning compete with your writing?' Given my pursuit of writing, I understood where they were coming from. If writing were my vocation, perhaps it should have been my primary focus, even over interning at church. But I also thought that, while not my main reason, interning might provide the ‘immersion in life’ Peterson had said was required to write well. In the end, I discovered that my work as an intern and my writing would not only complement each other, but also reveal a deeper truth about vocation... Josh Seligman is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast.
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