“The Gift of Who I Am”
By John R. Wible
John’s 22nd Annual Christmas Poem
By John R. Wible
John’s 22nd Annual Christmas Poem
The three old friends always looked forward to their annual camping trip to Pulpit Rock on Cheaha Mountain. It was their time to renew the old friendships known since childhood. But maybe too, whether they knew it or not, it was a time to report – to take stock of where they had been and where they were going. They always joked that it was their annual pilgrimage, their hage so to speak, to see “The Old Man of the Mountain.”
Like all old friends, their lives had developed since their Crenshaw County boyhood days. Though commonality of upraising bound them together, personality caused them to diverge. Yet in the constant flux between these two extremes, they always found time for their annual pilgrimage. Found time? They relished it!
Val had been the jock with a bit of a course side, but with a smooth subsurface of principle and compassion that pushed him to his one-time profession in the ministry. Somehow though, he got shipwrecked or something - “side-tracked” as he liked to say and just seemed to have “lost his religion -” but not only his religion – he had lost his way and his sense of who he was. Oh, he had gone on to do good things, but underlying it all was one ever-present question that always left him alone at center stage in the spot-light asking to the audience, but more so to himself, “who am I?” He brought to the great Muskogee Mountain three things: himself, a gift for one of the others and that question – “who am I?”
Val drove the big white Land Barge – the one that was 16 and a half feet long and had a gold landau roof – that land barge – to pick up Don at the Institute where Don was “distinguished professor of philosophy and ethics.”
Don had become a teacher because his greatest weakness was actually his greatest strength. While some men – Val for instance - see the world as it is and try to fix it, Don saw the world as he wished it were and taught about it. In Don’s quixotic world, chivalrous knights, on their ever-existent quests rode about verdant hillsides to right wrongs, slay dragons and rescue the occasional damsel in distress – always though, like Roy and Gene, kissing their horses rather than the damsel when they left. In this world, the sun was always shining, the wind was always out of the East and every piece always fit neatly into its place. And – everybody liked him – always. Like Val, Don brought three things to the Cheaha Mountain Hage – himself, a gift for one of the others and a question, the one asked by Pontius Pilate and later Immanuel Kant, “what is the truth?”
Val drove the big white Land Barge – the one that was 16 and a half feet long and had a gold landau roof – that land barge – to pick up Don at the Institute where Don was “distinguished professor of philosophy and ethics.”
Don had become a teacher because his greatest weakness was actually his greatest strength. While some men – Val for instance - see the world as it is and try to fix it, Don saw the world as he wished it were and taught about it. In Don’s quixotic world, chivalrous knights, on their ever-existent quests rode about verdant hillsides to right wrongs, slay dragons and rescue the occasional damsel in distress – always though, like Roy and Gene, kissing their horses rather than the damsel when they left. In this world, the sun was always shining, the wind was always out of the East and every piece always fit neatly into its place. And – everybody liked him – always. Like Val, Don brought three things to the Cheaha Mountain Hage – himself, a gift for one of the others and a question, the one asked by Pontius Pilate and later Immanuel Kant, “what is the truth?”
Land Barge time flew by for Val and Don like power poles at 70 miles per hour on the way to the airport to meet David’s private plane. David was the one who had really made it. In his years, he had been “a pauper, a poet, a pirate, a priest and a king” as well as a soldier and a counselor to highly placed men. Nevertheless, for all his greatness, he too was flawed for he carried in his heart a great fear of losing his life, not so much a fear of dying, but really a fear of never having lived. Nothing ever satisfied this fear or made him feel worthy. And now as he realized that much time had passed in his life, that fear took on a new dimension – he feared that he would be irrelevant, a fear not unlike that which we all have, really no less but no worse – except that this fear was one he had not the capacity to overcome – and it haunted him like the Mariner’s albatross and it stalked him like Cool Hand Luke’s blood hounds.
Annually, he brought to Pulpit Rock’s altar himself, a gift and the question, “can I ever find my life?” And every year in the past he laid it down and then picked it up again on his way down - unanswered.
The Land Barge was as huge as its name but it had all the horses it needed in the assault on Cheaha Mountain this late autumn afternoon. And it was a golden day as Cheaha’s leaves were virtually blinding in every shade of gilded yellow imaginable: canary, champagne, citrine, flaxen, lemon, and mustard and, of course saffron. The sky was shaded by not one single high-flying cloud, only the occasional wind-borne Red Tailed Hawk and Peregrine Falcon darting alone or flying in large, swirling kettles. This was a day that Don would have dreamed – but no one could know what would be in store.
The Land Barge was as huge as its name but it had all the horses it needed in the assault on Cheaha Mountain this late autumn afternoon. And it was a golden day as Cheaha’s leaves were virtually blinding in every shade of gilded yellow imaginable: canary, champagne, citrine, flaxen, lemon, and mustard and, of course saffron. The sky was shaded by not one single high-flying cloud, only the occasional wind-borne Red Tailed Hawk and Peregrine Falcon darting alone or flying in large, swirling kettles. This was a day that Don would have dreamed – but no one could know what would be in store.
They parked the ‘Barge near the old campsite, the same one they visited all these years – all these years and it never seemed to change. It was as though this place, like Brigadoon, was in a time zone all its own as old as the Alabama hills. This timelessness allowed the three friends to resume their conversation as though totally carved out of the other times of their lives.
Dusk settled over the mountain. It comes fast on Cheaha because this place is closer to the sky than anywhere else in Alabama. Powder blue begat magenta, begat navy, begat midnight and the silky shadows there barely a minute ago stretched into the velvet blanket of the night. And the swish-swishing of the entire colour shifting suddenly stopped – and it was still.
The three old friends started a campfire and were drinking coffee around it – cowboy coffee, the kind made the old-fashioned way before “Mr. Coffee.” (All three remembered when Joe DiMaggio was known for playing baseball and putting flowers on Norma Jean’s grave.)
Cheaha was still but not silent. There were always a thousand sounds that time of day making themselves audible through the first-born blanket of the night – the fire’s inviting crackle, animals making final preparations for the winter, the skittering of golden leaves dropping to Earth – and the wing-flutter of a bird – perhaps a Red Tailed Hawk - carried on the ever present breeze.
The blaze reduced itself to powdery golden embers as Val and Don and David rehearsed the past year, but more than the past year – the past years. Things in their lives tried to change but not really – the process of their life-long metamorphosis had finally evolved into a sort of discernable pattern. “You know you’re old,” said Val, “when change becomes familiar – like your shadow following you where ever you go.” “In fact,” agreed David, “everything is familiar.” “Perhaps there’s not really any such thing as change,” philosophized Don, “the familiarity of change … hmm.”
Well, they each had brought a Christmas gift for one of the others as was their unchanging custom and they exchanged the gifts – nice gifts – really nice gifts. They spared no expense in this exercise. One of the group gave Don a rare book, an original edition of Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. It must have cost many Deutsche Marks. Kant had always said that there was really no absolute truth and Don had always wondered if this were true. Perhaps this book would help him sort out truth from untruth – fact from fiction. Perhaps – but nothing had in the past.
Another present went to David, a pure gold exact 1:16th replica of a ship’s bell – once rung on Admiral Raphael Semmes’ CSS Alabama. With the ringing of eight bells, Semmes would weigh anchor and be free of his moorings. Could David be free of his mooring – the mooring of fear of never finding his real life?
Val’s great gift was a silver military compass, not one from an Army-Navy store but the one that had been used by General Eisenhower to find Calais. They all joked that maybe now Val would know the way to go – but would he really?
Val’s great gift was a silver military compass, not one from an Army-Navy store but the one that had been used by General Eisenhower to find Calais. They all joked that maybe now Val would know the way to go – but would he really?
The three talked into the night about their lives and all the things they could or couldn’t fix – all these things. Eventually, as in times past, each realized that he was sitting in the same seat where he sat last year – and the year before – with the easy questions answered, but the same hard questions still – unanswered. And underlying it all, a question they all shared: will it ever change?
As they were about to douse the small embers remaining of the fire and sack themselves up for the night, a strange thing happened, the embers, almost dim and silent, began to crackle and started to glow more brightly. The fire began to return to its former blaze – to reverse its physical change. This was unusual indeed. As they looked at each other in wonder, they heard the thumping of the wings of the Red Tailed Hawk as though he were wind-surfing low over them, and then the bushes rustled. Something – or someone – was coming. David reached for something to use as a weapon and then they saw him – an old man walking up their campsite. “Howdy fellas,” he said with a wide, open smile. “Mind if I sit a spell by your fire? How about a cup of that ‘cowboy coffee’?”
The old man looked like one who had been on that mountain for a long time, his red flannel shirt and khaki over vest were faded, his original Levis were well-worn and his pinch-crowned hat had held many a fishing lure. “I saw you guys’ fire and heard you talkin’ and thought you might not mind some company,” he said. “It sorta gets lonesome up here on this mountain – pretty as it is this time of year with the gold leaves and all, but I’d rather talk to people than to trees. Maybe for a taste of your coffee I’ll give you a cup of advice.”
“Sure,” they all answered, “sit down.” Val offered, “The fire seems to have … ‘fixed’ itself, but I don’t know about the coffee.” In fact, the coffee was finished a long time ago and was stone cold in the night air. Hopefully, he reached for the pot, and noticed that it was again hot – and full. That, too, was odd.
“Guys, I’ve been here a long time, in fact, you might call me the ‘Ole Man of the Mountain,’ and I couldn’t help watching you fellas here – in this spot – every year. You know, you aren’t the first guys I’ve seen here and you won’t be the last,” he said. “All of them always talk a lot about the same things and bring the same gifts – and the same questions: is there really a way for me; is there really any truth – for me; what is my life to be, and of course, who am I? Everybody always wants the answer,” he told them as knowingly as one who had seen it all would. “You fellas, and everybody who has preceded you and will come here after you, have a lot of different questions you’re looking to find answers for but what you are really looking for is someone to tell you what to do so you won’t have to take the responsibility for what happens,” he pointedly, yet gently held forth. He had their attention now. Their senses were keenly awake as each knew that the words being said pointed as straight as General Eisenhower’s compass and were absolutely true regardless of Kant’s book. At long last, here was one who knew what he was talking about.
“But, you know,” he continued, “there aren’t any instant answers to these questions – at lest no answers that satisfy you any longer than does a cup of this cowboy coffee – which, by the way – hit me again, please.”
“What these questions all have in common is control - lack of control, fear of being out of control. You, and each of you, are desperately trying to control your life – albeit through different means. Some with strength, some with power, some with money, some with intellect and some with finesse and cunning. And these play out in different ways as each of you have seen in your lives. But they all come down to control,” the Old Man explained.
“What these questions all have in common is control - lack of control, fear of being out of control. You, and each of you, are desperately trying to control your life – albeit through different means. Some with strength, some with power, some with money, some with intellect and some with finesse and cunning. And these play out in different ways as each of you have seen in your lives. But they all come down to control,” the Old Man explained.
“There is no ‘the answer’ for each of the questions you boys brought with you up to this Mountain. In fact, it’s not even about the questions at all; it’s about the process to find the answer to the questions. You each brought a Christmas gift, something to give away and each received something in return – and you should have. But one gift each of you must give yourself is the gift of letting go of control. Yep, give away control and in return you will receive a gift in like kind but far greater than you could ever hope to receive – control.”
“Great,” said Val, “give up control of my life. To who?” “To whom,” corrected Don? “OK, to whom do I give up control of my life? Who on Earth can accept this from me and not leave me alone and forgotten – who on Earth?” And those words began to reverberate over the fire, then over the campsite, over the mountain – over the Earth itself. They mounted the wings of the East Wind and echoed back from the top of Cheaha Mountain to circle the globe in an instant and return from the East.
“Great,” said Val, “give up control of my life. To who?” “To whom,” corrected Don? “OK, to whom do I give up control of my life? Who on Earth can accept this from me and not leave me alone and forgotten – who on Earth?” And those words began to reverberate over the fire, then over the campsite, over the mountain – over the Earth itself. They mounted the wings of the East Wind and echoed back from the top of Cheaha Mountain to circle the globe in an instant and return from the East.
In a moment, the Old Man said quietly, “Someone who knows the way, knows what the truth is and knows how to give you back your life? There is the no one, that is - no one - on Earth.” And having so said he began to fade away, to disappear right before the six wide open eyes. The bushes rustled and the beating of the wings of the Red Tailed Hawk was again heard – and then, carried in the clutch of the Cheaha current, he flew away and was gone – gone? Gone.
“So,” said Val, “the real question is not ‘who am I,’ but ‘who is He’ – who on Earth is He?” “No one,” replied Don, “no one on Earth.” “Well, he’s someone I’d like to know” said Val.” “Yes,” agreed David. And the three purposed in their hearts that night to seek out the Old Man of the Mountain again and whenever the questions of life came crashing down on them like waves over Admiral Semmes’s ship, they’d think of the Old Man of the Mountain and what he told them. Perhaps eventually they could, little by little release their precious life’s control and live in that ‘poverty of control.’ But to who could they give this, their most precious gift (OK, to whom)? No one on Earth.
*** Annotations ***
The title, “The Gift of Who I Am,” represents God’s answer to Jean ValJean’s question sung in Les Miserables, “Who Am I.” The poem is the answer to all of life’s questions that answer being that the question is not significant, what is significant is the engagement in the process with God not to find the answer to the question, but to find God. Of course, God tells us that He can be found if seek, ask and knock.
"The Old Man of the Mountain" is taken from Hawthorne's poem of the same name which has always been one of my favorites.
The three friends each have a question in common, Jean sings, “Who Am I?” in search of his lost way. Don (Quixote) sings in “Man of La Mancha,” “I am I, Don Quixote,” but he is on a quest to find the truth, thus the question, what is truth? Pilate asks Jesus this point blank and was not satisfied with the answer. Kant said there was o such thing as absolute truth. – Both men missed the point.
David is King David smarting from the confrontation by the Prophet, Nathan, who points the finger at him and says, “Thou art the man.” David never forgets that and seeks to find his real life. Each of the friend’s attempts to give man’s answer to the great questions of life – but none is sufficient, just like nothing man does is sufficient to draw him to God – it is something that only God can do. Each gift represents a vain attempt to find “the way,” “the truth” and the “life.” Jesus says, “I Am the Way the Truth and the Life, no one comes to the Father but by me.” Each gift is drawn from history and represents the great achievements of man – in reality or at least in lore.
Don is the teacher that I’d like to be, Val has the great question that I have and struggles with the ethics of right and wrong more than most people. David looks for the life I am looking for. He has been a “pauper, a poet, a pirate & ETC., a line from the song, “That’s Life,” sung by Frank Sinatra, famous for doing it “My Way.” Notice that Don’s struggle is always with him, like the albatross worn around the neck of the Mariner in “The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner” and trails him like the blood hounds’ search for Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke.” Neither ever goes away.
The work is set on Cheaha Mountain, the highest peak in Alabama which has a predominant golden color (colour) in late fall. Pulpit Rock is a rock outcropping, it is fitting that it looks like pulpit and that the friends camp near the pulpit – thus near to the word of God. “Cheaha” means “The High Place” in the Muscogee-Creek language. Among the birds on the Mountain are the Falcon and the Red Tailed Hawk who figures over again. He is not a reference to the Native American mythology, though that inference could be drawn, rather, the Hawk is a theophany of God in the flesh.
The fact that this pilgrimage is annual represents the fact that we all ask the questions over and over again and never seem to get an answer – that’s because we are asking the wrong questions and missing the point.
The Land Barge is an old Ford I unfortunately brought home to Susan, my wife, one Christmas. We joked about it many times because of its size and ostentatious nature – “gold landau roof.”
The wind, frequently referred to, is the breath of God and represents the Holy Spirit present on Earth. Note that the Hawk is not independent, he is carried by the wind, in a sense, they are one - two of the three parts of the Trinity. The Old Man is not the personification of wisdom that would make him a demigod like The Greek Athena, he is God the Father who becomes personified for a time in Earthly form - again Trinitarian thought, a theophane, just like Jesus, the ultimate theophane, Immanuel - God with us, personified in earthly form for a time.
The Land Barge is an old Ford I unfortunately brought home to Susan, my wife, one Christmas. We joked about it many times because of its size and ostentatious nature – “gold landau roof.”
The wind, frequently referred to, is the breath of God and represents the Holy Spirit present on Earth. Note that the Hawk is not independent, he is carried by the wind, in a sense, they are one - two of the three parts of the Trinity. The Old Man is not the personification of wisdom that would make him a demigod like The Greek Athena, he is God the Father who becomes personified for a time in Earthly form - again Trinitarian thought, a theophane, just like Jesus, the ultimate theophane, Immanuel - God with us, personified in earthly form for a time.
Likewise, the Old Man and the Hawk are one just like the dove descending on Jesus at the Baptism by the River Jordan was the voice of God but also was the personification of God the Father. Think of the Hawk as the Alabama version of the Jordanian dove.
The Old Man is a sort of a Jesus character, however Jesus is also alluded to in the three gifts. If you will notice one has lost his way, one is looking for the truth and one wants his life back. Jesus, of course, is the way, the truth and the life He is the bridge or door to the Father represented by the Old Man, Notice, the Old man has fishing lures in his hat - fishers of men. There is an “other-worldly” character associated with the Old Man – Jesus is both God and Man, apparently so is the Old Man. He basically calls down fire from Heaven to relight the campfire as did Elijah and he turns the empty coffee pot into good rich Cowboy coffee as Jesus turned the water into wine.
There is a reference to nothing changing – Solomon said in Ecclesiastes that “there is nothing new under the sun.” Nothing really changes. God never changes and the truth never changes. In the end, the three Friends agree to engage in the process of learning who the Old Man of the mountain is – that will be answer to “life’s persistent questions,” to quote Guy Noir from Garrison Keillor’s, “A Prairie home Companion.”
