What You See Little Eyes...

Oh, be careful little eyes what you see.

Oh, be careful little eyes what you see.

For the Father up above, is looking down in love,

Oh, be careful little eyes what you see.

The remaining verses of this song highlight the ears, mouth, hands, and feet; in other words, what you hear, say, do and where you go.  Such a song as this was a staple in the church of my childhood.  We learned it early and sang it often.

But when I became a man, so the scriptures tell me, I'm to put away childish things.  In regard to this song, I believe that involves a slight change in word order; it's subtle, but I believe significant.  Here we go:

What you see little eyes, see with care.

What you see little eyes, see with care.

Our Father's always near; there's no need for us to fear.

What you see little eyes, see with care.

The version I learned as a child emphasizes the avoidance of certain sights, sounds, words, actions, and places; a cautionary ditty of secular versus sacred.  I've no problem with that as a way to begin.  But as I grow older and my hair hints at gray and my midsection thickens,  I agree with Kentucky poet/farmer Wendell Berry:

There are no unsacred places;

there are only sacred places

and desecrated places.

("How To Be a Poet")

And so I believe an evolution must take place, from fear to care.  Whatever in this little life I see, I'm to see him/her/it with care, a.k.a, "moved with compassion."  The same goes for whatever in this little life I hear, say, and so on.  Each new day, by way of coming to my senses, I can, like Teilhard de Chardin, say my Mass upon the altar of the world, "to divinize the new day."

I'm thinking thoughts such as these because someone asked me just the other day "Are you a Christian writer?"  I remembered the Johnny Cash answer: "I'm an artist who is a Christian.  I'm not a Christian artist."  If I'm a Christian artist, then I have to "Oh, be careful" to write stories that stick to a script that some governing body out there deems "christian" - stories filled with the avoidance of certain sights, sounds, smells, words, actions, and places.  But if I'm an artist who is a Christian, then I can offer up my words and sentences upon the altar of the world, filled with what my eyes have seen and my ears have heard.  It is, I believe, a stewardship; I can witness with care, avoiding nothing and possibly re-sacralizing something, maybe even someone, along my little way.

Perfect love casteth out fear.  A good man named John wrote those words, a writer who was a Christian...