Summary: This sermon inspires the reader to accept adversity more cheerfully.

do not complain.

your ever constant prayer must be:

thy will, Lord, not mine be done,

it is your wisdom that irradiates blissado,

not my limited, human intellect.

it is your love unfathomable, Lord,

that decrees the shape and the shine,

not my frailties and shortcomings.

whatever obstacles you set before me

i will accept them unquestioningly.

through all swamps and deluges

i will sing your praises and your beatitudes.

amid all saharum and antarticum

your halo-grace and miraculo-wonder

will comfort, fortify and uplift me,

do not complain.

do not lament, wail and sulfurize.

let not your soul know combustion.

is it not true that when you behave thus,

you are in fact saying:

i neither understand nor accept

your will for me, Lord.

i am not content with my lot in life,

my flash-roses and flare-orbs are insufficient?

does not the complaint entail

that you are upset with the hurdles you confront

enraged with their height and breadth,

fuming, fomenting and hydrochloric?

always remember that just as some

men are born great, some men become great,

and some men have greatness thrust upon them,

so too are some born with the yoke,

some men become enyoked,

and some have the yoke thrust upon them.

the Lord cannot decree the same amount

of delecto-pleasure and whip-pain for all.

in life some accident must prevail,

some snarling lightning-hazard must occur.

it cannot be that life unfolds in a pattern,

that progress and regress equally expand,

that each receives the same strike-womp,

and all harness coequal star-blithe.

the unexpected renders life beautiful,

the unanticipated enflourishes us with cloud-wonder.

it is mystery that unleashes the awe-surge,

enigma that motivates the engine,

and it is dilemma that propels humans to enact.

undoubtedly many will say:

yes, i agree that some junk-spit must foment,

that some vesuvia must vexplode,

i understand the necessity

of the black pieces on the chess-board of life,

but i do not understand

why the sulfur-storm so violently propels,

nor do i comprehend the necessity

of the superiority of malignum’s shade-claws.

why does the hurricane uproot

so decisively, so categorically and so wholly?

why tsunami, why soul-quake, why nazi-tumult?

when katrina blighted new orleans,

why could not only five hundred have died,

rather than the fifteen hundred

that eventually corroded in worms?

when the tsunami belched its omnivorum

on the indonesian coast,

why two hundred thousand dead?

why not fifty thousand or half that?

why did the africans endure two hundred

years of american bondage,

why not one hundred or none at all?

this reasoning as well radiates fallacy.

you are willing to accept pain-thorn,

but only that which does not challenge you.

you want pain to resemble the doctor’s appointment.

you know the when and the where of its occurrence.

you are able to prepare for it, envision it,

you have felt its wasp-sting before,

it will in no wise lash you with spike,

nor will it seriously uproot and enthrall you.

if you were an athlete you would easily allow

for some propensity and skill in your opponent.

you can tolerate being behind in the game,

but not entirely trounced and desperate.

a challenge is fine, if not welcome,

but a wholesale route and frenzy-fire

represents an irresoluble dilemma.

i do admit, beloved, that perhaps one

in a million have confronted a rage-dragon,

that does gouge the soul too hideo-violently,

and does wrench the individual too heart-slashingly,

that they have suffered a hurricane

that seems too wasp-harsh to withstand,

and too megalo-striko to bear and receive.

nelson mandela twenty seven years

of unjust pain-jail suuffered,

he endured years of deprivation,

years of mind-crash and furnace.

and many more nameless a similar

fate of barbs have suffered.

yet we do not know indeed if they are real.

God, the author of all things,

the creator splendido and overwhelmo,

His manufacture of the bizarre an enigma,

could manipulate such as puppets,

true phantom-humans us to frighten,

themselves shades life mirroring,

not actually sensing and lamenting,

yet only scamming us into more anxiety,

life a more looming nightmare

at their sight than it in fact is.

ourselves not having created the universe,

we thus are unable to know all its parameters,

nor probe its full layers,

its myriad chambers a mysto-riddle.

anything is possible,

your limited human science

only partially the universe can decipher,

your narrow reasoning and analysis

sees only one side of the moon.

you also have no way of knowing

the compensation such jobs

might immediately receive in the afterlife,

their souls showered with honey endlèssan,

their minds harboring jasmo-blithe eldoradan.

when you complain you contradict your faith.

should not your regular refrain be:

whatever ghastlum i confront,

whichever shade-demons i encounter, Lord,

i will accept them unquestioningly,

i will wrestle with them silently,

thy will not mine be done,

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