theodicy

Ash Wednesday. The press of gritty ashes on my forehead in the smeared shape of the cross. The words "You are dust and to dust you shall return." I love it. I love the fact that the tradition in which I practice my faith has a day and an entire season for us to consider our mortality, to ponder those things in our lives, our world, and our selves that we ought not be complacent about. Lent, the season which follows Ash Wednesday, is an invitation to wrestle with our faith, to take on the hard struggle of reconciling our world and our God.

the cross was once for all
suffering lifted high
Death's chains broken

this exclamatory mark
held up in and out of history
and still, and still

I see in the eyes of one
laying next to me, suffering,
and mirror back my own

written 12/5/07

tears of the world

So, in the often forgotten but incredibly wonderful church calendar (see an online version here), today is the feast of the Holy Innocents. Horrible, sad part of history. Even more horribly and sadly not alone in history.
Christmas is beautiful and hopeful and I love it.
Holy Innocents reminds us that there is still change to be worked in the world around us.
We fail too often.
And we are too often blind to this fact.

tears of the world

the world weeps
giant tiny tears
tears of sorrow
grief and loss
tears of pain
hurt and ache
tears of hell
lived on earth
tears of death
come too soon
tears that must
be more than
the grains of sand
and than
the stars in heaven
tears enough to flood creation
so weeps our world,
and we in it

written 11/19/07

Christmas

Christmas

In this darkened night we dream
Of bright warmness, all enfolding
Of sudden surge in which we may bask

Mired in sin and doubt, we dream
Of mighty king sweeping down
To shake right into the world

And faint morning light upward creeps;
And small babe is in manger laid;
And the earth moves while great change glimmers

Written 12/06/07

"And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth." John 1:14

Closer

I've had one of the lines from this poem on my desktop staring at me for, oh, more than a week now. I knew there was more to go with it, but I had nothing. So it sat there and taunted me. I knew (okay, hoped) that if I let it sit there long enough, I'd figure out the rest of the poem. And I did. Sometimes this happens and sometimes I'm still waiting. Which is a pretty good lead in...

Closer

shadows lengthen and evening
comes ere the work
day passes by

dark creeps closer to
me as sleep's promise
beckons from dented pillow

bulb, flame, and
candle gleam into dusty
light as "dark shall not overcome"

challenge, promise, eternal
hope leap outward, each
seduction from lethargy

once more comes
quiet whisper saying,
"a new way of living is required"

as dusky dark gathers
near and flickering
light shines and we

we draw close to each
candle, flame, face
closer to promise, closer ...

written 12-19-07

bonus points (randomly assigned and only tracked in my mind) if you can guess which line...

These Days

So today is slushy--we've been getting a mixture of snow and rain. Not my favorite weather.
There's a lot about the entire world that I don't like. There are a lot of things that don't seem to work correctly. Things much bigger than the weather. We all have those things.
From the BCP:
What is the Christian Hope?
The Christian hope is to live with confidence in newness and fullness of life, and to await the coming of Christ in glory, and the completion of God's purpose for the world. (page 862)

These are the days…

Days when wars will rage
When illnesses come
When families are torn apart
These days are now

Days of pain and sorrow
Days when tears roll down cheeks
And sobs consume our breath
These days are now

Days when joy seems to pale
As we peer around defenses
Erected in metal and mind
These days are now

These are the days
When our lives are not as we would choose
When the world seems cold and cruel
These days are now

The days are surely coming,
Says the Lord, the Holy One,
When will justice will roll like a river
And the Wise King will reign with
Righteousness will never to fail,

In those days that are coming.

Written 12/1/07

Are we there yet?

Advent is a tricky season. As Sophia said, it is eschatological (about waiting/hoping/believing in the realization of God's promise). It's also about Christmas and the baby in the manger. It's a season that seems to belong entirely to the Church, as merchandizing and marketing pushes Christmas itself (only 12 liturgical days) back before Thanksgiving. And what does that mean? I would offer that we as a church are really bad at claiming Advent. I wonder how much of that is because we don't know what to do with it as individuals.
Advent is about waiting and preparing (Mary), it's about doing and changing (John the Baptist), it is (as all liturgical seasons are) an aspect of daily life. But what is it we are getting ready for? Anybody?


are we there yet?
is this journey over?
for the road is rather long
and the scenery repeats

are we there yet?
can we stop now?
my feet are getting sore
and I'm ready to be done

are we there yet?
is this labor over?
I'm growing weary,
feeling a bit worn down

are we there yet?
are we even close?
'cause here's another one hungry
and they suffer still

are we there yet?
will we ever be?
the poor are still among us
and never seem to leave

are we there yet?
where are we?
the blind don't see,
we only guide them

are we there yet?
are we even moving?
the lame don't walk,
but my 'carry' is getting good

are we there yet?
can you see the end?
I don't know where we are
And I'm waiting for a sign

are we there yet?
and how will we know,
this end we keep on trying for
when we finally arrive

written 11/07

Grant Us

It's the first week of Advent. I have never been overly consistent at taking Advent seriously. This year I think changes are going to start here, in what I write. So here's my first poem of Advent.

grant us so to hear
a world calling for newness
that we may rise up and build

grant us so to see
temples built to this world
and vision your Kingdom

grant us so to dwell
in a kingdom like yours
one we wish to inhabit

grant us an answer
to the call we dare not voice
for we are growing weary

Written 11/07

Changes

The coincidence here is kind of fun. Changes all over the place.
First, the housekeeping (blog-keeping?) announcement: I've shifted this blog over into a new email. It's still my writing, at the same url, just a new email address. Not that I've ever been deluged by email, but for the interested parties, you can email me through the profile link, or the next time you use the 'old' email, I'll reply through the new address. Much like the change in the template, I just wanted something a little more 'me' and something that could make more sense if I decided to become a bigger presence in the blogosphere.
Onto the poem. Which is also about change, though more types of change....
Which is appropriate on so many levels.

Resurrection

phoenix flies
into a bush the
flames then consume
until
ashes coat the
ground and the embers
cool, then, then
does phoenix arise
whole, fresh, alive
past to repeat
rebirth

not resurrection

Resurrection is
blood on wooden cross
final shaky words spoken
with final breath
the dark empty night followed
by darkened day
and emptier tomb

Resurrection is
startled gasp that
first Easter morn
half fear and half
hope
body remade
life made wholly different
future newly promised

Written 11/4/07

Because I needed the reminder...

Originally posted August 17, 2007.
I really needed this reminder today. It has just been one of those days, you know. The "if it fit on the back of my hand I might scribe it there, in permanent ink" sort of day.

What blasphemy is this,
that we are all as much of God as we ever see?
What divinity leaves divine image
to peer around our sins and shortcomings?
Divine knowledge hidden behind our ignorance?
Divine compassion buried within us?
How can we not quail when we realize
the full weight of who we are meant to become?
Doomed to fail and destined to try,
We are not enough to represent the One who made All—
We cannot even love that One with appropriate love.
But who else is there?
For better and for worse, we are all we know of;
All who can share this one great secret:
We are beloved.

And Blasphemy it is: For we are not enough,
Not enough to be even pale reflections of that love,
The Love that loves us,
The Love that keeps us,
And the Love that sends us out,
to love one another.

Written October 10, 2006

A good reminder

If you asked me (which you didn't), I would tell you that good poetry is much like prayer, it is somehow out of time, applicable in more than one setting, and at the same moment, entirely relevant and set in the moment of it's creation. For more thoughts like these, go back and reread the first poem I posted, On Writing. But this is what I was thinking when I reread today's post. I remember writing it. I remember how good it felt to finally have those thoughts on paper. And as much as my life has moved from that moment, this is still true.

How do I praise God from my life?

I know how to cry to you
I know how to collapse before you
I know how to cling to you
I know all this and so
I struggle.
How do I praise you?
How do I lift my voice,
_____My weak and trembling voice,
_____My voice which has been hoarse from shouting,
_____My voice which has so often protested the facts of my life
_____My voice,
To you in thanksgiving?
How do I stand in the face of all my wounds,
Wounds which never disappear,
And proclaim your great grace?
You didn’t stop the wounds
You didn’t ease the pain
There were tears you cannot redeem.
They were. Nothing changes that.
Not grace, not love, not beauty
And still I do.
Because pain was not all or the end.
For all the pain,
for all the sorrow
There was always love.
Not to redeem or to drive away the other,
But to stand beside, to contradict
To hold out hope for more, for better,
And so I practice:

God of Gods, God who calms storms, God who counts the hair on our heads,
Thank you
God of my life, God who heals (though not me), God knows even the sparrows,
I bless you
God who stays, God who loves (even me), God who sees all beauty and all pain,
I love you.
Amen

Written 5/26/06

Turning

There is no way for my to describe (here) why this was written. However, I do not think that you need me to. Either you understand (in which case I will say a prayer for you this week) or you do not (in which case I will also pray for you). Prayer is good, after all.

Round and round, turn after turn,
Up is up then up is down,
I laugh then weep then am silent.
I try to find sense and meaning
Then I try to survive.
I sing your praise,
Then angrily demand explanation.
Nothing makes sense.
And then I realize,
Meaning is always lost
In the next rotation,
Because the only fixture
Is your love—
Your love for me.

I stand in silence,
Stare into the distance,
And ponder
if that is enough.
As again my world turns—
Everything moves.
And my faith shakes.
My heart and mind demand
Meaning and justice
In crescendoing pleas.
And my soul quakes in your love,
Your love for me.

I want to scream and rage,
To have a face
At which to aim
But I cannot.
There is no anger, no despair—
Just the desperate hope:
Hope for tomorrow,
Hope for today,
Hope for me.
Because I remember your love,
Your love for me.

The turning hasn’t stopped
Maybe it never will
But you and I—
We’re here
And I keep finding that
I love you
In a pale imitation
of your love for me.

Written 5/21/06

Wondering

I don't remember exactly why I wrote this one, it fits so many moments in my life.
Also, head over to Sophia's site to see this post. I don't know if she meant to write poetry, but I think she did.

Pieces of Faith
I sit in the dark and wonder….
Why do I still talk to you?
Why do I think that you care if I do?
But I cannot be silent.
I cannot ignore you.

Looking at my life,
I cannot show your overwhelming favor.
I have no token of your love
There are too many sorrows,
Too much pain.
But what else keeps me here,
Talking to you?

Perhaps it is just a fancy,
A flight of mind brought on by lack of sleep.
But why then,
Do I hear you
In the stillness of the day?
In the heart of the night?
In the middle of my life?

I remember Abraham,
How you stood in the middle of the broken birds
And I wonder if you do stand in the middle of my life,
What do these pieces mean to you?
I wonder if you will ever tell me,
If I will ever hear.

Written 4/10/06

Discernment and truth

Although this is written in a call and response format, it is also inner dialogue. Both at the same time. Multiple layers of truth. Just like so much else.

Truthful Discernment
They say: You are too young.
I say: God has always called the young.

They say: You are too idealistic.
I say: Great vision is the product of faith.

They say: What about your gender?
I say: God called me, for who I am.

They say: You don't know enough.
I say: Teach me.

They say: Can you lead?
I say: Will you follow?

They say: You are too strong.
I laugh with the knowledge of my weaknesses.

They say they speak the truth.
I know the truth to be greater than either of us.
Written 9/14/07

The Second Poem

Here's the second poem I wrote using the line from Milosz. Find the first one below or at this link
There are a little more than 12 months separating the two poems. So much happened in those months that I cannot condense into a few sentences, much less semi-anonymous sentences. I can only offer you this.

Day so perfect it could only be a dream
Healthy-er for the first time ever
Pills and stress gone
And a little part of me

Morning comes, alarms go off, Dreams end
And who is to say it wasn’t a nightmare?
Or perhaps it was just the me of dreams,
The one I never quite recognize

Dreams end and so did this,
Here I am again
Finding new balance, new normal
A new which seems so familiar

The morning light, not harsh at all,
Brings an equally gentle and relentless truth:
This is my life
This is who I am

If broken or marred, then only in the now
The temporal, almost gone now of mortality
In the eternal almost here now of God,
I am his child, holy and perfect
A dream for another night.

Written 6/23/06

Rereading this poem, I'm not at all sure I like the poetry of it. But I still think there is something in letting you see how very different poems could come from one line.

Yesterday's Sorrow

So, not so long ago a professor assigned my class the task of writing a poem using the same starting line as Czeslaw Milosz used in one of a selection of poems we had read. This is what I wrote. I am posting it this week because of what is going on this week is about Invisible Illnesses. Next week I will post the second poem I wrote using this same first line.

Yesterday’s Sorrow
A Day so happy it could only be a dream
An interlude filled with hollow gifts
No pain, no pills, no needles,
No shadows in my family’s eyes

In my mind I can name it: Normal
Yet I cannot speak this name for fear,
Dreams dissolve you see

My Heart names it also: False, Forbidden, Lost
For Time cannot be spun backwards

My days are now marked with pills
My years with doctors visits and tests
And it is easy to get lost in wanting the dream

So easy to miss the wind in the trees, children’s laughter,
The Sun on the lake and the stars at night
To forget the welcoming hugs

But sometimes yesterday’s sorrow is still too great
Too tempting, too easy to fall into
But even then the gifts of dream
Are hollow, shattered by today’s realities, necessities

And I know that here is where I must make my peace
Between the dreams and the endless tomorrows
Here today, every today
Again and again and again
Written Spring 2005

For those of you who want to find Milosz's original poem (because I really did take the first line and go somewhere very different), I recommend New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001 . It's a large book, but I promise, he's really good. For more info on Milosz check out wikipedia's page on him .

How Long

I like this one. It's probably not one of my all time favorites, but only because most of those are something I wrote in response to a significant event. This one just came. And I like it. I also thought it might be irreverently appropriate as many people go back to school somewhere around now.
Formatting note: the way I wrote this every line that doesn't begin with 'How' or 'Have' is indented. This is both small and important because poetry, as I write it is visual too and formatting matters. I can't figure out how to make this happen here. Instead I've tried to create a similar effect through capitalization. But I wanted you to know how it should be. Any helpful hints from the more experienced?

How long O God, How long?
How long, O God, have you listened to this cry?
from Children in Egypt
and those wandering in the desert
from Children without a king,
and those with unjust kings.
from Children living in Exile,
and from those who have no home
from a Child crying from a Garden
and from those who loved him
How long, O God, have your Children waited?
for the answer left unspoken
for the action left undone
for the comfort held unseen
How long, O God, have there been tears?
did they begin outside the garden
or did Adam and Eve trip on the root of a beautiful tree
How long, O God, has there been pain?
did you name it good
or were you the first to feel it,
when your children ate what you had forbidden
Have mercy, O Lord, have mercy.
number our tears,
note the shaking of our sobs
record our cries to you
Have mercy O Lord have mercy
for we are mortal
and fear what the future brings us
Have mercy my Lord,
For you seem to love us.

Written 3/30/06

Surrender

I don't know what to tell you about this poem. Really, at all. So here it is....

Surrender

I still fear...
For if I give you more,
You will take it.
God
Lover
yes
Lover God
Lover whose breathe whispers over my skin
whose hands tangle in my hair
Lover who can still
Shorten my breath
and bring a blush to my cheeks
Lover who knows where I am
most sensitive
most vulnerable
Lover in whose deep embrace I tremble
for fear that I myself will disappear
Lover who will never let me go
Lover who will insist
patiently, endlessly
on all that is me, mine
Lover who seeks to possess fully
Lover, I still fear
But thou art holy
And thou art thou,
Divine Lover, Holy Possessor
And Thou, My Beloved
So, Lover who loves also my fear
With hands and heart
soul and lips
I move to love you back.

Written 6/23/07

Accusation

So, I've actually been trying to write something in response to the recent mine cave ins and the bridge collapse, but it isn't working the way I want it to yet. However, I was going through old stuff and found this and figured it was equally appropriate.

Accusation
We construct beautiful worlds with ordinary words
To imitate a Paradise we’ve never known
Sometimes we reconstruct reality
And are saddened
Sad that things are so ordered
Sad that we cannot improve them
And so we grieve the conditions of our life

But You, You who created us
You who lets us live this life
A life of pain and sorrow and joy and beauty
Do you feel powerless when tragedy strikes?
How do you grieve the things you will not change?
How do you hear our cries?

Written 8-11-06

Blasphemy

At least about blasphemy...sort of.... If I wanted to say what I meant I'd write prose.

Blasphemy
What blasphemy is this,
that we are all as much of God as we ever see?
What divinity leaves divine image
to peer around our sins and shortcomings?
Divine knowledge hidden behind our ignorance?
Divine compassion buried within us?
How can we not quail when we realize
the full weight of who we are meant to become?
Doomed to fail and destined to try,
We are not enough to represent the One who made All—
We cannot even love that One with appropriate love.
But who else is there?
For better and for worse, we are all we know of;
All who can share this one great secret:
We are beloved.

And Blasphemy it is: For we are not enough,
Not enough to be even pale reflections of that love,
The Love that loves us,
The Love that keeps us,
And the Love that sends us out,
to love one another.

Written October 10, 2006

Sunday Morning

I love Sunday mornings at Church, the gathered community, Holy Communion. Every now and then I wind up in a spot where I can watch everyone receive communion. This came from what I see:

Small hands upturned
Reaching up over golden rail
Chubby fingers still
Eyes open and watching
Watching parents and priest
Wondering at our mystery

Small hands upturned
Just like those beside them
Just like those which blessed
Broke and shared Bread and Wine
Love freely torn apart,
A fully lived mystery

Small hands uplifted
Childlike willingness to enter
Faithful body, mystical communion
Equally yoked, equally called
Child and Adult, Stranger and Friend
Brought to one table, one feast
Brought to bring mystery

Small hands uplifted
Hands too small to hold or heal
Hands to weak to carry a world
Hands made holy
Wholly given to simple acts
Wholly given to holy mystery

Written 7/17/07