Judgment of light

Dearly Beloved,

Grace and Peace to you.

This is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and we loved darkness rather than light because our deeds were evil. For when we do evil we hate the light and do not come to the light, so that our lives may not be exposed. But when we live what is true we come to the light, so that we may clearly see our lives in God.
— John 3. 19-21

Beloved, because you live perfectly within me,
I am not afraid to look there.

Because you inhabit my darkness
I am not afraid to hold it up to the light.
You shine yourself through my brokenness;
you pour your own darkness into my night,
filling the cavity of me,
as a candle fills the shape of a cavern.
From within my darkness, light rises.

In you my dense midnight becomes transparent;
my shadow becomes dear
and without fear I look through it.

Light of all Creation, light of love,
you forgive my sin
like light forgives darkness.

Light of my own true soul,
I am not afraid to walk into you.
I am not afraid for you to dawn within me.
I am not afraid to become you.

Copyright © Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Getting the driveway done

Dearly Beloved,

Grace and Peace to you.

Perfect snow piles up on the branches,
perches on every post and wire,
puts big hats on everything.
The morning sun stands like a wizard
behind the big tree at the end of the driveway,
making little sparkles of light fall from it.
Gold and silver, amber, with a touch of blue.

I need to shovel the driveway before the snow
gets heavy, before we need to drive out.
I grab the shovel, and as I pass Buddha,
sitting on his little bench in the garden
by the corner of the garage, smiling,
he says, “I’ll help you, if you help me first.”

I look at the driveway, five inches deep and
a hundred and fifty feet long. Buddha is
a nice guy, but he’s made of cement
and is not likely to handle a shovel real well.
I look at him, his serene smile, his hands
resting on his knees like he’s got all the time
in the world. I say, “OK.”

So I stand there with him and stare at the tree,
the light falling from it into the driveway,
the magic sparkles leaping off of everything,
white and silver and gold, transfiguring the air,
for a long time, until he is good and satisfied,
a long, quiet time beneath the passing sky.

Then we get to the driveway: even and patient,
stooping and throwing in a sublime rhythm,
scraaape and shuffle, scraaape and shuffle,
a rhythm from the old monastery, the temple drums,
the rhythm of presence, attentive rhythm,
content with our labor, heaving light into the air.
Short and stubby as he is, he’s amazing with a shovel.

Deep Blessings,
Pastor Steve


Copyright © 2010
Steve Garnaas-Holmes

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