Faith is the assurance of things hoped for,
the conviction of things not seen.
Hope is not optimism, not wishing,
not a bet on the future,
but trust in what is already present, unseen.
I hope in the sunrise because the earth is already turning.
My faith is not that God will intervene
and make things better or fix problems;
my faith is that love is at work.
I trust in hidden love even as injustice runs loose.
I believe in our Oneness even as war and racism wound us.
I know our Belovedness even as we assault each other.
Even though we damage the earth,
though the violent rage and the rich oppress the poor,
still this world is born of Goodness,
and grace flourishes even in bad places,
and Love holds us in aching but untiring arms.
Even when the way is not well lit, I live in hope.
You read a story once about a miserly king
high in his tower, counting his gold,
grudgingly generous only to his most noble courtiers—
someone said it was about God.
But they made that up. It’s not true.
Here’s what I’ve seen:
the Grandmother of the Realm,
so happy for her little ones,
she spoils them rotten.
The mother who will die to shield her children.
The father who moves into the single-wide out back
so you can have the house.
The Lover of Heaven
who is so smitten by you
he gives everything to you, everything,
spends it all for one evening with you,
so in love he gives his own self away
every morning and every night.
There is nothing left over, nothing held back. Nothing.
Whenever the Beloved finds a new treasure—
a sunset or forgiveness or the blossoming of the pear,
or the best seat at the table—
they can’t wait to put a bow on it and offer it to you.
Do not be afraid, little flock,
for it is your Mother-Father’s good pleasure
to give you the Realm.
They neither sow nor reap,
they have neither storehouse nor barn,
and yet God feeds them.
A congregation of crabs
dances gracefully en pointe,
moving their tiny chopsticks up and down
among the shreds and tatters.
They are feeding. They are satisfied.
Barnacles waving their wee fans
fetch sustenance out of the seawater.
Is this not a miracle?
The woodpecker typing away on a dead tree
finds food, food enough,
and the birds who swoop for bugs,
and the bugs who eat their tiny morsels.
We come up the aisle with outstretched hands:
a crumb of bread, a sip of wine.
We are given what we need.