Unfolding Light

It hangs over my head, an ominous cloud.
It portends a great flood.
I haul out an umbrella of fear,
a great rain slicker of guilt,
the life jacket of despair.

Yet God’s hope for me is not to do,
but to be.
Even if I fail at everything
life will go on,
I will be whole,
God will love me.

So, my list:
   • be trusting
   • be present
   • be grateful
   • be kind.
Then, if there’s time and energy,
all that other stuff.

There is no storm cloud.
It’s only fog.
It passes.

I enter the deep, secret peace.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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          Where are the other nine?
          Did none of them return to give glory to God
          except this foreigner?
                       —Luke 17.17-18

It was the immigrant
         who returned to give thanks.

Outsiders endure what we wouldn’t,
         grateful for what we assume.

Accustomed to kindness,
          confident of belonging,
we take for granted
         what is pure gift,
         truly miracle.

Pray we need not suffer
         to learn gratitude.



_______
       Weather Report

Showers of blessing,
a thorough drenching,
made possible by the humility—
unless, with the proper protection of deserving,
you are untouched.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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The Temple police are everywhere,
the Emperor’s soldiers watching.
Crucifixions happen daily, people taken,
cruelty substituting for order.
Arguments are launched
about who belongs, who is outside
the law. Everybody knows who’s targeted.
Suspicion, fear and anger float above ground
like smog everyone breathes.

But in the candle lit room
people gather at a table
from different tribes and parties,
rich and poor, and all are welcomed, all are fed.
Clear eyes. Warm smiles. Open hands.
It is a direct affront to the Emperor,
who can’t imagine this, but
the table transgresses his realm,
extends through the city,
across the nation, around the world, forever.
Children on far off islands hold hands
with elders on the tundra,
one meal, one prayer, one body.

The Emperor and his terror will die
one of these nights, his palace become ruins;
but the table will remain and welcome,
and the clear eyes and warm smiles will continue,
the bread be passed from hand to hand,
one prayer, one body,
till the end of time.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light www.unfoldinglight.net
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God won’t suddenly jump in and fix the world
any more than this poem will. But listen.
God is the mustard seed of goodness
that slips down between the cracks, and roots.
God is at it, in infinite small ways,
like a virus spreading, like radioactive waste,
like knotweed you can’t get rid of.
God crawls down into the lowest places,
creeping deeper and deeper, under stuff, behind things,
always the dirtiest places, the poorest, most ignored.
God is the mold in the basement of the Fortress,
spreading the love that rots the timbers of cruelty.
The Empire won’t suddenly turn generous,
the Presidential Palace sheltering refugees.
But it can’t seal itself against spring,
against the fragrance of mercy.
The realm of God is like an infection
for which there is no cure.
The world won’t soon be fixed,
but it can never be purified of love.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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Amid the intricacies of your inner ear,
the vessels and instruments and wise listeners
that translate air into meaning,
is an ocean cave that magnifies
all the haunting cries of the earth,
all the moans and shrieks and calls and whispers,
hearing clearly even the private weeping
of small children and distant tribes.
There is a great tree in your inner ear
whose roots are in that ocean cave,
whose branches quiver with every bird song,
every sorrow or delight, every cry of wonder.
All these voices echo in the deep cavern
and do not die out. They are in you.

So it is that we often do not hear well,
with all the noise, and often feel
some real yet vanishing weight
we do not understand,
perhaps of grief or hope or joy, unspoken.

At times, therefore, we pause
in stillness and let the chorus complete its aria.
Heard, then, the voices calm
and become in us a clearer hearing,
a deeper wisdom.
We speak with the voice of hearing.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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God slow me down to the pace of reverence.
Open my eyes to the light of reverence.
Tune my ears to the frequency of reverence.
Move my hands with the grace of reverence.
May I live with reverence and delight,
with compassion, receptivity, and love.
May my life be a reverent offering to you.
Amen.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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What if all my words were seeds,
each one giving birth to a world?
What if I were a spring
and people drank from me?
God, guard my mouth
that I may speak only truth,
say only life-giving things,
utter only what is good.
Even in times of conflict,
times of outrage,
may all that flows from me
be a clear stream of beauty and life
rising from your deep grace.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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His students said to Jesus, “Increase our faith!”
He said with faith the size of a mustard seed
you could uproot a tree and plant it in the sea.

Yes! Oh, we wish for such faith, such command—
ignoring how pointless it would be
to sea-plant a mulberry tree. He’s caught us.

Then he goes on to describe us as slaves,
not doing whatever showy, irrelevant things
we want, but doing our master’s will.

As if faith isn’t power to do what we wish,
but willingness to surrender to what God
is already doing, listening and obeying—

realizing and confessing our lust for power,
even power to do good—
and instead, submitting to goodness.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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They don’t say it, but they could,
the roots working down under the ground,
the sun beaming down on a flowering garden,
the bees about their labors,
neither proud nor self effacing about their honey:
Here. Look what I made.

They don’t call attention to it
(though it is called),
the spring rains greening the hillside,
the weaver bird stitching a masterpiece.
They don’t need anyone’s approval.

The beetles that have cleaned the forest floor,
the snow making sensual sculptures,
the loon and its lake-echoed cry,
they are at peace with their glory.

It’s only God, really, who makes a big deal—
hear the voice of the Holy One!—
who creates you, keeps creating you,
and steps back and says,
“Now that’s good. That’s real good.”

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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