Author: Steve

Mary, can I sit with you?
Let me come close to your stillness,
sit in the warmth of your Spirit,
listen with you.
Teach me how to do this,
to be so receptive
to the favor of God,
to the voice of delight.
To admit such life.
To let something in me grow
without my control,
to let God in me swell my being,
change my balance.
To let something in me dilate so greatly,
to be so open to what I receive
and what I release.

Breathe with me,
through the change, through the pain,
through the world shifting within me.
Breathe with me,
with the life birthing itself in me,
the world issuing from me.

Can I sit with you and learn
how to bring forth love
in the midst of chaos and darkness,
how to be so fiercely tender
in a rough place?

Show me how to push forth this love,
how to nurse this light,
how to let this issue of my heart
go out into the world
and smile back at me.

Can I sit with you,
as the love of my love
walks out of my arms,
into this world
toward its cross
and beyond?
Can I sit with you
and learn to say yes?

 

Darkness isn’t a thing.
It doesn’t have power or substance.
It’s not evil, or bad in any way.
But our fear of it is a thing.
It has solid weight in our hearts.
Wearing darkness’ mask,
our fear drives us in ways that are evil.

On this solstice darkness reaches its limit;
the world turns back toward the light.
There is winter yet to come,
but the light has already spoken.

The light shines not to vanquish the darkness,
for the darkness is holy, too,
but to heal our fear,
and to heal the wounds it causes,
and to undo the power of evil.

The world was created in light,
as were you.
From the deep center
you shine with original light,
the light of your very being,
the light of God.
In this world where fear darkens many hearts,
you shine with the light of healing and courage.

God is already turning the world around.
Don’t be afraid of the dark. Shine in it.

 

        
God said, I love my creatures,
so much that I wish to be with them.
I wish to give myself to them.
I wish to be one of them.

Which one will you be?
the angels asked.
You could be a tree, they said,
for they are long-living and steadfast.
Or will you be a lion,
for they are powerful and without fear?
Might you be a porpoise,
for their playfulness?
Or a bird, for their freedom of flight?
Perhaps you will be an elephant,
for they are gracious and gentle.
Ah, you will be a fungus,
humble and unnoticed but essential.
No, you will be a whale,
great and unseen and full of song.

No, God said, this is not for me
and my delight, nor for my glory.
This is for my creatures.

I will be a human being,
for it is they who need the most help.
I will be one of them,
and together
we will mend ourselves.

 

Today out of sight some where
Electors are making a choice
that will rock the world, one way or anther,
and make possible a certain future.
It’s a powerful moment; much hangs in the balance.
They are empowered by a Constitution,
some are bound by state laws;
who knows what other values and commitments
will sway them?

This moment, beyond your sight,
God is choosing,
bound or swayed by nothing,
but acting in pure love,
choosing for us—
not for a party or a position or a belief
but for all of us,
choosing us as a spouse chooses,
forever, with all of God’s self,
with the power that says “Let there be light,”
power that dwarfs electors
and their decision and their nation
and its history and its future,
power that dwarfs every emperor’s,
love that dwarfs everything else.
This moment and forever
God is choosing us, saying, “I am coming,”
and making possible an unimagined future.
Let this choosing bind your own,
and live in this light.
 

 

Simple star,
shine through my tangled darkness.
Healing glory,
pierce my earth, my stone.
Secret angel,
whisper in my dreams, my nightmares,
my forgetting,
your impossible promise.
Heavenly choir,
do not wait for me to listen.
Sing your verses till I waken,
even if my whole life
is nothing but the final amen.

 

         
Come, Christ,
come here, not far away,
come here to our little suburban town.
                  
No, wait.
Come to Aleppo,
where they need you,
where the children are being slaughtered.

No, wait.
You are already there
among the oppressed.
From the beginning
this is how you come to us:
as the assaulted and discarded,
the crucified.

No, come here
to our white suburban town,
come to us with power and privilege
not to comfort but to awaken us
to care, to act,
for the sake of our little Christ child,
before we have to,
to know
we have to.
 

 

          Joseph, being a righteous man
          and unwilling to expose Mary to public disgrace,
          planned to dismiss her quietly.
                           —Matthew 1.19

Imagine if he had.
Imagine how often we dismiss the holy
because we don’t see it as holy.
How often we judge,
come to our conclusions
and make our plans,
without knowing we’re dealing with God.
How easily we dismiss or avoid
people or relationships,
issues or awareness
unmindful that God is present,
unbelieving that something unseen
and possibly glorious
may imminently appear.

The door you close
may open of itself.
The Unexpected One may emerge
from that one, or another.

Learn to expect the wholly unexpected,
the holy unexpected.
Look on your disappointments and discouragements
with eyes of faith.
God is coming.
God is already here, gestating.
God is not done yet.
 

 

          Joseph, son of David,
          do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife.
                    —Matthew 1.20

Joseph,
walk with me
into this darkness,
the not knowing.
You have to marry the mystery
before everything else.
Surrendering all claim
to outcomes or knowledge of them,
you commit to the love at hand,
and it is enough.
The very undoing that confounds you
is the love that finds you.
The answer you seek is no answer,
but only presence,
this woman who also must not be afraid,
this child who will not be revealed
until after you say yes,
this God who is not at the end of the journey
but your companion on the journey
and the dark road itself, Emmanuel.

We have to say yes
before anything, don’t we?
Joseph, walk with me.

 

Look at your hand.
It’s not perfect,
though it would look silly on anyone else.
Fragile, yet strong.
The back and its forested hillsides,
the little hairs, the ridges and furrows,
the blue veins mysteriously tunneling.
The palm like a desert, eroded, sere.
Imagine all it’s held,
places it’s been,
what it has caressed or struck,
created or ruined.
What it has done, could do, might do—
most of it not alone,
but meant to work with another,
or even more.
You love it, don’t you?
You wouldn’t lose it for anything.
You need it, count on it,
even with its age and imperfections
delight in it, marvel at it.
You look at your hand, as if from a distance,
yet you are in it, are you not?
It is you, isn’t it?

God is in you
as you are in your hand.
Jesus is not God’s only one.

Near the speed of light
the divine Impulse comes to you,
Word made flesh.
 

Greetings, Beloved.
God is with you.

Do not be afraid.
God delights in you.

In your life
you will embody God’s love.

This divine love will be great,
and fill the world, and have no end.

Don’t doubt this can be true of you,
who are so ordinary and small in the world:

this is the Spirit’s work in you;
what is in you is holy.

Nothing is impossible with God.
With God, nothing is impossible.

Let this be your prayer each day,
each moment, each thought and action:

May it be for me
according to your word.

                  (Luke 1.28-35)