Category: Reflections

                  
God of mercy, why is there no mercy?
The poor are robbed, the hungry wait,
prisoners long for the welcoming hand.
The powerful wield their weapons day after day.
Refugees walk in their long lines toward you
and never arrive, never find home.
The laborer used, the child abused, wait
for no announcing angel, no welcome rescue.
The lonely and condemned weep without answer.
God of justice, why is there no justice?
Living Word, why your silence?
Exiled by race, enslaved by greed,
crucified by gunshots,
your children cry to you.
Why, O Loving One, why do you not speak?

You do not hear, my Beloved, for my voice
is wrapped in the cry of the poor.
My tears are there in the prison cell,
my glory with the disappeared.
You do not hear me because
I am whispering to them.

Holy One, we enter your silence as a temple.
May we hear your cry in our heart.
May your song rise up in our throat
as we lift our voice for your justice.
May we bear your mercy in our hands
as we labor for your will.

God of mercy, I will be your mercy,
for you are my hope.

 

My son and I climbed a broad, barren mountain
in Norway. We didn’t know the language,
but on the mountain there’s only
the language of the mountain.
The path was faint and narrow, and sometimes
it lost us, and we had to find our way.

All along there were little berries, blueberries
but wilder, more tart, like Montana’s huckleberries,
the mountain’s open handed gift for us that we ate
as we followed or made our way.

There was wind, and rain, and sun.

Going up or coming down, confidently on the path
or puzzling over our rough little map,
wherever we were on that mountain of God
it held us, and we had each other, and the mountain,
and the little sweet berries.

The berries were small and low to the ground,
and easy to miss.

 

         “Who do you say that I am?”
                  —Matthew 16.15

You are my teacher, trickster, shaman, guide,
companion in all that I do.
You love God and the world so deeply
I can’t escape your warmth, your light.
You let me see your wisdom at work,
walking me through the scripture of this world,
and I follow and I am changed.
You walk with with me, move in me,
breathe through me, love through me.
You are the gardener who tends this world’s beauty
and shows me its secrets,
the local who knows this city,
takes me places, gets me into things—
wonders and trouble alike.
I will go into terrible, beautiful places
deep in the suffering of this world
because I want to be near you.
You question my deepest assurances,
magician, and make me look again.
You appear in the flesh in the jailed and abused,
beckoning, forgiving, still loving.
You are holiness being familiar,
the Holy Trinity with an arm around me.
You are my lover, passionate with God’s flame,
loving every part of me, every part,
radiant with God, my faithful servant:
I can’t get you up off your knees for me,
weeping for me, dying for me, rising with me,
holding my head in your hands.
You wrestle with me, wrenching from me my self
and leaving me nothing but yours.
You pray in me, pray for the world,
pray for me, pray for God,
and I am in wonder.
You draw me into your infinite silence.
When I am hungry for the bread of God
you make my mouth water,
and I love you.

 

         Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice.
                  —Romans 12.1

     Because it is holy,
God’s gift to you,
molded from God’s clay,
and not some bad thing,
root of sin, vessel of shame—
holy, every part of it,
even though you could lose a few
or cut your hair different,
it is what God gave you,
it is all you have.
     Because it’s how you sacrifice yourself,
giving it to God and not getting it back,
every moment, every step,
every gesture a prayer.
     Because it’s wonderful,
the webbing between your thumb and finger,
the landscape of your palm
and its memories,
the stories around your eyes.
     Because it is your wisdom,
the muscle memory of faith,
like the lobsterman whose legs know
the sea and the boat and the weight,
how you know the weight
of the water you take the plants,
the food you’ve given,
the feel of bowing in gratitude or humility,
the rush of singing poorly, joyfully,
head back, eyes closed,
the heat in your chest when you risk
some love or forgiveness.
     Because it is how you move in the world,
what and how you eat,
your nearness to others,
your breathing in and out, so faithfully.
     Because how else will God know
what it is like
to walk on this earth?

 

An ancient mountain
massive with beauty,
its feet in the roots of the earth,
little villages on its shoulders,
adorned with necklaces of waterfalls,
carved over eons by glaciers,
not easily but with much sorrow
and loss, much harsh grinding.
You are the mountain.

                  •

You are not the mountain;
you are the valley carved out,
made spacious by another’s suffering.

                  •

You are nothing so large,
but this little place of loveliness
where sheep graze.

                  •

You are the sheep,
the village,
the mist.

 

I’m home. I’ve just returned from three weeks in Norway with Beth and our son Jonathan (the trip was a Christmas present from Jonathan.) There was much that felt unfamiliar and much that felt like home. (Especially the mountains, for this Montana boy.) Among our many adventures there, we went to a “town” (a farm, really) called Garnaas, where part of my name comes from. Beth’s grandfather came from there to America in 1877. There we met Beth’s fourth cousin, a Svenkerud. The farther back in your family tree you go the more names you include. And we met his daughter, Jonathan’s fifth cousin, pregnant with Tanner’s sixth cousin. The farther down the tree you come, the more relatives you have.

I thought about how Vikings came to Britain, where most of my ancestors were, and how Scots came to Norway in medieval times, and wondered how much Norwegian blood I have, how much British blood Beth has. Tracing her DNA back 40,000 years, you’ll find that “her people” came from central Asia and eventually migrated through northern Africa to Scandinavia. If you go back far enough we’re all related.

But you don’t have to “go back.” We’re all related. We’re all one. We all come from the same love, that has found six billion kinds of beauty. We all come from the same breath, that speaks a million different languages. We are all migrants in this world, come from God and going to God. We’re all home. We’re all one. Wherever you are, whoever you are with, welcome home to your family.

 

Dearly Beloved,

Grace and Peace to you.                

Today I am leaving for a three week vacation. Amazingly, the world will carry on without me. You will be fine without me. The sun will burn, the tides will rise and fall, children will grow, the nations will rage, without me. I will not lift a finger.

But here’s the mystery. Though I will not be there, the fate of my friends, the blessing of my community, the ministry of the church I serve, the well-being of the trees where I have walked every morning and even the orbit of the moon will all depend on me. They would all be changed if I were not to be. It’s not that by my effort I sustain them, but that I am created as a part of their whole. It is not my doing but my being that blesses all creation. Even while I’m on vacation.

And the same is true of you. Your very being is a blessing for this world, though the world will not know it. Your particular presence—not your skill or effort, but your soul—is essential to the world as God desires it.

The flower in the field, the mountain on the horizon give you a gift simply by being there. God looks at you, and is delighted. Even when, like the beautiful child you are, you are asleep. Enter that sabbath place where your being, and everything’s, is all there is.

___________________________ Weather Report

A day of belonging
as the universe enfolds you;
a low-pressure area
of merely being created
will push aside a high pressure region
with its hailstorm of accomplishments,
leaving light,
such light that emanates from within.

                 

        

The Beloved has stolen your soul
and run off with her—
how audacious, how unfair!—
and married her in secret,
without your permission,
without your even knowing.

And what does God give you
as a wedding present?

Yourself.
 

It fits.
Put it on and wear it.
It’s beautiful.
 

 

I do my best to walk in peaceful calm,
and I have vowed to do no harm, no harm.
But living with these shadows in this world,
the wail of trampled voices, cries of blood,
the suffering imposed by greed and fear,
at times down in the heavy depths there burns
a weight, there seethes a flame, there stirs and heaves
a great dark rage that I can’t bear alone,

and so I hand the red hot iron to Christ,
who with insistent, mighty, ringing blows
beats it on his anvil, throwing sparks.

And I have vowed to do no harm, no harm,
though much may be upturned by such a plow.

 

We love to pretend we’re Big People
who have managed well our fate.
But we are weak, frightened children,
saved by unearned generosity
or not saved at all.

Fearful of our tenderness,
believing most deeply in our on-our-own-ness,
we lash out against our shadows
stumbling across our border, our little ones
running for their lives.

They ought to master their destiny like us.
They ought to be abandoned like us.
This is no country for the meek,
the small,
the saved.