Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard,
         anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair.
                           —John 12.3

God does not promise to save you from suffering,
or to remove you from this life and its jagged edges.
God shares your space in it, offers blessing in it,
anointing your nights as well as days.
The cross is no scheme to get you off a hook somewhere;
it’s the Beloved, with you in your pain.

Let the Beloved pour herself out on your troubles,
let her pour out a jar of tears for you,
wipe your aching feet with her hair.
Let the whole house of you be filled
with the fragrance of God’s blessing.
Others don’t feel your pain but she does,
they will flee but she will be with you.

Lay before her your sorrows and your rage.
Feel her hands upon you, her hair, her heart.
You are in the holy of holies.
The world’s derision fades away outside the gate.
She looks at you with love
that will stay with you forever.

  —April 3, 2019

         “She bought it so that she might keep it
         for the day of my burial.”
                  —John 12.7

His Ash Wednesday.
At the home of one who has been anointed by death
the others carouse oblivious but
a woman of sorrows, and acquainted with grief
surrenders what she has clung to,
anoints with her treasure
—what breaking this outpouring asked—
blesses with her body
feet soon to be pierced.
The house is filled with the fragrance
of death, the dark coils that face us
toward completion.
Dust to dust.
Death is not our end but our guide.
“Now are the days you have,
this is the moment to love.”
He speaks to himself.

Buried now with love,
he will live these days even more truly.
Even the last is the first of the rest.
Having repented, repointed
toward love most giving
he too is ready to wash feet,
to pour out his body,
to face death with love.
He rises from the table, risen.

   —April 1, 2019

The “real world” is a house of illusion
built by a trickster with no jollity in mind.

So much you think is real,
but is only for the devil’s merriment.

To truly see you have to know your are blinded
and see what cannot be seen.

True wisdom is courage to look foolish.
Don’t fall for what your fear takes so seriously.

What you cling to, drop awkwardly.
What you have been instructed, forget.

Death is a practical joke.
Stand outside it, and see.

First you die, then you live.
Don’t let the ashes fool you.

   —April 1, 2019

Quiet One
I am here
deep in the mystery of You
The sometimes emptiness I have felt
weary, fruitless
the silence
the absence
that was You
releasing me from old ways
old assurances
Unveiling me
Inviting me deeper
into the mystery of You

Running out of thoughts
running free
Falling out of knowing
out of all understanding
into being

Presence of the unnoticeable

Mystery
vague as fog
warm us sun

Womb

I am
Here

—March 29, 2019

O Incomprehensible One,
you have taken the sharp knife of this life
and hollowed me out.
Scraped my insides.
Everything taken. Scoured. Empty.
You have punched holes in me
in painful places.
Helpless.
The wind blows through me.

And what is this?
Flute music!

   —March 28, 2019

         His father came out and began to plead with him.
                  —Luke 15.28

My Beloved,
both of you,
come back to me.
You have distanced yourself,
walked away from the family.
Come back.
I want you.
My grace I give you,
my feast I give you,
come feast.
You are neither sinner nor righteous,
you are Beloved.
Nothing have you earned or forfeited:
my love is a gift.
All of my love
is yours.
Come in and feast with me.
Silence your impudent mind
and come in to me.
Here is my joy in you,
all of you, together.
Let me pour myself out at this table for you.
Come, belong to me.
Be mine.
Come.

—March 27, 2019

         The older brother became angry and refused to go in.
                  —Luke 15.28

I refuse you.
I resent somebody, and your love for them.
I want to be better, more deserving.
I won’t go to your heaven if he’s there.
He’s not my brother. Your kin, but not mine.
I denounce your party. I scorn your joy.
I won’t go in.

Yet you come out to me,
here in the far country of my bitterness.
Just like him I have left your side;
just like him you invite me back.
I am no more worthy, no more loving.
He came to that point of turning to you.
I have not come there yet.

Yet you come to me.
You offer perfect love.
Will I release my resentment?
Will I rejoin my kin?
Will I come in?
Will I come?

   —March 26, 2019

         “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you;
         I am no longer worthy to be called your son;
         treat me like one of your hired hands.”
                  —Luke 15.18

Empty hollow husks and crusts.
Treasure spent and spoiled.
Sorrow, mess and brokenness.
That’s what I have to offer you.

Hunger drove me then and draws me home.
Oh, I confess I have not come for you,
to heal your broken heart or give you thanks,
but only beg another scrap.

And yet you see me not as beggar
or as thief but your Beloved,
lost and found, and dear,
a cause for your rejoicing.

How do I bear this grace’s weight,
this love around my neck, this gift?
I don’t. I let it lift me up beyond myself,
amazed, where all there is is you.

   —March 25, 2019

         Let me dig around it and put manure on it.
                  —Luke 13.8

Life-Giver, you pronounce your judgment:
“Surely there is in you (I see it)
a fruit (it is your nature), a gift (I put it there).”
You call me to penitence:
“Here, let me give you more life.
Receive it.”

And this is my repentance: compost.
What was life, then death, turned to life.
Shovelfuls of fasting dug around me,
the hard blade, the removal.
The manure of the failed,
submission to being beneath the lowest.
Accepting offal as a gift of grace.

This is my repentance: I receive.
Deeply rooted, deeply fed,
my soul is satisfied as with a rich feast.
Bread which satisfies.

And then, little buds.
New birds in the branches.

   —March 22, 2019

         Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way
         they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?
         No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.
                           — Luke 13.2-3
                  

You do away with the notion
that good things happen to good people.
You make the rain fall on the just and the unjust.
So you do away with my need
to be better than some, those sinners.
There’s only one kind of human:
broken and forgiven. Redeemed.

I am a sinner.
I am in need of repentance.
Keep me humble, God,
and aware of my need.
In conversing with others,
especially those I judge,
remind me: I am a sinner.
Keep my heart open to your saving grace.
Amen.

   —March 21, 2019