“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands,
         and put my finger in the mark of the nails
         and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
                  —John 20.25

You want to see real resurrection,
not its paperwork. You want to touch it.
And you know where to look.
Ignore your packaged and trimmed doctrine,
don’t even look in your slick success stories.
Look in your wounds.
Reach out and put your hand in your losses,
the mark of your shame.
Where is it empty?
Where does your failure flop out of its costume
and bleed all over the floor?
Go ahead. Touch it.
Put your hand on your inadequacy.
The deepest wounds go deeper than you.
Sit a while with the corpse of yourself.
Wait there.
Wait for what you can’t wait for, can’t ask for.
Let that great emptiness open up in you.
Let it be as vast as God,
the wound divine,
your anguish and your Beloved: one.
There, where it’s hopeless,
that’s where the hope is. Go there.
Listen for the voice.

   —April 24, 2019

         You have been raised with Christ.
         You have died,
         and your life is hidden with Christ in God.
                  — Colossians 3.1, 3

Live as if you are risen.

The fear-tombed, nay-saying, people-pleasing
prisoner of scarcity, shame and threat—
that one has died.

The stone of Outcomes has been rolled away.
The linen grave-clothes of Consequences
are lying abandoned.

You are free.
Forgiven, accompanied, love-enabled,
miracle-powered, you are a member
of the risen body of Christ.

You are those hands with holes in them
Jesus shows, and says, “Peace.”
You are the flesh the Spirit moves
to do her next wonders.

You’v already died and gone to heaven,
no mere flesh now, but pure love,
unafraid of death and its useless threats,
with unshakable courage,
nothing to lose, everything in your hands.

Don’t live as if you’re afraid to be crucified.
Live as if you’re already risen.

   —April 23, 2019

You are the earth,
a little bit of it.

You are a microcosm of it,
all earth’s life and beauty and hope,
right in you.
By yourself you are nothing,
but you are not by yourself,
you are all the rest of it, too.

There is one thing,
and we are all it.

Wonder deeply, thank freely,
serve humbly and do justice boldly.
Above all, simply belong,
and let our joy be in you.

   —April 22, 2019

         On the sabbath they rested
         according to the commandment.
                           —Luke 23.56
                  
Mysterious One,
I am at peace here,
in this in between place
where most every present moment is,
where neither the moving nor the seeing is given,
bearing the pain without yet its blessings
Sabbath interstice
between the dying and the rising:
only letting go of the world’s wheel
can I wait
and trust that it is you,
and you alone
who have already begun—
who are— the rising
I can’t yet see.

   —April 20, 2019

The trembling heart pierced
by the jagged torn edge
of the heart.
Life most traumatically against itself.
Evil strikes at the tenderest scandal
of God, to be embodied
in each, and subjects the body
to the horror of its denial.
We murder ourselves
slowly, viciously, in the soft places,
in the papers every day.
We are torturers and can’t pretend
otherwise. And so profoundly other-
wise you are our victim
and victor, for in your love before
you climbed this hill you climbed
into us, wrapped yourself in us,
and in love will not leave that home,
though it be pierced and battered,
brutalized. You bleed, we are not
satisfied, we kill again. You bleed
pure love. There is no other hell
than this, no higher throne for you,
no greater evil you overpower.
You choose no other place to live,
no lesser love to bear than to occupy
our self-mutilated souls and fill them
with yourself, your love, your peace,
until your light transforms all darkness,
hell’s unmade, and fear itself is
euthanized, till each of us is a failed
emperor, powers spent, with memories
of sin, now dead, forgiven, buried, ready
to be raised.

   —April 19, 2019

         As they led him away, they seized a man,
         Simon of Cyrene, who was coming from the country,
         and they laid the cross on him,
         and made him carry it with Jesus.
                           —Luke 23.26

Jesus, I am not a brave disciple.
I was merely going my way, and was here compelled.
Oh, the horror—to be humiliated with a criminal,
to be led to a death not far from my own!
The shame—to know I aided in laying this death upon you.
The fear I felt to seize such suffering in my own hands,
to bear the pain of one who bore our whole entire wound!
I shrank. I wanted to cease to be. But then I was compelled—
but not by the centurion:
it was your eyes.
Wounded and bloodied as they were, they beckoned me.
They spoke of grace even there, hope even then.
Burdened so, they moved with gratitude
that I would share the journey with you. With humble love
they invited me even through pain and suffering toward life
I could not imagine before I shared your sorrow.
Your splinters pierced me,
a wreath of thorns around my own heart.
The life they sought to wrest from you, you gave so freely.
For a moment I glimpsed what it might be
to bear the pain of the world
and not despair,
but love,
born of a life that swamps all death.
In that awful brotherhood step by step my burden lightened
until it was pure gift. How could there be joy in such anguish?
It was truly you alone, Beloved, who carried all the weight.

Now in all my troubles I feel your cross upon my back,
your arm around my shoulder, your breath on my neck,
your mournful, hopeful eyes, still gentle, holding me.
I am glad to be here. You speak to me:

           “Come to me, all you that are weary
           and are carrying heavy burdens,
           and I will give you rest..
           Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me;
           for I am gentle and humble in heart,
           and you will find rest for your souls.
           For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
                          [—Mt. 11.28-30]

   —April 18, 2019

Has what you love not yet
fallen to ashes?
Or can you still cling?

We all have different treasures,
soon to be relics.
What is common is loss.

In the marketplace of sorrow
We all have the same coin. 
Buy nothing. Give it away. 

We seek that other fire
that needs no fuel but us,
Refining, not destroying. 

“My body broken for you”
and risen again
in hearts that burn and are not consumed. 

Grant us the grace of those we love
who are not yet ashes. 
Teach us to love while we may.

   —April 17, 2019

You who are weary,
who have been doing this a long time,
you who struggle to keep going,
You are still going!
You are amazing!
You who don’t think you can go on:
I salute you!
You can go on, if you slow down
before you tire yourself too much.
You have the energy within you—
just find your right pace.
You who run through pain,
through self-doubt and crazy voices in your head,
you are amazing.
You who don’t feel beautiful,
who are falling behind what you hoped,
who aren’t doing your personal best,
I salute you.
You are going on! You are doing this!
Even you who step away,
whose path does not lead to other people’s finish line—
you are doing what is in you to do.
You are amazing! I salute you.
We are all doing our best.
And you who cheer your neighbors on,
who don’t give up encouraging, appreciating,
celebrating—you are amazing!

Look at us do this remarkable thing!
How can we not cheer each other on?

   —April 16, 2019

         “Satan has demanded to sift all of you like wheat,
         but I have prayed for you that your own faith may not fail;
         and you, when once you have come back,
         strengthen your siblings.”
                  —Luke 22.31-32

How deeply you believe in me!
How graciously you offer this kindness in my weakness.
How you see me not as my brokenness
but as the one I am becoming.
You are with me already on the far side of my faults.
You are already resurrected without my failings,
and draw me up with you.
I soak in your deep love;
I let your hope become me.
I die and rise in you.

   —April 15, 2019

         “Satan has demanded to sift all of you like wheat,
         but I have prayed for you that your own faith may not fail;
         and you, when once you have come back,
         strengthen your siblings.”
                  —Luke 22.31-32

Beloved, I give you myself,
ripe and unripe, dappled and incomplete,
dead and raised.

I wave my palms,
         and yet I mean you harm.
I receive your body and blood in love,
         and I collude in your suffering.
We spread our cloaks before you
         all the way to the cross.
We cry for justice,
         feeding on the labor of the poor.
You are my highest treasure,
         which I will deny.
I will learn from you,
         then put you on trial,
         and not examine myself,
         and forget how never you judge me.
I promise my faithfulness,
         and I betray.

And yet by your grace I will come back.
Beloved, sift me, and redeem the wheat from the chaff.
Receive my broken, ill-fitting pieces,
bless them with your grace,
and mend me. Make me whole again.
Take my little faith with you to the cross;
in your dying let me die, and raise me new,
so that not with flawless piety
but with a widened heart, ripened by death,
I may strengthen my siblings.

—April 12, 2019