He was in the wilderness forty days,
         tempted by Satan;
         and he was with the wild beasts
                  —Mark 1.13

Come with me, God.
I am your little fearful child,
and I need you with me.
I mean to go deep into my blessed darkness,
where fears like fierce beasts prowl,
where gaping caves of wounds reach out
and pull me downward,
where desires lurk and haunt and taunt.
Come with me in your gentleness
to walk among demons
and see in them
in the light of your grace
the little children they are,
afraid and alone,
little child demons searching
for their mother
who is me,
becoming whole.

   —March 12, 2019

         How beautiful upon the mountains
         are the feet of one bringing good news.
                  —Isaiah 52.7

You mail carrier comes,
walks up to your house every morning
and slips this into the little box,
or through the slot—
not mindlessly listening to bad music
or counting the minutes till the route is over,
but with prayerful delight for each recipient,
imagining blessing left behind, satisfied.
What a fine way to live, eh?

   —March 11, 2019

         Jesus was led by the Spirit
         in the wilderness,
         where for forty days he was tempted.
                           —Luke 4.1-2

We water our desires like a garden,
they become a forest, we are lost in them.
We desire and we take.

So we leave the lush place where everything is given,
for the sparse land where everything is questioned.
We go alone with him
to that most alone place,
the empty place,
among the bones of our desire.
Everything exposed,
bare rock, long views, no cover.

And we live.
At that margin we finally come
to the center,
nothing but soul and flesh,
the creature that endures,
the solitude in which we are not alone,
the spring that wells up within,
that everything else obscures.

Coming back, our eyes are open.
Returning to the city’s deserts
we know to dip from the the spring
flowing out.

   —March 8, 2019

         For forty days he was tempted by the devil.
                           —Luke 4.2

God, I confess
I want the power
to make things as I wish them,
to turn stones to bread, this to that,
to have the world as I desire, not as it is.
         I renounce my hunger for power.
         Your love alone is my power.

I confess
I want to manage what others think of me,
I want authority, status, belonging,
the kingdoms of the world.
         I renounce my hunger for status.
         You lone are my belonging.

I confess
I want the security of freedom from pain,
from risk, from sacrifice,
as if I could leap from a height and be unhurt.
         I renounce my fear of suffering.
         You alone are my security.

Spirit of love,
be my power, my security, my belonging;
overwhelm the fears of my ego
and re-direct my desires,
that I may trust you, belong to you,
and bear your love alone.

         I breathe your love.
         I breathe your love.
Amen.

   —March 7, 2019

The Beloved knelt down
and scooped dust up from the earth
and bent down and kissed that dirt,
laid tender lips on yours
and breathed into you
and there you are,

dirt breathing,
breathing God.

Attend to the breath,
it sings,
attend to the dust,
without its grit
the breath can’t sing.
Watch how you try
to be one without the other.
Attend to getting along.

The wind blows all dust,
eventually scatters it.

Sing, dust,
while you can.

  —March 6, 2019

I used to wonder what “Shrove” meant.
I thought of boats shrove up on shore.
Or a boat shrove in on the rocks.
Maybe a shrove of wheat.
Or the shrove you put over a dead body.

Then I learned to shrive is to hear a confession,
and to grant absolution,
and to impose penance.
Which, all together, are as mixed up as before.
If I really grant absolution—forgiveness—
there is no penance, no obligation.

But maybe to shrive means
to see clearly, you and me together,
what is out of harmony in my life,
and see together how to get in tune.
To see what gets in the way of perfect love
and to start to move it out of the way
so by God loving in me I can be perfected in love.

Confession is being mindful:
I am becoming pure love,
still on the way.

God, I am sorry: I am pretty messed up.
“Oh, child, you’re more messed up than you think.
But you’re mine, and I love you, and you’re lovely.
Now let’s work on this.”

   —March 5, 2019

         You desire truth in the inward being;
         therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart
                  —Psalm 51.6

         Whenever you pray,
         go into your room and shut the door
         and pray to your Life-giver who is in secret.
                  —Matthew 6.6

Go in,
into that inner chamber
beneath the where of you
and the how of you
and even the who of you
to the great I Am of you,
where hums your secret self,

the holy darkness
at the center where
God radiates out into you.

Go into that dark room
where your forgiveness
lies like a sleeping child;

like a child who has loved you
since the day she was born,
the Beloved waits to greet you.

   —March 4, 2019

         “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”
                  —Luke 9.35

Listen for the One amid the others,
the one who awakens something lovely in you.

If you don’t turn from this clanging world to listen
you won’t hear him.

Listen for the voice that calls you Beloved,
the voice that calls you to love.

Listen to the voice that speaks of Creation’s wholeness,
that beckons you to completion.

A voice that leads you toward others,
not your own rising above and away.

Listen to the song of the immense flowering within you,
the risk and passion you can dance to.

You will hear it in stillness, not in frenzy,
in silence, not in noise.

You will hear it from those who are belittled,
not those who are honored by this besotted world.

The Beloved will not speak of success,
but death and resurrection.

Listen for one who speaks with hope and delight,
listen to him. Listen to him.

   —March 1, 2019

          While he was praying, the appearance of his face changed,
          and his clothes became dazzling white.
          Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him.
          They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure,
          which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.
                            —Luke 9.29-31

Jesus has just told his disciples the powerful will kill him.
He is about to “set his face toward Jerusalem.”
We are in the shadow of the cross.
In that awful place when Jesus prays
he speaks with Moses and Elijah about his “departure”—
let’s not be polite about it: his terrible death.
And in that awful place what do the disciples see?
Even before his horrible death
they see him already resurrected, shining in glory!
The Transfiguration is not a proof-of-Jesus’-divinity video.
It’s a resurrection appearance, before the resurrection.
Jesus, having given himself to God, is already infinitely alive.
That’s the promise that bears him onward.

This week my church, the “United “ Methodist Church,
just voted to exclude and persecute gay people.
OK, so that’s that. We’re not United any more.
We have officially abandoned the gospel of love.
For many of us our hearts are broken.
We are in the shadow of crucifixion.

In this awful place what do I see?
I see that God in grace makes life out of death, victory out of failure.
I see the church, risen.
The terrible death hasn’t come yet,
but already the light of resurrection illumines our way.
God is at work, unseen and victorious,
even as the soldiers of death pull on their boots.

It is time for the church to die and rise.
We will suffer; some will suffer greatly.
But we will go on, and God will raise us up,
and the radiant Body of Christ, crucified and risen,
changed into a new form, will shine.
Love will prevail. It will not be defeated. Love cannot be voted down.

In all your struggles—for justice in the world,
or for peace in one neighbor’s life—
whatever your failures, whatever ruinous collapses you foresee,
know this: before the tragedy, before the awful descent,
in love you are already risen, already shining.
Go in peace. Go with courage. Go in hope.

— January 28, 2019

O God, you built your house with skilled hands.
         You fashioned it with strong beams,
a roof and a bed and a table for all,
         and a name at every place at the table.

But now your enemies have taken your dwelling;
         they have seized it for themselves.
They have walled off its rooms,
         and have thrown out your children,
they have planted thorns by the doorways
         and posted sentries at the gates,
that none may enter but by hatred,
         that none may dwell here but in fear.
Your beloved, cast out, go homeless,
         your children walled out from your love.
You who dwell in your people
         have no home now, but wander the streets.

Woe to those who have shut the temple door;
         their house now a prison.
Woe to those who have done evil dressed in priestly robes,
         their house is forever empty of love.

Loving One, receive our sorrow,
         and fashion it into wisdom.
Mighty One, hold our rage,
         and grow it into courage.
Creating One, take our despair
         and turn it to hope.
O Homeless One, gather the refugees
         fleeing the house of hatred.
Shelter the condemned,
         and bless them with your glory.

Open our eyes to see, God,
         that from the rubble of injustice
you are building a beautiful house
         with strong beams,
a roof and a bed and a table for all,
         and a name at every place at the table.
For your love will prevail,
         now and forever.

 —February 27, 2019