As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd;
         and he had compassion for them,
         because they were like sheep without a shepherd;
         and he began to teach them many things.
                        —Mark 6.34

Jesus has sent the twelve out to surrounding towns to heal and call people to repentance. As they are at it, Mark reminds us of the death of John the Baptist, and the cost of discipleship. When they return, rejoicing in their successes, Jesus invites them to a deserted place for some solitude. But a crowd greets them there, and Jesus responds to their needs.

We might think how frustrating, how exhausting for Jesus, seeking solitude and instead being accosted by a needy crowd. But Jesus is not exhausted. He has not been out healing; the disciples were. That’s why he sent them out, so he could get some solitude. He was ready.

We are called to join God in the healing of the world. But we are not called to drain ourselves. Our ministry, our healing and teaching, come from our solitude. First we receive God’s blessings and grace, then we pass them on.

         God, help me seek your presence
         in solitude and quiet
         so that I may serve you in the hustle and bustle.
         By your Spirit I breathe in,
         so that I may breathe out.
 

   —July 17, 2018

The Beloved will sit on the throne and they will gather on the right and on the left. And the Beloved will say to those on the right, “Enter into my joy, for I came to you and you received me; I appeared before you and you noticed me; I worked my miracles and you ignored me.”

And they will say, “When did you come to us and we received you, or appear before us and we noticed, or work your miracles and we responded?”

And the Beloved will answer them: “When you were burdened by your worries and instead you opened your heart to the homeless person, you received me. When you were heartbroken at injustice but didn’t know what to do, you noticed me. When you longed for God and despaired of being worthy, and you kept longing. Whatever you do to the least of your awakenings you do to me.”

And the Beloved will say to those on the left, “You have chosen exile and abandonment, for I appeared to you, and you ignored me. I came to you and you separated yourself. I worked my miracles and you turned me away.”

And they will say, “When did you appear to us, or come to us, or work your miracles, and we turned away?”

And the Beloved will say, “When you felt wonder at the stars, or beheld the suffering of the world, you thought it didn’t include you. When you witnessed injustice you thought it was somebody else’s fault. When you had that awful question you didn’t ask it. When you felt the fear of your heart falling open in the darkness, you stitched it tight with pious beliefs. Whatever you did not do in the least of your awakenings you did not do to me.”

And even in their despair, they will choose.

   —July 16, 2018

 

Vacation: to vacate,
to make space,
to fill with nothingness,
to become empty, nothing.
To enter the Great Silence,
to be absorbed
in the Holy Abyss of God.

I’m going on vacation,
just because I can.
I will be good for nothing,
an irreplaceable part of the universe
without doing a thing,
and God will love me
for no good reason at all.

May you also be–
unaccomplished.

See you in a couple weeks.

―July 4, 2018

 

 

God of all Nations, we pray for our nation,
for the gifts of gratitude and humility,
for the courage to be gentle,
the greatness to be generous,
the character to be decent to all people.
Make of us by your grace a nation of kindness.
Grant us the divine gifts
of hospitality, compassion and mercy.
We pray for the transformation of our leaders,
the just sharing of our wealth
and the reconciliation of our people.
Open our eyes to our sin and our hearts to your grace.
We pray that we may repent of our violence and greed,
and be freed of the demons of injustice and oppression.
Relieve us of the terror in our hands
and the cruelty in our hearts.
Bless our diversity, discipline our power,
heal our fear, and soften our hearts.
Give us wisdom to see the consequences of our actions.
Calm the fretful among us, and shield the powerless.
Give us faith to serve one another.
Raise us up as a people of love and courage,
a beacon of hope and and dignity and belonging,
a nation of justice and peace and mercy.
May we shed all vanity and conceit
and live in true harmony and deep joy,
trusting in your mercy, and grateful for your grace,
for the sake of the healing of the world.
Amen.
 

   —July 4, 2018

 

         My grace is sufficient for you,
         for power is made perfect in weakness
                        —2 Corinthians 12.9

God of power, I fail before you gladly.
I cede my fantasy of strength.

My weakness is the vacuum you enter.
Unable, I stand on the earth of you.

In struggle you are my strength.
In defeat, you are my victory.

You hallow my falterings and fallings;
in my failures you stand like a tower.

Only in the sabbath of not doing
do I behold your being.

In the unformed abyss of my helplessness
you are the brooding Spirit, the creating voice.

Unable, I cease what can be attempted,
and risk becoming what can only be received.

Give me the courage of weakness,
to open myself to your power.

I am the negative space in which you become,
the nothing in which all things sing.

You are the bell; I am the hollow space.
I am the silence; you are the music.

   —July 2, 2018

 

         Aware that power had gone forth from him,
         Jesus turned about in the crowd and said,
         “Who touched my clothes?”
               —Mark 5.30

His power was available for anyone,
rich or poor, privileged or despised,
the power of healing, the power of life,
to be requested or stolen,
without his even knowing.
A river of grace flowing through him,
it was free,
and he was free in the giving of it.

I would be like this, Giving One,
to walk with the power of your grace
waiting in me, at the ready for anyone,
flowing through me,
free,
that I myself could be truly, powerfully
free.

   —June 29, 2018

 

         “If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.”
               —Mark 5.28

Holy One, O Sea, I sit before you,
and your vastness opens within me.
I open myself to you and become part of you.
Your waves fall and rise in me, fall and rise.
I sunbathe in you, surrender myself to your wind.

A great strength stirs, a blessing flows, unseen.

Even in the smallest place
I reach out for the hem of your garment.
I reach out. I open myself,
and your vastness opens within me.

O Beloved,
in sick rooms and busy streets, in conflicted places,
I open myself to you, longing.
I place myself in your field of healing,
your love’s willing sunlight.
I reach out,
and I feel you open within me.

   —June 28, 2018

         There was a woman with a flow of blood….
               —Mark 5.25

A ruler, privileged, Jairus by name,
requests of Jesus healing for his daughter
by honor’s protocol and a father’s care.

A woman—a woman—poor, without name,
powerless, isolated by disease
and impoverished by quacks,
does not ask but steals up behind Jesus.

Her improper, unworthy larceny he honors,
as generously as the proper.
He tends, as the privileged waits.
He relates, where disdain has failed her,
and in a gift perhaps greater than cure,
claims her, cares for her as his daughter.

There is no rule he won’t break to heal her,
no ranking, first or last,
he won’t subvert to include her.

Check the lie that you are unworthy.
Your inadequate plea opens his heart.
He claims you. More than flesh is healed.

Who is she, where do you see her,
hidden in the crowd?
Who will plead for her?

   —June 27, 2018

 

A child cries out, severed from love,
afraid of darkness,
in a cage of need,
cut off, alone,
in trembling need of reassurance.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Pray for her in her powerlessness.

The terrified child,
if not healed,
can grow up to terrify,
his cry a regime,
shadowing his trauma into the world.
Pray for him in his power.

Resist the terror,
be tender to the children,
create a lovelier world.

   —June 26, 2018

 

In a dream I’m in a park
with my four year old son.
Behind him a boy, about nine,
kicks a soccer ball which hits my son in the head.
He falls, unconscious.

Angry, I say something like “Nice shot.”
I kick the ball at the boy.
It hits him. I am surprised.
He falls.

I bend over my son.

I wake, worried
for all three of us.
 

   —June 25, 2018