“There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish.
         But what are they among so many people?”
                                 —John 6.9

There is someone here
who has only a shred of faith and mostly just questions,
but what is that beside a God so vast?

There is a woman here
with a broken but yearning heart,
but what is that in a life of such sorrow?

There is someone here
with a tiny bit of love and hope,
but what is that for someone spending years in prison?

There is a very ordinary person here
with a little prayer and some compassion,
but what is that among such great evil?

         And he took them and gave thanks
         and distributed them, as much as they wanted.
         And after everyone was satisfied
         they gathered up the fragments,
         and they filled twelve baskets.

   —July 24, 2018

 

Dear God,
I’m getting tired of your mystery.
I feel distant. I can’t get to you.
Like digging in sand that keeps caving in.
Like running and getting nowhere. Reaching but not touching.
There is a thin crust of ice on the surface of my soul.
I want to break through and come to you, to dive into you deeper.
I want to be more here. More present. Deeper in.
What is holding me back? Is it my discipline?
My need to surrender more? May scatteredness?
My over-anxious ego?
Break my ice, God. Break through. Melt me. I want more.
Come to me.

Beloved,
I am here. You are here. You are in me already.
Where do you think you want to go?
Where do you think I am?
I am the sand. I am the ice. I am the space.
I am the longing.
Just stop. Here we are.
Here we are.

I love you.

   —July 23, 2018

 

To hell with modesty.
Moderation be damned.
I want you wholly, monstrously,
every last scoop with sprinkles on top.
I desire you flagrantly,
I will hog more than my share,
and completely overdo it.
I fling away any flimsy veil of propriety,
I drop any claim to permission.
I just want you.
I have no shame.
Fill me.

Save me,
before my fear of my desire
swallows me up in a dull, protective,
deadly piety.

   —July 20, 2018

         You are built together spiritually
         into a dwelling place for God.
                           —Ephesians 2.22

Tourists come to admire the temple,
to take pictures and buy mementos,
but it’s not on their maps.

Pilgrims come seeking
their separate peace in it,
but they they can’t find it.

Eventually the army arrives,
ordered to destroy the temple,
but it has vanished.

It isn’t here, or there,
it isn’t in a place,
it isn’t a thing.
It is empty space.

It is the love between us.
It is not something that “is,”
but something that happens.
Like gravity that exists
only between objects in space,
the dwelling place of God
exists only in the love
we hold between us.
It is eternal.
When we enter that holy space
among us
which God creates
we enter God,
and nothing can remove us.

In the cool of the sanctuary
we listen to the music
and we breathe.

―July 19, 2018

         Within Christ’s own body
         God has created one new humanity
         in place of the two, thus making peace.
                        —Ephesians 2.15

Unless you can feel it,
the one sinew running through our breath,
the one nerve in which we all throb,
unless you know in the worst terrorists
yourself,
and see in the most foreign face
your own heart looking out at the world,
unless you know in your gut
the demagogue, the refugee, the infidel
as part of yourself,
unless you feel in the loveless the Beloved
surely as in you,
you do not yet inhabit your body
and can’t yet be
the one
we already are.

   —July 18, 2018

 

         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