Magi came, asking, “Where is the child?”
                   —Matthew 2.1-2

I will be your wise one,
led by wisdom and discernment,
your star, not mine.

I am a sovereign of my own choices,
among your royal priesthood.
I offer you my power.

You are the star I follow,
with my eye on your light
every day.

I am always seeking,
never too complacent to ask,
to observe, to discern, to wonder,

looking for your light in this world,
in those I meet,
in my own dark sky.

I am not deterred by weariness,
the unknown, the strangeness,
the settledness of others.

I seek the child, the tender,
the hope, the small
amid the strong and violent.

I bear valuable gifts. This is the reason
I am in this world. I kneel
and offer treasure, every day.

I know my quest threatens
the powers of might, and I am not afraid,
and do not collude with them.

I am not afraid to find another road,
always seeking, open to the new.
Lead me.

   —January 3, 2019

         The earth was a formless void
         and darkness covered the face of the deep.
                           —Genesis 1.2

         The Word became flesh and lived among us.
                           — John 1.14

Sky’s been smashed, earth trampled thin.
There’s a hole in the sun, light oozes out,
a split tomato. Weather your enemy now,
you’ve earned it. Alliances have that
white stuff that leaks out of batteries.
Our shadows splattered all over each other.
Politics after the kids put the car back together,
sort of. Think of great grandchildren breathing plastic.

But that’s all the cosmic stuff. No matter.
The real pain is, shepherd on the hillside,
you stink. All your smallnesses add up to
a whimper. Your guilts, who could count,
pile up like compost you haven’t decided
to compost, can’t stand, can’t part with.
Worse, your shames and your fears. Two
intruders come in opposite windows. Crap.
Trying so hard, but your life is still
a dead frog dissected with a rock.
Though it’s not your fault.

In this splintered, wrinkled, twisted mess,
not from above, not shining in like a clever sunbeam
(No. No atmospheric effects. Please.)
but from way down dark inside
a hope infuses the whole thing, an embryo moves,
a presence the presence of things,
a light breathes, doesn’t have to speak,
meaning, I am here. Composes a silence
meaning, There is no translation. You are
me. If God were an artist you would be
the gleam in her eye when the light is just right.
The wreckage is not a ruin, merely the backside
of something beautiful. Behold, God in her pajamas
in you. Blessed is she who believes it is possible
to be redeemed, possible because, in fact, fact.

Numinous delight, inclusive of galaxies, offers you.
Receive yourself, fresh and promising, and—listen:
beloved.

   —January 2, 2019

         “See, I am making all things new.”
                  —Revelation 21.5

This is the first day of the new year,
the eighth day of Christmas
the eighth day of Creation,
which is every day, made new.
This is the day that the Lord is making.
Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

On this eighth day of Creation
I pray, O Holy One:
create me new.
Breathe into the dust of my life
your love, your beauty and joy.
I let go of what is gone;
set me free from the chains of the past.
In this new year may I be made new
every day, rising from the death of sleep
to be created as the image of your love,
new and free, open and present.

In this new year may your will be done,
your realm of grace come.
In your tender mercy, God,
make all things new.
Amen.

   —January 1, 2019

         Teach us to count our days
         that we may gain a wise heart.
                           — Palm 90.12
                  
Eternal God,
in the evening of this year
I release the year to you.
Not a day, not a breath, have I been without you,
and I thank you.
All that I have done is done;
what I have not done I have not done.
All of my sins and errors you have forgiven,
and I release them.
All of my triumphs are your doing,
and I release them.
The year is gathered into your harvest,
to winnow and to save.
My life is gathered into your grace.
By your spirit in me may I learn from my mistakes,
grow from my wounds,
and deepen in gratitude for my gifts.
And now I turn to a new year,
grateful for your presence and your grace,
seeking only to live in harmony with your delight,
and open to your blessing and your leading.
Whether my journey onward be long or short,
it shall be in you, and I rejoice.
Amen.

   —December 31, 2018

         “Why were you searching for me?
         Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”
                  —Luke 2.49

On this windblown street
here I,
finding my way,
stand, thinking of being lost
while in truth I am home,
in your house,
far from where I came from
and still
because all flesh is Word made flesh
at home in you.
And here in this temple you
not with answers but with questions
call me home
to not a place
but a presence,
heartwise,
close to you in this
beatific, banal or horrific
place I am,
the distance between us
vanished.

   —December 28, 2018

No manger is too rough
for the tenderness of God.

No threat of Herod too awful,
no poverty too dire

for God to come and be at risk
for sheer love of being with us.

God does not sigh, rolling the eyes,
“I suppose I have to come down there and save them.”

No, God says, “I am with you. Because
you are where my heart is.”

No darkness is too deep,
no banality unworthy,

no failure too utter for God;
God’s love is more utter.

We, the flesh of God’s Word,
can’t be without. Even our doubt

shines from within.

   —December 27, 2018

Alleluia!
No mere apparition in the sky,
a religious festival of note,
but a birth in the family!
God, you give us joy.

Not mere words, even of angels,
but deepest love made flesh.
God, you bring your heart close.
Alleluia!

Not a divine command,
even for mercy,
but your Loving Presence itself,
God with us,
because this is where you love to be.
God, you give us yourself.
Alleluia!

May God come and settle close to you
these twelve days, and onward.

   —December 26, 2018

Christ is born!

Like a tender child in your arms,
         may the nearness of God warm you.
Like the awe of the shepherds,
         may the love that unites us all enfold you.
Like the song of the angels,
         may the promise of our belovedness give you hope.
Like the wonder of Mary and Joseph,
         may God’s presence awaken us to our siblings in the poor.
Like the radiance of the star over Bethlehem,
         may the light of God’s love shine in you,
         give light to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death,
         and guide your feet into the way of peace.

Christ is born. God is with us. Alleluia.

   —December 25, 2018

             The people who walked in darkness
                          have seen a great light;
             those who lived in a land of deep darkness—
                          on them light has shined.
             For a child has been born for us,
                           a son given to us.
                                                    —Isaiah 9.2, 8

God of love,
come be with us in our long night,
shining with your grace.
Let the light of your presence
shine in this world’s darkest darkness.
May the birth of Christ transform our night,
redeem the darkest prison,
brighten the inkiest shadows,
and illumine our way.

Christ, morning radiance of our hearts
dawn within us.

Come, light of love,
be born in us.

Alleluia!

   —December 24, 2018

Sometimes the old myth is right,
the light has gone out of the world,
you can see plainly in your heart
and its hungry darkness, the aimless grief,
a heavy echo of something missing, or someone,
not lighting, like a mood or a utility,
but a source, life itself, and its warmth.
Something like the friendship of the earth.
Not exactly breath, but essential.
Emperors are lost. Roads vanish.

You need to plead. Someone needs to fetch it.
Someone needs to assail the fearful thief
who has stolen the light and hidden it,
buried it in the darkest place where no one
can go, no one can find it, no one can return.
Someone innocent and honest, brave enough
to be true and risk everything to set off
with nothing but a fish hook and a loaf of bread
to find the light for us who hunger for it,
and for the trees who wait in silence.

On the longest night when even the angels
can stand it no longer, God sends a child,
tender and willing, (and a mother who offers him
to this dark world), a child with nothing but love
saying, “I will go into your darkest places for you
and there, there, I will draw out the light.”
The harsh wind clamping down,
the threat already issued, soldiers on the move,
the child comes into the night, facing the darkness.
His mother sings, and he begins his journey,
and already he has a bit of light in his hands,
and already the night begins to turn
and the stars dance and the angels sing
and your heart begins to rise
like the long-lost morning sun.

__________
For my friends in the Southern Latitudes,
thank you for holding the light for us.
Your turn will come.

   —December 21, 2018