Thomas (who was called the Twin) said,
         “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 20.24-25

Seeker, twin of Tomas, keep searching.
Keep looking to see; keep stretching out your hand.

Your questioning is not refusal; it is loyalty,
faithfulness to the Presence, not the rumor.

Don’t let some preacher tell you what to think.
Seek the living Christ who moves your hand, who trembles it.

Don’t fall for the happily ever after Jesus,
the It was nothing, I’m fine Jesus:

seek the true suffering Christ, whose wounds you can feel,
whose marks sting you, whose forgiveness saves.

The Beloved isn’t testing you, but will reach out a hand
and give you what you need for your next step.

Don’t require yourself to believe any but your heart.
The next step isn’t likely a leap of faith

but to stumble upon love and fall to your knees
crying ,”My Beloved, my Sovereign, my Life-Giver, my God!”
 

   —April 4, 2018

         Tomorrow, April 4, is the 50th anniversary
         of the death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

We lift our song of praise and victory
for beloved brother Martin.
He bore God’s yoke,
God’s passion to set us free.
With the courage of the prophets he named
the evils of our racism, materialism and war.
He stood fast against our hate and greed
and was not silenced.
He stood fast against the tide of fear
and was not swept away.
He stood fast against the threat of death
and was not stopped.
He bore in his bones the sorrow of his people
and their mighty hope.
He did not point the way for others,
but walked the journey of self-purifying love,
with gentleness to speak to our violence,
with humility to demand justice,
with honesty to name our sin,
with love to confront hate.
He became a furnace of God,
where love burned away fear
and light burned away darkness
and life burned away death.
He was murdered for his love,
but his love remained.
This is his victory: not that all ended well,
but he spoke the word of love and justice and freedom
and even in death his word struck the bell in our hearts
that rings and rings and rings.
Death has not stopped the song of freedom;
death has not silenced the voice of truth;
death has not closed the path of justice:
we march on with brother Martin.

April 3, 2018

Oh! The rejoice of it! Oh, the amaze!
The Gift, the uplift! Alleluia-ful Day!
We thank you for Wonderful, Easter-ful Love
that we are the risen-up subjects of.

You’ve emptied the grave of us. Oh, what you’ve done!
The cross you’ve uncrossed. The big bang re-begun!
Now earth is made heaven, the prison the garden.
The sepulcher dances, set free of its burden.

Our graveful of misses and messes are blessed,
our Didn’t undid, and our No you have yessed.
The Can’t and the Shouldn’t made vanishing small
and death and its scariness not there at all.

Poor death has its rules, but Easter’s response
is that God can and will do whatever God wants.
There’s no How to explain or Therefore to defend;
there’s only your mercy and grace in the end.

The blessingful cross and the emptyful tomb
spread their arms and say Yes and say Hope and make room.
Your love sets us free and undoes what was done,
brings each me back to thee, and makes ones into one.

This Day! of impossible made into Yes,
made into Receive, into Trust, into Bless.
The angels are partying on our behalf.
Then what can we do but, oh, weep and, yes, laugh?

Ah! The leap and the bow and the fling of this day,
we dance and we sing what we can’t really say.
How to thank you with thanks for the gift that you give
we can’t say or believe: we’ll just have to live.

   —April 2, 2018

         They went out and fled from the tomb,
         for terror and amazement had seized them;
         and they said nothing to anyone,
         for they were afraid.
               —Mark 16.8

Our Sunday morning Alleluias won’t be enough.
We will fail to tell this mystery.
Only language honest enough to fail can speak
God’s grace.

Christ is risen, and escapes us—
escapes our words, our deeds, our lives—
and yet comes to us: our failure the sign
of God’s victory.

Before our failure Christ is risen,
beyond our failure Christ reigns supreme,
in our very failure we are saved
from capacity.

Fearless of our weakness now
we are bold to lay down our life, and falter,
hoping only for God to love magnificently
in us.

Christ is risen. Let terror and amazement
carry you. Let your words fall like petals.
Let nothing suffice to tell the unspeakable
but the light in your eyes.

   —April 1, 2018

         They returned, and prepared spices and ointments.
         On the sabbath they rested
         according to the commandment.
                  — Luke 23.56
               

In the beginning

you opened up

an emptiness

in yourself

for creation:

space

for darkness to sit in,

then time,

for light to travel.
 

This day of emptiness,

formless and void,

a pregnant pause

of sabbath rest,

space in you,

and time between,

divine abyss

for Creation

to happen.

   —March 31, 2018

         Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?
                  [My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?]
                                    — Mark 15.34 / Psalm 22.1

In the beginning you created pain.
You split yourself. Light from darkness.
         This from not this. Separation.
         But you are the light and the darkness.

You made space in yourself for another,
and you are the other, and the space.
         You are the unity and you are the abyss,
         width and depth, post and arms of the cross.

Yours is belonging, and being alien is yours,
loneliness and its aching distances,
         a world of gap and absence.
         In our pain you cry out to yourself,

Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?
When we can’t imagine closeness
         it is you who cry in us for that return,
         even as we push you away into yourself.

My God, my God, that you know my pain,
that you live in terror of losing God,
         is my salvation. There is no exile
         in which I am not in you.

When I am derelict, abandoned, deserted,
you cry out to me, in me, for me.
         Your agony is mine.
         Alone, I am in your arms.

   —Good Friday, March 30, 2018

         “Sit here while I pray.”
               — Mark 14.32

My beloved,
You don’t need to pray great prayers.
I don’t ask for powerful intercessions
or profound meditations.
You don’t have to pray for me.
You don’t have to do anything at all.
I just want you to sit here while I pray.
I’ll pray. You just sit with me.

Do you know how much I want you?
Bearing the sorrows and the healing of the world,
I need you to care enough to stay near.
I’ll save the world. You just sit with me.

All I ever wanted is your companionship,
to follow me— to keep me company.
I never demanded belief or insight,
never required miracles or worthiness.
All I ever wanted on this long road
was for you to stay near.
Not your sainthood,
just your friendship,
just you, my friend.

Please, will you?
Stay near.
Sit here while I pray.

   —March 29, 2018

         While they were eating, he took a loaf of bread,
         and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to them,
         and said, “Take; this is my body.”
                           —Mark 14.22
               

The breath slides in and out,
a line of ancestors walking and walking.
Blood flows just beneath paper skin,
the scroll of the law and prophets.
So easily pierced. The way it hungers.
The way it delights. The way it trembles.
Flesh is doorway to the soul, or its garden wall.
Your monk’s cell, where you spend your days.
The little donkey bearing you into the light.
Does it carry us like a taxi we can exit,
or is it too much of who we are to leave?

The Beloved pours himself into his own body,
pours it into us,
making the body the holy temple.

This is where he is now, where his spirit breathes:
in bodies, bodies burdened, bodies beaten, bodies black,
bodies broken at the sacred table.

This is where we fight our battles, where we live and die,
where we claim our victories, where we feel our loss.
Where we separate ourselves. Yet where we are one.
This is where the Holy One takes shelter.
So easily pierced.
This is where we crucify.
This is where we are raised.

Eat the bread. It is flesh.
The work of the Creator’s hand,
the potter’s clay.

The Body of God.
“Take. It is yours now.
You are mine.”

   —March 28, 2018

         “Truly I tell you,
         one of you will betray me,
         one who is eating with me.”
          … “Surely, not I?”
                           —Mark 14.18-19
           

    
Surely.
I would never betray you, never deny you.
         Surely?

Beloved,
give me the faith to doubt
        my righteousness.

Give me the assurance to question,
to examine myself honestly,
         to ask.

Give me the confidence to wonder
how I might betray your perfect love,
         to see.

Give me grace to confess
how my promises are broken, my heart
         broken.

Give me the peace to be troubled
by my smugness,
         and repent.

Open my eyes to see that you see,
you know, and knowing, you keep right on
         eating with me.
 

   —March 27, 2018

         As he sat at the table,
         a woman came with an alabaster jar
                  of very costly ointment of nard,
         and she broke open the jar
                  and poured the ointment on his head
                        —Mark 14.3

Beloved,
may everything I do today
be my anointing of you;
every thought, word and deed
a pouring out of myself for you,
a gift of service, adoration and thanks.
May every act comfort you,
receive your sacred story,
join me to you in your suffering,
embrace your dying
and prepare for what will follow.
In your death may you be wrapped

in the balm of my own heart.
Give me courage to give my gifts
no matter how others may judge them.
May my life give off the aroma
of gratitude and love.
Accept the anointing of my tears,
my prayers, my being.
In your love
I carry the alabaster jar of my life
into this new day.

—March 26, 2018