You will find tied there a colt
         that has never been ridden.
                  — Mark 11.2

Jesus entered as a king,
but on a colt, not a war horse,
king of vulnerability,
prince of lowliness.

Am I on a horse?
the horse of being right,
the horse of insisting,
the horse of privilege?

Soul, untie the colt,
the colt of gentleness,
of listening, of humility.
Untie the colt that is not afraid
to not have all the answers,
to still be learning.
Untie the power of your vulnerability.
Ride the colt that knows
the power of powerlessness,
the power of love.

Am I on a horse?
Untie the colt
and get on.
 

   —March 21, 2018

Earth tilts and spins,
turns another face to the sun,
and today, mid-tilt,
we all get the same
light and darkness.

For we all are the same,
light and darkness
mixed.
“Hosanna!” and “Crucify!”
mingle on our lips.

South and North
face into autumn and spring.
My repentance looks one way,
yours another,
to face our darkness,
or to live in our light.

We do not lament our differences
or force our repentance upon those
from another hemisphere.
We turn as we must.

   —March 21, 2018

         Jesus emptied himself.
                  —Philippians 2.7

Give yourself away
       and be empty of all
              but God.

Lose your grip on your life
       and it becomes
              infinite.

Let go of it all,
       and you have at your disposal
              all of heaven.

Pour yourself out
       and God never stops
              pouring through you.

   —March 19, 2018

         Create in me a clean heart, O God,
         and put a new and right spirit within me.
                  —Psalm 51.10

In the beginning
your spirit broods over the waters of my soul.
You say, “Let there be light”
and you create in me a new heart.
You put a good new spirit within me.
With each breath I take you begin.

Your power to make me new,
your grace to make me faithful
is never diminished.

You mend me,
like light forgives darkness.

I behold the world you create in me,
the spirit you breathe into me,
and I am filled with wonder, awe and gratitude.

Beloved,
create in me.

   —March 16, 2018

Deep, heavy snow erased the land and rendered it in black and white. It clings to every branch and twig in marshmallowy fatness. There are no things now, no color, only white blobs. Every branch is burdened, bowed or broken. Some limbs, overloaded, crack and fall and sigh and settle back into snow’s old silence. The path is blocked by fallen trees and snow-bent boughs, stooped the way sorrows weigh you down. Every tree and hillock is disguised. Nothing looks the same. The way has vanished. I have to pick my way around these heaped up baskets of bent and fallen branches covering the trail. I lose my way. I could turn back—my fingers are cold, my feet are wet, I’m hungry for breakfast, and I’m not sure of the way. But I am as changed as the woods. I might stand here till I become a snowy mound, one with this sparking silence. Why wouldn’t I find a way for amazement? Why not endure hurt or hunger for gratitude? Isn’t beauty the way? Even in struggle, isn’t wonder the path?
 

   —March 15, 2018

         I will put my law within them,
         and I will write it on their hearts.
                       —Jeremiah 31.33
 

Write your love on my heart,
God of love,
write it in your own hand.
Make your love my heartbeat,
my instinct, my brainwave, my breath.
Soften the stone of my heart;
and sculpt it with love.
Inscribe your ways
on my bones,
your love in my heart of hearts.
Write your love on my heart, Love,
and seal it with a kiss.

   —March 14, 2018

        Unless a grain of wheat
         falls into the earth and dies,
         it remains just a single grain;
         but if it dies, it bears much fruit.
                  —John 12.24
               

I let my
self
go

in the soil
of you

I entrust myself
to the spring
of you

I let the
you
of me
break the husk
of the me of me

and life comes forth

I let my
self
spill out

This dying
is birthing

seed of me
buried
bearing fruit
of you

   —March 13, 2018

Fasting for a day or so:
at first the bite of hunger,
the urge,
the lack.

Then something more.
The beast curls up and sleeps
the less I feed it.

Beneath the ache,
the thrum of need,
a new vibration rises,
a freedom
from wanting and acquiring,
a peace,
a oneness
with your drawing-in,
a way that is a stillness,
closer to the darkness
at the core,
a way not of consuming
but of being.

Not hunger now,
but empty openness
to you.
Not my body now,
but yours,
our enormous joyful hunger
for each other.
 

   —March 12, 2018

          For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son,
                    so that everyone who believes in him
                    may not perish but may have eternal life.
          Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world
                    to condemn the world,
                    but in order that the world might be saved through him.
          Those who believe in him are not condemned;
                    but those who do not believe are condemned already,
                    because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God.
                         —John 3.16-18

Infinite Love, heart of all life,
you loved this word into being
with such love
as to birth yourself among us,
Love begotten as the Beloved.

Opening ourselves to your love
we live beyond our mortal selves
and join your eternal Oneness.

Your presence does not separate but unites;
love does not push away, but embraces;
you do not condemn, but save.

Trusting this we know
we are loved, never rejected.
When our trust fails we are doomed:
withdrawing into ourselves
we aren’t open to love,
the only source of life.

   —March 9, 2018

         Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,
         so must the New Human be lifted up,
         that whoever trusts may have eternal life.
               —John 3.14-15

You have to look your evil in the face to be healed.
The snakes that plagued the Hebrews in the desert
were their betrayal come back to bite them,
their being Eden’s serpent.
The cure was to gaze at their sin.

So we gaze upon the Crucified One, our victim,
and look our awfulness in the eye
and only there grasp forgiveness,
and only then become truly alive.

On the cross is lifted up
our racism, our violence, our materialism,
our deep seated me-first-ism.
Posted there is our last text to God,
“I’ll let you know when I need you.”
We look at it, look at it hard,
to get free of the lie that we’re just fine,
the lie that keeps us from knowing
how deeply we are forgiven,
how vastly we are blessed,
how infinitely we are loved.

   March 8, 2018