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

You’ve heard the voices
speak your lack.
The life you’ve mangled,
missed, betrayed.

Now something’s touched you,
knelt before you, closed a wound,
and deep, a door unknown has opened.
And for this man, the source of your dawn,
those same voices come.
You know being thrown away—
as he will be soon, too.
You know as only those who live in that shadow know.

How can you give thanks,
what do you have to offer, nothing,
how to accompany him, so alone, stay with him?
Only everything, worthless and infinite, will do,
your life savings, your life, his saving.

You ride the donkey of your shame
through the heckling eyes.
You pour yourself out for him,
your precious everything.

Then come the stones of words.
This is how you know you share his path.

He speaks. He casts a magic circle around you,
thanks and honors you.

In this moment you both know
what the others can’t see:
this love amid meanness,
this last kind thing ever done him
joins you.
For the others he will die.
For you he has already, with you,
and you with him,
and he, with you, is already rising.

   —March 23, 2018

         The stone that the builders rejected
         has become the chief cornerstone.
               —Psalm 118.22

The king enters the city
on his war horse
while across town
love rides a donkey.

Guns and towers, vast machines,
engines. Generals boast
of victory over the child,
the hard edge over soft flesh.

The powerful strut and shamble,
loudspeakers announce their lies.
If there were money in darkness
they’d dismiss the sun.

God slips in through
the locked gate, the high wall.
In their high offices the light
is invisible to them.

The judge, the warden, the guards
believe you’re nothing.
You’ll never convince them otherwise.
But the stars know. The air knows.

Your peasant heart
rides a donkey, small and tender.
Honor the Royal Majesty
of the heart that belongs to love.

   —March 22, 2018

         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