Jesus was in the wilderness forty days,
        tempted by Satan;
         and he was with the wild beasts;
         and the angels waited on him.
                           — Mark 1.13
               
What are your temptations?
Not sex and chocolate, OK?
Not beauty, not pleasure.

I mean the things that ruin you,
things that get in your way,
that lead you away from deep life.

What gets in the way of your perfect love?
What distorts your wisdom and vision?
What inhibits your kindness and courage?

Now. Remember when you fell in love?
You didn’t work at it, did you? It was a gift.
You bring the gift with you to the desert.

You’ll never vanquish your temptations.
You just have to remember the gift:
you already love God more than those things.
 

   —February 16, 2018

         Jesus was in the wilderness forty days,
         tempted by Satan;
         and he was with the wild beasts;
         and the angels waited on him.
                  — Mark 1.13
               
They are in me—
wolves of appetite,
snakes of deceit,
scorpions of anger and will,
vultures of regret,
the lion of my unworthiness
that stalks me unseen.
In this wilderness
I will be with them.
We will see each other.
We will talk.
We will learn to live with each other,
each with our foods and habits,
and none about to go extinct.
They will remain wild,
but I will learn their ways
and become more humbly savvy,
no longer afraid,
never their victim,
free to walk about.
For God, too, is a wild beast.

   —February 15, 2018

A smear of ashes, not pink paper hearts,
is my valentine for you:

my death I give you,
and everything in between,

my fragile, feeble flesh,
soon to decay again to dust,

made alive not by my will
but by your breath.

May I be good dust for you,
clay made holy as the jar of your light,

this paper heart, torn and beautiful,
my mortal whole, given wholly,

these ashes saved from my urn
I give to you: my valentine,

my life, returning, always returning
to you.

—February 14, 2018

         Then the priest shall turn these into smoke
         on the altar as a food offering by fire
         for a pleasing odor.
         All fat is the Lord’s.
               —Leviticus 3.16

God, is the fat and my love of the fat.
Here is my chocolate.
Here is my too much party (here, look!),
my I want to have fun,
my this one’s for me.
Here is my hunger and my greed.
And here is a little toast to you,
in passing recollection that all this is yours.
(And by the way thank you for all of this.)
Here is my self as the center of the world,
my entitlement as assumed normal,
my appetite as Universal Constant.
Here is my want, my therefore I must need,
and, yes, here is my not what you want.
Here it is. See it? Watch it in action
as I feast, as I have at it.
Take it, all of it. I’m piling it up here for you.
Have it, hold it, and climb into it
the way you do.

In forty days you can give it back to me,
changed, fixed on a different abundance,
and finally really alive.

   —February 13, 2018

Over the great plain of the snowy yard
the sun rises warm and orange
like salmon on a porcelain plate
as if to say “Feast upon this day.”

Mid day, each tree prayerfully stilled,
the sun leans over the frozen marsh,
touches every crystal
with tiny, sparkling fingers
as if to say, “You make beauty
with your eyes.”

Evening, at the far end of the field
the sun rolls over on one side
on its white pillow of snow,
pulls the great orange cloud over its head
and is silent, as if to say,
“You will be given rest.”

Midnight, only the moon is awake,
watching over you,
smiling its famous half smile
is if to say, “Splendor unfolds
without your knowing.”

   —February 12, 2018

         God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,”
         has shone in our hearts.
               —2 Corinthians 4.6

I am a rusty lantern,
with its little corroded cap,
its bad latch,
its smudged, cracked glass,
its mottled handle bent to one side—
a plain old busted lantern.

None of this matters,
but the light that burns in it,
the candle of God.
I don’t put the light there,
it’s already there,
shining since the beginning of time.
I only marvel,
and walk around with that light in me,
silent, calm, reaching farther than I can know.
It shines,
and I wonder.
 

   —February 8, 2018

A couple days ago I was splashing
in the Pacific ocean.
Now I’m shoveling snow.

I talked with a woman who had lost a husband,
another who had lost a son.
And a couple renewing their 40 year old vows.

My friends in Australia have the opposite time of day,
the opposite season from me.
We are all on the same little island.

Every life has its seasons. Live the one you’re in.
You can’t live another person’s story,
but you can listen, and find them in it.

And in every story, every season, every life,
like water in the sea and in the snow,
there’s God in it. Listen.
 

   —February 8, 2018

         He was transfigured before them, and…
         they were terrified.
               —Mark 9.3, 6

Don’t be fooled by the neon friendliness,
like a “burgers and shakes” sign.
Don’t fall for the allure of great figures,
Moses and Elijah and Elvis assuring you
you’re on the road to the stars.
Don’t be waylaid by your cleverness
to have brought a box,
a very theological box, to put this all in.
Let’s be honest: it’s terrifying
to stand too close to a speeding train,
to get near to the power of God,
the light that can change you
into your own unknown,
the mystery that will surely consume you,
the love that will crack your life open
till the light all spills out
and you’re drawn to the cross,
kicking and screaming and grateful.
Maybe Jesus himself was a little freaked
at first to be turned into pure light.
As with any great force, if you’re not scared
you’re not paying attention.
Pay attention. Bow down, and listen.

   —February 7, 2018

Sometimes you feel like you’ve overslept,
waking up to life late,
that you’ve missed out on something all these years.

But God has no “late.” Only “now.”

This is the day God chooses
to give you a sense of urgency about today.

Regret is the sleep, the not being here.
Come back. Wake up again.

Do it again, every day.

________________________

Weather Report

Immediacy
today, like no other.
A large mass of dense, rotating regret
has formed off the coast,
driven by a front of fear,
but it will never make landfall.
No forecast will hold, only
eyes, wide open and ready.
 

   —February 6, 2018

Morning walk by the ocean.
These waves have been singing their praise
all night long without me.
They have been praising thus
for millions of years.
All earth has been praising you.
I join them with my song of silence.
What else am I called to do,
a spindly two-legged on this wide beach,
but join the chorus,
wave after wave of my life
throwing up hands in joy,
falling down in praise?

   —February 5, 2018