The Israelites walked on dry ground through the sea,
         the waters forming a wall for them
         on their right and on their left.
                  —Exodus 14.29

No one on the Underground Railroad ever said,
“Go back, I forgot something.”
When we are free
we sit on the far shore, bewildered,
with only what we carried,
and our loves.
And we learn to do that.

The mother makes it through the desert
with nothing but her children,
and is happy.

You stand beside the burned-down house,
the washed-away neighborhood,
and mourn the cost of actually being free.
The grief is real, though the possessions are not.

Sitting there on the shore you give thanks
that though you didn’t think to bring your soul,
it came along, in love for you.

Next time the fire comes, or the argument,
you’ll know what to grab.
                        

   —September 11, 2017

         “I will pass over you,
         and no plague shall destroy you.”
                  —Exodus 12.13

When fierce winds scream
you want to know
what’s your own breath and what isn’t.
When water rises over you
you want to know where your blood ends
and the sea’s begins.
When fear swirls
look to see how much of it is within.
When hate burns vast forests
don’t be on fire.
You are a child of God,
not the headlines,
in the world but not of it.
Know what is you and what is not.
Mindful, you can bear peace into chaos,
light out into the darkness.

   —September 8, 2017

         Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven,
         and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.
                  —Matthew 18.18

Maybe not “whatever you do, God will agree with.”

Maybe: “whatever” means whatever sins.
The hurts you hang onto you’re stuck with.
The hurts you forgive open you to divine healing.

Maybe: “whatever” means whatever relationship.
The relationship in which you stay connected,
despite conflict, is rooted in God.
The relationship you break loses its divine energy.

Maybe: “whatever” means whoever.
Whoever you oppress truly experiences oppression;
whoever you set free is truly free.

Maybe “whatever” means yourself.
You can set yourself free, or bind yourself up.
God doesn’t do it; you do it to yourself.

Maybe:
live in harmony with the divine energy of liberation
and the divine energy of faithful connection.

Maybe:
let go of what God doesn’t care about
and hang onto what leads you to God.
      

   —September 7, 2017

         If a brother or sister sins against you,
         go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone.
                  —Matthew 18.15

         
Well, don’t go for “sin” or “fault:”
it’s too easy, and useless, to judge.
But pay attention to “hurt.”
Defy that voice of false politeness
and the repression of the truth.
If someone hurts you,
go toward them, not away,
and name the hurt.
Neither hide nor retaliate, even politely:
simply, gently tell the truth.
Claim your part of it,
even if just to receive it,
and to give them access to their part of it.
Not to nail them, not to relieve yourself,
but because you love them.

Be prepared to listen—
to their journey, and to your own.
Think of it as opening a door
to a place neither of you have gone before,
and can’t without the other.
Think of it as opening the door
to that Jesus place.

Imagine how refreshing the air would be
in a community of open, caring honesty,
without that hidden bucket of hurts
fermenting under the kitchen sink.

In the dark places where our hurts lie
is the tomb from which Christ rises, alive,
the very Christ who,
wherever two or three are gathered in his love,
is among us.

   —September 6, 2017

         “Where two or three are gathered in my name,
         I am there among them.”
                  —Matthew 18.20

Where there is relationship,
where there is love, there is Christ.
Where there’s conductor and ground—
electrical flow.
Loving community is Christ,
each of us the fourth member
of the Holy Trinity.

Not “beside,” Jesus says, but among:
in the in-between-ness,
in the exchange of energy
between us,
the power of forgiveness,
the light of gratitude, honor, affection,
the death and resurrection
of giving and receiving.

Gather in that name, that mercy,
and feel the Beloved
humming between you.
 

   —September 5, 2017
 

Dearly Beloved,

Grace and Peace to you.
         
         Observe the sabbath day, and keep it holy
                  —Deuteronomy 5.12

Whether in Egypt or not you remember slavery,
to be a thing, replaceable,
valued according to your output,
by how you make someone else happy.
That isn’t you.
You are the blossoming of God’s delight,
even in your sleep.
Once in a while, stop.
Stop doing, stop proving yourself.
Lay down your bricks.
Lay down your bales of cotton.
Stop for a moment, an hour, a day,
and the slave-master’s voice rises up,
doesn’t it?
Defy it.
Be satisfied for someone else
to be dissatisfied with you.
Just be, without use.
Let God do the same.
Or is God just a tool, a thing?
Learn to carry this mystery with you
in every breath:
you are who you are, not what you do.
It is good now and then to stop and be,
uselessly beloved.

   —September 4, 2017

         The bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed.
         Moses said, “I must turn aside and look at this great sight,
         and see why the bush is not burned up.”
                  —Exodus 3.2

It is possible to see the wonder and not turn aside,
both the bush and the flame enduring,
beauty and pain together,
divine glory and suffering,
the young man shot, the girl deported,
the flooded victims, the poor beset again,
a cross, burning but not consumed.
It is possible to see yet go on as you were.

What awakens you—
the bush, the flame, or its persistence,
the splendor, the grief or their marriage—
is enough.
It is not for your faith or inspiration.
No, not for you at all.
There is work to do and your help is needed:
to set people free,
to abandon your placid security,
let the bush burn in your eyes and heart
until you stand before Pharaoh with the hard news.
Wonder and anguish will haunt you,
justice and hope enflame you.
You yourself will blaze, and yet not be consumed.

Still, it is possible
to see the wonder and not turn aside.
 

    —September 1, 2017
 

         “Take up your cross and follow me.”
                  —Matthew 16.24

The cross is not an annoyance,
not a burden thrust on me,
but willingly entering
the suffering of the world.
Jesus, help me.

I behold your love,
overflowing from your cross,
love piercing my suffering,
your love buried in my death.

Your love overflows in me for others,
to suffer in care, in forgiveness, in blessing,
to be for them even when they are against me.

Give me courage, strength and endurance
to listen, receive, accept and bless
despite all whips and nails.

To associate with the lowly,
to weep or rejoice with them,
to overcome evil with good.

To cry to Pharaoh,
bold, firm and vulnerable,
to let my people go.

Letting go of fears and desires,
I take up my cross
and follow you, close.

It is your cross.
You are here with me.
This is where I want to be, close to you.

And ah! amazing grace:
you carry all the weight.
It is your hands they pierce,
your death I bear,
and your rising.

—August 31, 2017
 

         When you pass through the waters,
                  I will be with you;
         and through the rivers,
                  they shall not overwhelm you
         For I am the Holy One your God,
                  and I love you.
                           —Isaiah 43.2,4

In the flood that is this life
some waters will sweep your home away
and others stop at your doorstep.
There is no choosing, no deserving
in their rising or receding.
On any given day one of us is picnicking,
another swimming for our lives.
For all of us some day waters will rise,
and with them,
beside us in the water a reaching out,
above the swirling flood a reaching out.
So many reaching out.
This is what we have to stand on.

                           —August 30, 2017
 

While you were sleeping
the ocean was moving inside you.
Rivers were making their long journeys.
Couriers walked through the darkness
knowing the way, finding places.

In the morning when you sit to pray
your prayers return to you
from their unseen journeys.
By the time you say them
they are tired.
They have done good work.
Let them rest
on a soft bed of silence.

                           —August 29, 2017