We marched.

For women, for peace and freedom and justice,
a hundred seventy five thousand strong in Boston,
joined in umbilical hope with millions more, we marched.
We marched to say we won’t look away from injustice,
to say we will not exclude or demean anyone, that justice is for all.
We marched to pledge ourselves to live gently but out loud,
to live with love and reverence, to heal and bless,
to include the outcast and lift up the downtrodden,
to speak truth, to work for justice and to be people of peace.
We marched in resolute hope, not anger.
We marched in wonder and gratitude for the power God gives us
to resist evil, to love our neighbor and heal the world.
We marched to surround ourselves with joy, beauty and hope.
It was not a protest; it was an affirmation.

Too far from the stage to see or hear, we cheered for the cheering.
Packed like crayons in a box, unable to move, no one became inpatient.
Calm, positive and kind, we simply basked in creativity and good will,
and enjoyed our diversity, unity and comradeship.
Yet underneath the happiness was a fierce resolve and resilience.
There was a clear knowledge that we are facing a great evil.
And there was awareness of our indomitable strength:
that we are given power to resist evil. It was the Reign of God.

Now we know. We are awake. We are not alone.
We have each other. We have hope. We have power.

From this day on you can wear a pink knitted hat.
You can carry a sign. Or you can be a sign, a sign God carries into the world,
a sign of justice and freedom and healing.
Your life can be a joyful affirmation that even among fearful forces God is at work. We are not alone.

In your vast crowd, in your little parade of one,
we are together in this.
Don’t be afraid. Don’t give up.
March on!

 

Dearly Beloved, Grace and peace to you.

Today, God, you create me anew;
today I inaugurate a new life.
By the power invested in me by the Holy Spirit
I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute
your call in my life, and will to the best of my ability
uphold your commandments.
I will act with love and gentleness,
with reverence and forgiveness toward all people.
I will practice humility, generosity and truthfulness.
I will honor and delight in the diversity of the human family,
respecting the true unity of all people
and the oneness and sacred worth of all living things.
I pledge to live, speak and act for justice and peace.
I accept the power you give me
to resist evil, injustice and oppression
in whatever forms they present themselves.
I will stand against all violence, disrespect and bullying.
I will speak out against meanness,
give voice to those who are silenced,
and include those who are outcast.
I acknowledge that I shine with your light, O God,
that my life is not mine but yours.
This day I pledge to do your will, not mine,
for your sake and the sake of the healing of the world.
I understand that this pledge
will often set me against my culture,
and that the culture will resist me.
With your help and those of like mind and heart,
I will persevere. I give you thanks.
I ask your blessing. I trust your grace.
Amen.

         Jesus said to them, “Follow me,
         and I will make you fish for people.”
         Immediately they left their nets and followed him.
                         —Matthew 4.19-20

Sometimes the call comes straight from the Master.
You hear his voice over the shorebirds’ cries,
the shuffling of the water.
And sometimes it comes from elsewhere.
Something makes you wonder.
That’s him.
Or a beauty lifts you, just a bit, out of yourself.
Or something awakens your courage,
or trust that has slept like a seed.
Or you hear a cry of need and you’re moved,
and you find yourself offering
what you didn’t know you had.
Don’t even try to explain the coincidence.
If you listen with the ears of heaven
there is nothing that is not the Beloved calling to you,
nothing.

Listen.

         Jesus said to them, “Follow me,
         and I will make you fish for people.”
         Immediately they left their nets and followed him.
                           —Matthew 4.19-20

When evil steps up to the podium
you may hear the voice of Satan,
or at least the oil slick of his press secretary,
but listen beneath.
The bubble is burst.
You can’t sit this out.
Justice won’t come about without you.
You are needed.
The world needs people of peace,
needs people of gentle courage
and quiet, immovable wisdom.
Sometimes the clang of the hammer of oppression,
the grinding of a machine that eats people,
terrible as it is, however dreadful the mood,
daunting the prospects,
is your awakening. Give thanks.
It is the voice of Christ saying,
“You.
Now.
I need you.”

          Jesus said to them, “Follow me,
         and I will make you fish for people.”
         Immediately they left their nets and followed him.
                           —Matthew 4.19-20

Strange, how familiar the voice is.
The voice that recognizes you,
the voice that is your very voice,
that speaks your hope,
comes not from afar but from within,
asking you to let go of what is familiar
to find what is even more strangely at the center,
to quit your accustomed hiding places,
to leave the fringe for the root,
and come away from all that is away,
closer to here, closer to God.
The voice calls you,
the irresistible presence calls you, “Follow me,”
into the world yet always,
no matter how far you go,
on this foreign road, this difficult pilgrimage
toward your truest self,
always accompanied,
always
coming home.  

 

The Emperor takes the throne
         but you are my King.
A mob shouts “We have no king but Caesar!”
         but your God is the ruler of my heart.

The emperor’s nightmares, meant to frighten me
         do not frighten me.
Your dream, O King,
         is not a dream to me but real
         as life.

He enriches his empire;
         you give us each other.

He assumes his power,
         vain assumption; you lay yours down
         and an empire unfolds.

He asks my loyalty to him;
         I shall not give nor lend.
You ask none but to your God.
         I give my self.

The emperor asserts his greatness for his term,
                   but the children of light are not swayed.
Our gentleness has risen, like yours, beloved King,
         from what will not be seen
         until the morning of the third day after.

The emperor cannot know
         what our King has already seen.

 

         Surely my cause is with the Holy One,
                  and my reward with my God.
                           —Isaiah 49.4

A bird I have not seen appears at our feeder.
Before I fetch the little book I know
it has a name and habits
and my unknowing does not touch it.
Its name is Thou. Its name is My Precious.
Its habit is magnifying the glory of God.

The world only knows the name it gives you.
The Panel of Judges that sits in your head
does not know your name, Beloved,
cannot see beyond certain accomplishments
and people you have influenced,
can’t see what only God sees,
how well you receive God’s love
and let it overflow from your tiny hands.

There are birds in your soul no one has named.
But an Unseen One knows such delight
watching them feed on grace.

 

         I give thanks to my God always for you
         because of the grace of God
         that has been given you in Christ Jesus,
         for in every way you have been enriched in Christ…
         so that you are not lacking in any spiritual gift.
                           —1 Corinthians 1.4-7

Whatever my call, however unusual or ordinary,
God, you have given me the spiritual gifts I need.
Your Spirit is at work in me,
not of my own effort, but as your gift.
I do not have to have all gifts.
But what I need I have,
because you are in me.
Give me grace to receive your blessings,
to open the eyes of my heart to them
that I may know them and trust them,
and to give of them freely.

God I give thanks for the gifts of your Spirit in me,
and name them now with humble gratitude.
. . .

Remind me today when I tire or doubt:
I am not lacking,
not lacking.
I offer myself to you
as a vessel of your gifts,
that this day I may delight in your peace
and serve you with joy.
Amen.

 

          Behold the lamb of God
                  who takes away the sin of the world.
                           —John 1.29

Behold the presence of God
         made vulnerable among us.

Our sin is not that we are evil
         but that we can’t claim our belovedness.

From our sin, this fear and distrust,
         comes all evil.

Jesus relieves us of this fear
         and restores our trust,         

bears our fear in vulnerability,
         even to the cross,

so we will know we are beloved,
         at one—atoned—with God.

To follow him is to bear away the world’s fear
         and restore their trust in their belovedness.

Jesus, thank you
         for taking away my fear.

Help me to stop trying
         to take it back.

 

         I said, “I have labored in vain,
                  I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity….”
         Yet the Holy One says,
         “I will give you as a light to the nations.”
                           —Isaiah 49.4, 6

God, I am nothing.
         I am your Beloved, your delight.

I am empty, and there is nothing in me
         but your light.

Your light does not fail;
         it simply shines.

I am not commanded;
         I am given.

I have no power,
         and it is great.

In all your children,
         your light.