But the tax collector, standing far off,
         prayed, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”
         I tell you, this one went home justified rather than the other.
                  —Luke 18.13-14

                                    •

                      There is no deserving; there is only belovedness.
                      There is no being right; there is only being open.
                      Faith is not certainty; it is reaching out.

                                    •

Merciful One,
I come not by my merit, but by your love.

I open myself to your mercy,
not in deserving but in wonder
and gratitude.

I am not righteous; I am loved.
I am not bad or rotten;
I am in need of your mercy.

For all my sin you offer mercy.
For all my achievements you offer mercy.

Merciful One,
I need you. I trust you.
With empty hands, wide open,
I turn to you for mercy.

God, be merciful to me, a sinner.

 

Trees burn with autumn colors.
Sky smokes and smolders.
Berries ripen, soften, wrinkle and fall.
Ferns have gone gold and brown,
frost brings them down. Leaves die
and dive or dance, or spiral down
or drown in the darkening brook.

We put the garden to bed, and cut
stems back, its vines gone black.
Tomato plants look weary now.
Life is a ragged leaf,
its edges rough, bug-eaten,
a leaf that’s going to fall.

Burt wait.

All this sad talk of autumn death and loss
just isn’t right.
Too much defeat and diminishment.
It isn’t all decay.
This is a time of harvest,
of showing your true colors,
of offering what is ripe and beautiful
and life-giving.
Those tomatoes are just coming on.
If I hang the vines with faith
I’ll still be eating ripe ones in December.
What may look like a day of death
is a day of fullness.

The trees are brilliant,
startling in their brashness.
They’re old enough to get away with it.
Brilliant.

 

Open your eyes
and light flows
through them

out into the world
the Beloved
running with joy

pitchers of stars
poured into them
while you were sleeping

 

         This is the covenant that I will make
         with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord:
         I will put my law within them,
         and I will write it on their hearts;
         and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.
         No longer shall they teach one another,
         or say to each other, “Know the Lord,”
         for they shall all know me,
         from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord;
         for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.
                  —Jeremiah 27.33-34

I have not laid rules upon you.
I have written my love in you,
carved it in the bones of your heart.
Love is your secret name.

You don’t need to search for me;
I’m in you.
You don’t need to please me;
I love you with absolute forgiveness.

You don’t need to come to know me.
You are me.
I am your Inward,
your Eternal, your True, your You.

That’s my Covenant.
You can’t break this one.
You can’t escape your belovedness.
Sink into it. Become it.

 

Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart: There was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people. In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, “Grant me justice against my opponent.” For a while he refused; but later he said to himself, “Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.” … Jesus said, “When the Human One comes, will they find faith on earth?”
                  —Luke 18.1-5, 8

God is not the judge, but the widow.
Jesus says, “Do not judge,” but still we judge.
We fail to fear God and respect other people.

God comes to us among the powerless,
the orphan, the widow, the Crucified One,
pleading for justice.

So busy with what we want,
we don’t hear what God wants.
But God keeps coming, keeps pleading for justice.
She does not shout, does not lift up her voice,
but calmly, confidently, again and again she comes.
She will wear us out with her continual coming,
until we do justice.

Persistent God,
help us listen to your cries in the poor,
to your whisperings in our hearts,
to the light in your silence.

We still our minds, cease our judging, and listen.
In our hearts, a river flowing, we listen.
In the unsaid billion prayers, we listen.

We keep praying and do not lose heart.

 

Yom Kippur is not Get Out of Jail Day.
Atonement doesn’t mean getting off the hook.
It means you live in the present moment, not the past.
It means you live into a new future.
It means since you’re forgiven,
you start repenting.

Repentance is not a requirement for forgiveness.
It’s the result.
The sin that is forgiven,
now you have to let go of it.
You have to live differently now.
It’s a new year.

How will your forgiveness change you?
What will you do differently?
Name one thing.
Walk this new path with joy,
into the new life.

 

Yom Kippur, Day of Atonement.
Even if you’re not Jewish
you can use such a day.
A day of solemnity,
for the depth of our sin,
and a day of joy,
for the greater depth of our forgiveness.
Ignore neither.

Name your sin.
Sit with it.

Spend some time with this.

Hold it out in front of you,
your offering to God.
The Righteous One receives it,
and forgives you, completely.
Completely.

Spend some time with this.

In honesty, lovingly beholding
who you truly are,
you experience your at-one-ment with God.
At one with God, because God is One with you,
you are one with all people.
Live this way.

Spend some time with this.

 

         The word of Love is perfect, reviving the soul
                  the wisdom of God is solid,
                  enlightening those who are open. …

         But who can see themselves clearly enough?
                  Save me from my own hidden faults.
         Don’t let me be insulting;
                  don’t let nastiness come over me. …

         Let the words of my mouth
                  and the meditation of my heart
         be acceptable to you, O Lord,
                  my rock and my redeemer.
                           —Psalm 19.7, 12-13, 14

God of love, may I think and speak
         in harmony with your graciousness.
May I speak only what is truthful and loving,
         what is born of your grace in me.
May I speak with compassion and humility
         in blessing, not cursing,
         in reverence, not pride.

Give me wisdom to see myself honestly,
         to know my own faults,
to see your light in me and all that hides it,
         and the same in others as well.
Keep me from blaming born of a fearful ego,
         but let me speak your encouragement and truth.

May the words I speak and the thoughts I harbor
         reflect your tender compassion,
your forgiveness of me and all people,
         O God, my truth and my love.

 

Today I’m climbing New Hampshire’s Mt. Washington:
nine miles, six thousand feet of autumn glory.
As I prepare in the morning dark
I think of all who climb their own mountains today,
mountains of illness­, grief, recovery, parenting,
mountains of abuse, imprisonment, injustice,
a dissertation, a new job, no job, a hurricane,
the mountain of this ordinary day.
We climb together. We pray together:

God of love and wonder,
I thank you for the miracle of bones and nerves,
the muscle and its noble work,
the gift of the upward struggle.
You are my heartbeat and my breath,
my hope and my light.
You are the energy of my struggle,
the goal of my climb,
the song that encourages me,
the companion who accompanies me very step.
You are my compass, my light,
my hope, my open air.
I carry you. You climb in me.
You are the path, you are the climb.
God of Presence, you are the mountain.
You sing in me:
Climb on.
 

 

         Ten lepers approached him.
         Keeping their distance, they called out, saying,
         “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”
         When he saw them, he said to them,
         “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”
         And as they went, they were made clean.
                  —Luke 17.12-14

God has worked miracles in you.
It does not serve you to deny it,
or pretend they are not miracles,
or hide them.

Jesus says ”Show yourselves to the priests”
in part so they may be affirmed as acceptable.
He also sends them to bear witness.

It is an act of humble service
to show others the miracles God has worked in you—
not your own deserving, but God’s goodness.

No bird nor blossom
or tree in autumn splendor is bashful
about the beauty that’s been given them.

Go and show yourselves
and let God’s glory
shine in you.