Unless your righteousness exceeds
         that of the scribes and Pharisees,
        you will never experience the kingdom of heaven.
                  —Matthew 5.20

         Is not this the fast that I choose:
         to loose the bonds of injustice,
        to undo the thongs of the yoke?
                  —Isaiah 58.6

My child, I desire for you that you be surrounded
         by a world of love and joy and beauty.
I have hidden this treasure in the hearts and lives
         of people around you, especially those
who are despised and oppressed, forgotten and abused,
         the ones whose lives do not matter to the world.
To know this loveliness and nobility, to live in its world,
         you have to set those people free.
You have to undo the chains of injustice,
         and to undo their chains you have to stand with them,
        be near them, be among them, befriend them.

My law is to love. This is righteousness:
         right relationships, just and loving and freeing.
The laws I have given you are the signs but they are not the road.
         The rules are the practices but not the love.
To fulfill righteousness is to break the separations
         between you and them, rich and poor, black and white.
How can you undo the thong of the yoke
         if you do not stand with the slave?

When your righteousness exceeds being good enough
         and becomes love then you will know this realm I have prepared for you,
         the joy and beauty I promise you, I who love you, who stand with you,
         who set you free.

 

         You are the salt of the earth.
                  – Matthew 5.13

When the seawater finally evaporates
the pure salt of you remains.

Of the earth, stout crystal,
marvelous in your you-ness,

as first you left the Creator’s hand,
your grain, your truth,

this do not lose or trade,
or meekly become otherwise.

That of you that is purely you,
blood-mineral of life, of tears,

salting not in virtue or deeds
but essence, simply being you,

bringing out in others
their own flavor as well,

offer without apology,
with love and courage,

for God, savoring you so,
has chosen to salt this life with you.

 

       You are light for the world.
                           —Matthew 5.14

You do not need to fetch it or make it
.          It is in you.

The chaos out there roars, so dark,
         but sit still and listen:

“Let there be light” speaks in your darkness.
         Let it be.

Let it become you. Fill you.
         Ageless, it claims you.

Calm, unworried by what it falls on,
         it radiates peace.

Let it shine in you,
         a simple lamp by the window,

before you bear it
         out into the world
         that needs it so badly.

 

The Emperor shrinks.
His world is tight, walled in.
He is always shrinking,
every day a new closure.
The constricting pressure
squeezes his fear out into the world.
His darkness descends on them.

But followers of the Risen One
have seen the grave burst,
have seen the world enlarge,
light ever expanding into the darkness,
their hope radiating,
their world always opening, opening.

 

We are one,
all of us,
ends of the same wire thrumming,
all fingers of one hand,
needing each other.
What is this strange lurch within,
this weight of unease,
what is this ache of dread and sorrow,
this fire, this hope,
but the cry of the rest of us?
The imprisoned and detained,
the maimed, defamed and misnamed,
the faces on the other side of the wall,
they are not strangers at all,
but the rest of us.

What is it in us
that wants to cut off ourselves
from ourselves?
Only they can save us,
our own secret selves in the dark.
Their suffering and their energy is ours
when we take to the streets to find them,
when we tear down the walls
and unbind them.

Pray for those whose lives are broken
by our brokenness.
Pray, and reach out,
until we become each other,
and are whole.

 

You comfort me and snuggle me at first,
your blessings like a warm embrace,
a womb of sorts,
assurance of your peace and consolation
in poverty and mourning,
in hunger and powerlessness.
And then you stand me up
and put a hand on my back,
expecting purity of heart,
still hungering for justice.
And you usher me out the door
to be merciful among the unmerciful,
a peacemaker amidst violence,
knowing it gets worse,
accepting persecution.
This is what it is, this birthing,
to do justice, love mercy
and walk humbly with you,
out of the softness into the street,
all the while trusting you
and thanking you for your blessing,
your blessing,
your blessing.

 

         

Beloved, by your grace
I willingly accept my poverty of spirit;
         for you bless me with your Realm of love.

I honestly mourn,
         for you bless me with your comfort.

I will be gentle,
          for you bless me with the gift of the earth.

I continue to hunger and thirst for you,
         for you fill me with yourself.

I will show mercy,
         for you shower me with mercy.

I seek to be pure in heart,
         that I may see you.

I will be your peacemaker,
         for I am your child.

I will accept persecution
          for you bless me with your Realm of grace.

I gladly accept that justice and peacemaking
        attract persecution and resistance,     
        for so people treat all those
        who do justice, who love kindness,
        who walk humbly with you.

In my poverty I will stand unbowed,
         for in your grace you bless me.

 

         What does the Holy One ask of you,
         but to do justice, to love kindness,
         and to walk humbly with your God?
                           —Micah 6.8

Somewhere, nearer to you than you think,
is a man on death row who does not want special favor;
he only wants to to justice, to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with his God.

Somewhere, nearer to you than you think,
is a trans woman of color who does not want special favor;
she only wants her gifts to be appreciated,
and to be able to be kind without fear,
and to walk in peace.

Somewhere, nearer to you than you think,
are refugees who do not want special favor;
they only want to be able to contribute,
to receive kindness, and to be faithful to their God.

Somewhere, nearer to you than you think,
is a girl who has been trafficked and abused,
who does not want special favor;
she only wants to know her power, and her loveliness,
and her partnership with God.

And what does God want of you
for the sake of these God’s beloved?
What can you do for their sake but to do justice
that will be more bold that you have thought,
to love kindness that will be more challenging,
to walk more humbly that you expected, for their sake.

 

         Blessed are the poor in spirit,
                  for theirs is the realm of heaven.
         Blessed are those who mourn,
                  for they will be comforted.
         Blessed are the gentle,
                  for they will inherit the earth.
         Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
                  for they will be filled.
                             — Matthew 5.3-6   

God, I let go of all but you.
         Help me let go of all but you.

I trust your grace alone,
         not wealth, power or happiness,
to give me life, to hold me with love,
          to bless me.

I let go of all but you.
         Help me let go of all but you.

Give me grace to trust you,
         deeply, freely, wholly.

Give me eyes to see your blessing
         that stands like a rock
         in the winds of circumstance, that pours like sunlight
         no matter my deserving.

I let go of all but you.
         Help me let go of all but you.

 

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!