How much of nature sleeps in the nude.
Some trees have already stripped naked.
Most have changed their clothes by now
out of their playful duds into something more formal,
with darker, more sonorous tones,
evening gowns, and suits of grey and brown,
the turning down of leaves and grass.
Now the hues don’t flash and jump,
they gesture, bow and embrace,
they are priests, not cheerleaders, strings, not brass.
The trees are turning beyond all this with grace,
toward something, letting go, but not resigning,
not just getting old, but turning,
turning toward quieter, darker work,
and it is work, the dreaming of this sleep,
a vow of poverty, obedience to the sweeping wind,
a pledge of presence in the cold, the dark,
the stillness— turning in.
 

         Blessed are you who are poor,
                  for yours is the empire of God…
         But woe to you who are rich,
                  for you have received your consolation.
                  —Luke 6.20, 24

Blessed are you, children of Aleppo, Ferguson, Standing Rock,
         prisoners, immigrants and bullied queers,
blessed are you, welfare mothers, discouraged rednecks,
         depressed teens, bipolar and suicidal,
blessed are you, unarmed young black men,
         women bearing memories of abuse.

Blessed are you who are discouraged or afraid or doubting,
         and you, the forgotten who are no one at all,
you are blessed because God blesses you.
         Don’t let your circumstances tell you otherwise.

Blessed are you, for God gives the Realm to you;
         gives it readily to all whose hands are empty;
not to the powerful—they’ve already gained what they sought.
         Those whose hands are full can’t receive.

Blessed are you, for you are God’s saints,
         made beloved by God’s love, not ours,
made holy by God’s grace, not your accomplishments,
         made sacred by your being, not your experience.
Blessed are you, and woe to us who do not see it
         and bow down in humble amazement.
Woe to us who do not empty our hands
         and receive the infinite gift.
 

I hear
the love of those
who have loved me
echo in me.
All the notes of my song
sing over theirs,
the only kind of beauty.
The song does not die.

May I live
with love and mercy
for it will echo
long after.

 

Today I give thanks for saints,
saints who have laid a path of life and light
for thousands of years, so many of them,
who blessed me generations ago.

I give thanks for the pillars of light in my life:
elders who taught me, embraced me, blessed me,
walked ahead and let me follow, watch and learn.
They patiently accepted my immaturity,
they showed me what was possible,
they held me up to see a farther horizon,
and I am grateful for them.

I give thanks for peers who have loved me,
who have grown with me, traveled with me,
created with me, who held hope when I faltered,
bore wisdom when I didn’t, forgave me,
believed in me when I most deeply doubted.
These too are my saints, and I am grateful for them.

I give thanks for the saints yet to come,
children whose miracles I can’t yet imagine
but who will surely shine with God’s glory,
who will rectify my mistakes
and carry on what we cannot complete.
For saints yet to be born I give thanks.

For all the saints I give praise
and humble thanks that I may serve with them
in this one holy, remarkable life.

 

There is in me a monster,
a queen, a cadaver, a cartoon character.
I know they’re there.
I invite them all to come,
dressed their best,
a community of great oddness and beauty,
and get to know each other.
Let the angel in me look silly
bobbing for apples,
my demon accept with grace
that everyone recognizes him
though he looks like a movie star.
Let the strong man need help with his popcorn,
the beauty queen with her padding.

Welcome, all my neuroses and foibles,
delusions, fears and addictions, welcome!
There is candy enough for all, and games.
Every single one of you gets treats
and a prize for your costume.
Enjoy yourselves and one another.
When it gets dark
your parents will bring you home
and you will take a bath, the saving font,
put on your familiar pajamas
and climb into the bed of me
and rest.
And with a prayer for my little ones
I too will go to bed, and pray to God
my soul to keep.

 

         When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him,
         “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.”
         So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him.
         All who saw it began to grumble and said,
         “He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.”
                  —Luke 19.5-7
 

Like two old friends,
God and the sinner.
Here’s the scandal:
The Beloved actually, really
wants to be with you.
Imagine that.
The Loving One sees you
in your awkwardness,
uncomfortably hanging on
in your ridiculous perch,
knows all about the gossip,
and still can think of nothing
more desirable
than being with you.
At your place. On your terms.
It’s this simple.
The Holy One wants to be with you.
No condescension.
It’s no job requirement.
God likes being with you.

God likes being with you.

God likes being with you.

 

         May the name of our Lord Jesus be glorified in you,
         and you in Christ, according to the grace of our God
         and the Lord Jesus Christ.
                  —2 Thessalonians 1.12

Today may you shine with Christ’s glory,

as surely as Christ shines more brightly
because of you.

May you shine with God’s grace this day,
transparent to God’s mercy and love.

May God breathe deeply in you,
and make you true to your call.

Know that for your sake prayer is offered
and gratitude given, with hope and joy.

Today may you be Christ’s glory,
and Christ be yours.

 

I never look sillier than
         trying to compensate for shortcomings.

I thought I just wanted to see.
         Did I know I really wanted to be seen?
         
He had me treed.
         Still does.

Had he waited for me to invite him
         I would still be up that tree.

There was no getting around.
         The only way down was through him.

He loved me
         before it was cool to love me.

Some say he didn’t see my unworthiness,
         but he’s not blind to such trauma.

It was not pity that brought me down,
         it was kinship.

He accepted me even before I repented.
         I changed even before he blessed me,

as if something happened
         before either of us moved.

How did my guest become my host,
         my table become his?

Who knew I had such a generous heart?
         What he sees that we don’t!

It wasn’t just forgiveness but reconnection
         that he called salvation.

I am my own
         walking miracle.

 

When I walk in woods
I go not to get somewhere,
not to ponder, not to think.
I go there to be there.
I look and see what I see.
I hear what I hear.
I enter. I notice.
And I am allowed.
I am no stranger here
or even in strange places.
They know me.
I am of this same earth,
fashioned of the same soil.
They do not judge.
They offer their being
as if speaking.
I let them bless me.
For the rest of the day
they breathe in me.
Their colors, their songs
ooze from me all day.
I am always still there.

 

Do you ever find yourself in a hazy suburb
and feel you’re standing at the edge of the ocean
roaring in your ears, or maybe above a great chasm
of stars swirling beneath you in breathing darkness?

Mount the porch steps and turn around
and take in the vast view from the mountain top
you’ve just climbed, its dangerous peaks and ridges
entirely inside you only bigger?

Sometimes the view from where you are
is nothing like where you are, the world nowhere near
as small, even the singular world you are,
so much greater on the inside than out.