The Journey

 Both Renee and Anne Jackson have posted this poem in recent days.  I'd never read it before, but it struck me deeply both times it appeared, and I wanted to share it here as well.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations -
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -
determined to save
the only life you could save.
*(Mary Oliver – Dream Work)

Flander's Fields

Image via Wikipedia

It's kind of a tradition for me to post the following classic war poem on Remembrance Day. I've been thinking a lot more than usual about the importance of pausing to remember this year. The particular religious group that I work for refuses to acknowledge Remembrance Day, or participate in the national poppy campaign to raise money for veterans. They are pacifists, and argue that acknowledging this holiday legitimizes and glorifies war. I feel just the opposite - that while I generally hold pacifist principles, it is the contribution of those who fought that lets me hold those principles. So, this year, like each and every other year, I present to you, "Flander's Fields" by John McCrae and "We Shall Keep the Faith" by Moina Michael.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

We Shall Keep the Faith

Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.

And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.

Not the God we would have chosen

Another prayer from Bruggemann's "Awed to Heaven, Rooted in Earth":

We would as soon you were stable and reliable.
We would as soon you were predictable
and always the same toward us.
We would like to take the hammer of doctrine
and take the nails of piety
and nail your feet to the floor
and have you stay in one place.
And then we find you moving,
always surprising us,
always coming at us from new directions.
Always planting us
and uprooting us
and tearing all things down
and making all things new.
You are not the God we would have chosen
had we done the choosing,
but we are your people
and you have chosen us in freedom.
We pray for the great gift of freedom
that we may be free toward you
as you are in your world.
Give us that gift of freedom
that we may move in new places
in obedience and in gratitude.
Thank you for Jesus
who embodied your freedom for all of us. Amen.

How it is when we praise you...

From another prayer by Walter Bruggemann...

That is how it is when we praise you. We join the angels in praise, and we keep our feet in time and place... awed to heaven, rooted in earth. We are daily stretched between communion with you and our bodied lives, spent but alive, summoned and cherished but stretched between. And we are reminded that before us there has been this One truly divine (at ease with the angels) truly human...dwellers in time and space. We are thankful for him, and glad to be in his missional company. Alleluia. Amen.

(Awed to Heaven, Rooted in Earth, pg. 86)

We are children of another world

I'm still slowly making my way through a book of prayers by Walter Bruggemann, and was deeply struck as I read this one this morning:

For the mystery of the text,
and for the history of eyes to see
and ears to hear the text,
we give you thanks.

Our eyes are scaled
and our ears are uncircumsised
and we are children of another world.

We pray for the gift of perception.
We pray for energy and courage,
that we may not leave the text
until we wrench your blessing from it.

Amen.

Redeem

The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem...


(from "Ash Wednesday" by T.S. Eliot)

(A Sort of) Quiet

Sunday night.
Curled up in bed.
one magic bag draped around my neck
the other spread across my feet
both bringing warmth
and easing pain.

music playing
a gift that came by mail
from a friend

from where I sit to write
I can see three roses
12 lit candles
and some that aren't lit
4 crosses
4 photos.

on my lips I can still taste
the sea salt
of Mediterranean extraction
that flavored my dinner
an accidental purchase
yesterday, while I was looking for roses
before the drive and gift of peace
an accidental prayer, really

this has been
a day of extremes
emotionally
physically
spiritually

and so I sit in bed
and wait.

much of the "today I'm going to"
(take control of my life)
list has been accomplished.
only a few things remain.

there are emails to return
one to someone with whom
relations have been strained
one to another continent
a reply to a long expected note
that unexpectedly tore a hole
in my heart
more pieces shattered
and piercing
one a thank you for the music
that arrived in yesterdays mail
handed to me when I stopped to
pick up a bottle of wine
at my parents
and two to well-meaning relatives
reaching out for relationship
that I don't quite know
what to do with.

then scripture
time with Jesus again
readying for another long week

trying the new vitamins
recommended by a friend as
a possible way to aid with sleep

thereby
closing out a day that began
with another crying jag
(they've been a daily thing of late)
and contained within it
laughter
anger
love
hurt
practicality
unease
and
rest
in mixed and uneven portions
sometimes not waiting for the previous
to leave before it arrived,
overlapping experiences of life.

tonight my heart has
(a sort of) quiet.

Visitation of the Virgin

I was reading Ranier Maria Rilke's book of poems, "The Life of the Virgin Mary" this afternoon, and found this poem about Mary's visit to Elizabeth to be rather profoundly beautiful.

Visitation of the Virgin

She still walked easily in the beginning.
Yet already was sometimes aware when climbing
of her marvelous body's life within.
And then, pausing for breath, she stood upon

the high hills of Judea. But spread wide
around her, was her fullness, not the land.
Walking, she felt: no one would overstride
the greatness which she now could understand.

And the need pressed on her not to lay her hand
on the other body, which had gone on further.
And the women leaned to one another, and
they touched each other on the dress and hair.

Each one, filled with her own sacred good
used the other as shield in her plight.
Ah, the saviour in her still was bud,
but in her cousin's womb, the Baptist could,
and did, leap in rapture of delight.

I want to unfold

I was re-reading some lines I copied down about a year ago, from a book called "Rilke's Book of Hours" - a beautiful collection of poetry by Ranier Maria Rilke, and I came across the following lines, which moved me:

I want to unfold.
Let no place in me hold itself closed,
for where I am closed, I am false.
I want to stay clear in your sight.

Advent (and Lent)

I feel the pressing of the darkness
the weight of the season

it's not hard, at this time of year
when I arrive at work in the dark
and leave when the light has already begun to fade
to feel the darkness encroaching
and understand the longing for the light

on my stereo a lone voice sings
of the journey to the cross
"Into the darkness we must go,
gone, gone is the light.
Jesus, remember me
when you enter your kingdom."

"This feels more like Lent -
like a journey to death and a grave,
than like Advent, and praying for birth"
I said to her
"Advent and Lent are the same"
she said
"A conversation for another night,
but Advent and Lent are the same"

Cyclical seasons
journeying through the dark
ever longing for light
for life, for restoration
to come.

Jesus Christ, have mercy on me
as I wait and walk in darkness.

Thursday. 9:43 a.m.

9:43 a.m.

I’m sitting at my desk, sipping tea.
Feeling a bit muddled again today.
Discombobulated.
Tired.

I’m making lists.
Things to do during the work day.
Things to do tonight, and on into the weekend.
Planning in my head.
Seeing how my bedroom will look once I’ve assembled my bed
Hung artwork
And finished unpacking.

The skies are grey again.
Cloudy and heavy.
It’s funny how often the skies
Seem to reflect my state of mind.

Passion tea
And chocolate kisses
With almonds inside.
All little ways that I pray.
The unspoken prayers
Of my heart.

A black cross
Four inches high is
Propped on my desk
Reminding me with
Bold white script
That I must
Trust.

Quiet
Tired
Discombobulated
Unspoken prayers
Spoken into the silence

It’s morning
A new day
And I am
Listening and waiting

More lines from Rilke

This season seems unending at moments lately. Hard slogging, and crashing waves of emotion that feel as if they're drowning me.

I was flipping through "Rilke's Book of Hours" again tonight, and came across a few lines that speak to the way I'm feeling again lately.

I yearn to be held
in the great hands of your heart -
oh let them take me now.

Into them I place these fragments, my life,
and you, God - spend them however you want.
(pg. 139)

~~~

In deep nights I dig for you like treasure
For all I have seen
that clutters the surface of my world
is poor and paltry substitute
for the beauty of you
that has not happened yet....

My hands are bloody from digging.
I lift them, hold them open in the wind,
so they can branch like a tree.

Reaching, these hands would pull you out of the sky
as if you had shattered there,
dashed yourself to pieces in some wild impatience.

What is this I feel falling now,
falling on this parched earth,
softly,
like a spring rain?
(pg. 187)

~~~

Your first word of all was light,
and time began. Then for long you were silent.

Your second word was man, and fear began,
which grips us still.

Are you about to speak again?
I don't want your third word.

Sometimes I pray: Please don't talk.
Let all your doing be by gesture only.
Go on writing in faces and stone
what your silence means.

Be our refuge from the wrath
that drove us out of Paradise.

Be our shepherd, but never call us -
we can't bear to know what's ahead.
(pg. 103)

The ill-matched threads

One more poem from Rilke, the prayer of my heart tonight (for myself, and several dear friends).

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth -
it's she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it's you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.

Poetry

A week or so ago I listened to a radio documentary about spirituality and depression. In the course of listening, a book of poetry by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated from the German by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy, was highly recommended. The book is titled, "Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God."

I ordered it in from the library, and, now, half-way through the book, am going to end up buying myself a copy. Rilke's poetry is strikingly beautiful, and is catching me in all sorts of tender places at the moment. Want a sample? Here are a few bits and pieces of poems, and one full poem...

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.

~

May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.

~

I want to unfold.
Let no place in me hold itself closed,
for where I am closed, I am false.
I want to stay clear in your sight.

~

It feels as though I make my way
through massive rock
like a vein of ore
alone, encased.

I am so deep inside it
I can't see the path or any distance:
everything is close
and everything closing in on me
has turned to stone.

Since I still don't know enough about pain,
this terrible darkness makes me small.
If it's you, though -

press down hard on me, break in
that I may know the weight of your hand,
and you, the fullness of my cry.

Not the right words...

I have a million and one words, but can't seem to find the ones I want for the important things. There are people I'd like to write to, but there aren't words for that either. Things I want to say. Things that hurt. Things that would probably make others hurt too. I don't want anyone else to hurt - not on my behalf, not on their own. So I don't have the right words.

An anonymous commenter left a note on a blog post a friend of mine recently wrote, "I feel as though I'm going through a 'dark night of the soul'." I'm not going through that, though I have in the past and am sure I will again. But this anonymous soul's words grabbed at me - the loneliness, the fear, the despair. I know those things well. I feel a few of them, in a different sort of way right now.

I'm asking a lot of questions about God and life and faith and community and church and relationships and mission. I'm taking a lot of comfort in talking to a few friends who are asking similar questions. I'm taking a lot of comfort in reading authors who have asked similar questions. I'm mostly interested in the ones who propose answers that involve brokenness instead of wholeness. Because I don't have a whole lot of wholeness to offer these days.

I was looking at a couple of old blog posts today... Came across two more quotes that struck me...

This one from Shane Claiborne:
"The gospel is good news for sick people and is disturbing for those who think they've got it all together. Some of us have been told our whole lives that we are wretched, but the gospel reminds us that we are beautiful. Others of us have been told our whole lives that we are beautiful, but the gospel reminds us that we are also wretched. The church is a place where we can stand up and say we are wretched, and everyone will nod and agree and remind us that we are also beautiful.

...Community can be built around a common self-righteousness or around a common brokenness. Both are magnetic. People are drawn toward folks who have it all together, or who look like they do. People are also drawn toward folks who know they don't have it all together and are not willing to fake it.

Christianity can be build around isolating ourselves from evildoers and sinners, creating a community of religious piety and moral purity. That's the Christianity I grew up with. Christianity can also be built around joining with the broken sinners and evildoers of our world crying out to God, groaning for grace. That's the Christianity I have fallen in love with."

And this poem by Leonard Cohen, because today, as I've been searching for words, I've felt like one of the fakes. I am one of the fakes, and this is my story.

Thousands
Out of the thousands
who are known
or who want to be known
as poets,
maybe one or two
are genuine
and the rest are fakes,
hanging around the sacred precincts
trying to look like the real thing.
Needless to say
I am one of the fakes,
and this is my story.

Welcome each visitor...

Two quotes and a link. My own thoughts are just not fitting for public consumption. I've laid on the couch for nearly a full day. I'm feeling slightly more rested, and but still deeply sad and exhausted. Tomorrow morning I'll go back to work and start again. This is a season of breaking, of shattering, of wondering if wholeness will ever happen again, and do I really want it anyway? Of evaluating the high costs of various decisions. Of questions and elusive future possibilities. Of silence and oftentimes loneliness (even in the midst of crowds). Of fasting. Of thinking and praying and wondering and waiting. Of agonizing and weeping. Of opening my life to the thousand and one sorrows that surround me, and letting them change things in my heart. Of crying out to God in the desperate hope that he will hear and respond and send peace.

I'm going with my best friend to a panel discussion on genocide - in Rwanda and Darfur - in a few hours. We'll eat together first, and then listen, and once again I'm sure my heart will shatter.

So, two quotes and a link. That's all I can manage for public consumption.

Sara Miles describes a conversation soon after she'd become a Christian, with an old friend, where, as he shared the pain in his life, she recommended he pray. She writes:

"When you told me to pray," Jose would remember later, "it was incredibly earnest. You said prayer was like having this intense, profound longing that you just had to be with. That you put the longing in the hands of God, in a certain way. That it was important to be receptive to the unfulfilled, and not fill it or deny it."

I had to be receptive or go crazy - because even as I kept going to church, the questions raised by the experience only multiplied. Conversion was turning out to be quite far from the greeting-card moment promised by televangelists, when Jesus steps into your life, personally saves you, and becomes your lucky charm forever. Instead, it was socially and politically awkward, as well as profoundly confusing. I wasn't struck with any sudden conviction that I now understood the "truth." If anything, I was just crabbier, lonelier, and more destabilized.
(Sara Miles, "Take This Bread", pg. 70)

The poet Rumi writes:

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival

A joy, a depression, a meannness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for
some new delight.

I first came across that poem a few years back, as the inspiration for this story, "The Crowded House".

To be receptive to the unfulfilled spaces and not fill or deny them, and to welcome each visitor, even if they're a crowd of sorrows. This is the space I am working to occupy.

International Women's Day Tomorrow

In December 2005 I first posted a piece of poetry that I'd encountered in one of my church history classes titled, "The Woman's Creed." Written by Rachel Conrad Wahlberg in 1978, after a time of reflecting on the Apostle's Creed, I continue to find that it speaks to my heart each time I read it. In honor of tomorrow being "International Women's Day", and because it speaks deeply to a number of topics that have come up in various ongoing conversations I've been having, I thought I'd once again bring this piece forward for your enjoyment. (I've reproduced it, including the asterixed comment, from the original that was given to me in class.)

I believe in God
who created woman and man in God's own image
who created the world
and gave both sexes
the care of the earth.

I believe in Jesus
child of God
chosen of God
born of the woman Mary
who listened to women and liked them
who stayed in their homes
who discussed the Kingdom with them
who was followed and financed
by women disciples.

I believe in Jesus
who discussed theology with a woman at a well
and first confided in her
his messiahship
who motivated her to go and tell
her great news to the city.

I believe in Jesus who received anointing
from a woman at Simon's house
who rebuked the men guests who scorned her
I believe in Jesus who said this woman will be remembered
for what she did -minister to Jesus.

I believe in Jesus
who acted boldly
to reject the blood taboo
of ancient societies
by healing the audacious woman who touched him.

I believe in Jesus who healed a woman
on the sabbath
and made her straight
because she was a human being.

I believe in Jesus
who spoke of God
as a woman seeking the lost coin
as a woman who swept
seeking the lost.

I believe in Jesus
who thought of pregnancy and birth
with reverence
not as punishment - but
as wrenching event
a metaphor for transformation
born again
anguish-into-joy.

I believe in Jesus
who spoke of himself
as a mother hen
who would gather her chicks
under her wings.

I believe in Jesus who appeared
first to Mary Magdalene
who sent her with the bursting message
GO AND TELL...

I believe in the wholeness
of the Savior
in whom there is neither
Jew nor Greek
slave nor free
male nor female
for we are all one
in salvation.

I believe in the Holy Spirit
as she moves over the waters
of creation
and over the earth.

I believe in the Holy Spirit
as she yearns within us
to pray for those things
too deep for words.

I believe in the Holy Spirit
the woman spirit of God*
who like a hen
created us
and gave us birth
and covers us
with her wings.

*the Hebrew word for Spirit is feminine

From the ashes...

I came across this poem, written after a completely crazy week almost two years ago, tonight. I blogged it then, and find it rather appropriate now, for the week I had once again this week...

you can find the link to it here.

Continuing the Cohen Theme

Some of my own words tomorrow or the next day, I promise, but in the meantime...

I was paging through some notes I made when I read Leonard Cohen's latest book of poetry, "The Book of Longing" late last year, and came across the following poem, which describes, just a little, how I'm feeling this week about my relationship with God. Things are feeling new and alive and fresh again for the first time in quite some time. New and beautiful. I feel alive, and that's something that's always worth celebrating.

How Could I Have Doubted
I stopped looking for you
I stopped waiting for you
I stopped dying for you
and I started dying for myself
I aged rapidly
I became fat in the face
and soft in the gut
and I forgot that I’d ever loved you
I was old
I had no focus, no mission
I wandered around eating and buying
bigger and bigger clothes
and I forgot why I hated
every long moment that was mine to fill
Why did you come back to me tonight
I can’t even get off this chair
Tear run down my cheeks
I am in love again
I can live like this

If it be your will....

I've been listening to Jann Arden's rendition of Leonard Cohen's song, "If it Be Your Will" again lately. As it played this morning I realized I wanted to put the lyrics up here again. They're reflecting parts of my heart's position lately. I'm particularly drawn to the second and third verses.

If it be your will
That I speak no more
And my voice be still
As it was before
I will speak no more
I shall abide until
I am spoken for
If it be your will

If it be your will
That a voice be true
From this broken hill
I will sing to you
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing

From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing

If it be your will
If there is a choice
Let the rivers fill
Let the hills rejoice
Let your mercy spill
On all these burning hearts in hell
If it be your will
To make us well

And draw us near
And bind us tight
All your children here
In their rags of light
In our rags of light
All dressed to kill
And end this night
If it be your will

If it be your will.