Refractions

The ashes on our forehead have a name:  Perhaps of an old, frail, and sad but ready body,  or an interruption – sudden, tragic,  that always could have happened, and then did,  against our hope.  I can name names, and so can you.  [Name names now.]  Please stretch with me, and hold within your ashes  those who are not inscribed on granite risers, or sung in litanies:  From the first occasion – when an ark floated above conscience –  to the latest drowning of hope. [Name names now.]  Canaan, Shechem, Moriah,  where gods called for death against the Liege of life.  The baptizer, beheaded, pointing to his cousin,  Lazarus wrapped and stinking, waiting for his friend,  Ezekiel’s rattling skeletons, waiting for the breath,  stacked like Buchenwald, Mariupol, My Lai or Phnom Penh.  [This is the part where, years and years and centuries from now,  you speak of your own ashes.]  Wherever something, n...

For the Transfiguration The first was at the water as you moved into 
 the house of purpose that would be your life.
 Dragged through the river
by your prophet cousin,
 drenched and emerging, 
dove descending,  then the voice, “beloved.”  The next was on the mountain,
 Word, and Law, and Prophet – 
 hining face, bright cloud of holiness,  terrified companions,  then the voice, “beloved.”  Then silence down the mountain,  “Not a word, until…”  Until the third, when darkness took the land,  abandonment your cry, “forsaken me”.  sour wine, your crying out and then last breath.  Your baptism, completed in your corpse,  now tears the veil, splits rocks,  shakes earth and empties tombs.  And then the voice, though this time not from heaven:  but from the crucifying soldier who surrenders,  then avows “this was God’s Son!”

  Remembering Julian of Norwich  All that is made, the nut:  in the mystic’s hand,  planted in the earth,  growing and producing,  harvested and home.  In the deepening now, life:  will always come to be,  is always underway,  always already is.  For to us a child:  is always to be born,  is always being born,  is always born already.  For to us, great love: is always to be risked,  is always being risked,  is always risked, already.  All that is made: will always come to be,  is always underway,  always already is:  The deepening now,  the nut in the mystic’s hand,  all that is made.

You were not the first, were you,  to trust the life of one just born,  to let that be  what bids you end with hope?  Still, how did you know the deeper thing?  How did you recognize this weak-and-needing One  as strong enough  to bear the weight  of your own falling life?  Were you bathed in light,  enough light for a whole world?  And did it come from those two eyes,  seeing you so brightly against the gloom of age?  Is what you saw so clearly,  through dim eyes and temple smoke,  the not-so-distant crisis  when this baby’s wounded hands  would carry us, whose souls are pierced – you, Anna, Mary, all creation –  home? (For the Feast of the Presentation, February 2)

How do we know at all?  Is knowing just the firing of synapses,  objective jolts that organize  electrons into truth?  Or can we also know from foolish stories,  that cross through seas and centuries  and land upon our hearts,  the stories that our broken hearts collect?  What is it softens hearts to breaking open,  that readies us to know, by open hearts,  another sovereignty, another realm –  one ruled by healing, gentleness and beauty,  by weakness that is strength misunderstood,  and folly that is wisdom, after all?  Epiphany begins among the shadows:  deep darkness, ominous gifts, the smoke of prayer;  a crown of gold and then a crown of thorns;  myrrh for anointing – holiness and death.  The story that is grief is in our path,  that tells of crosses, tombs and tears and love,  in which appears the shape of our redemption that makes its way into our softened hearts and carries us a...

“Here is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1.29)  “He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.” (Psalm 40.2)  "It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth." (Isaiah 49.6)  “We are all just walking each other home.” (Baba Ram Das)  Walking Home It is not sins but sin the Lamb subtracts:  the math is singular, the sin is one  sin of the world:  a broken shadow over us,  that breaks us hard and sharp against each other;  a sucking bog beneath us miring us –  to push and grab and groan against each other,  who should be friends and neighbours walking home.  No light thing, this taking sin away,  not just for some by birth or creed or nation:  if chosen, no...

The young man stands on the east side of the river, expectant within an expectant crowd, eyes fixed on his cousin as he leads one person after another from east to west through the ancient waters. Who could not hear the echoes of Joshua and Elisha as John leads the people through the brackish water to inhabit the land in a renewed and renewing response to the way of the Liberator. (No wonder it draws hostility from the temple and the court.) Joshua led a nation through this water to a land in which – they promised – they would follow the way of the Liberator. Elijah and Elisha crossed out of the land, and Elisha returned alone, both of them part of a long struggle against prophets of other gods who made shiny promises to that nation, to that people.   And now the young man watches as his cousin takes his turn in the witness of the prophets. The shiny idolatrous things are once more on offer from the establishment, the temple and the court: to make peace with the prince, with C...

  Gold   What happened to the gold the magi brought?  Did it make the journey into Egypt  sewn into the lining of a coat?  Perhaps it paid the passage  for the little family  running for its life.  What if the Roman prefect  built a border wall?  Would gold have let a border agent look the other way,  or paid a guide to open up a  passage into hope?  What happened to the gold the magi brought?  For now we only know the child is safe.  For now.  Frankincense   We spoon our fragrant resin onto  glowing charcoal in the thurible –  and swing, and sweetness drifts  across and through the room.  Borne on the fragrance,  something in us rises  to meet Something in the space around, above us,  some Beauty that heals,  some Truth that sustains,  some Spirit that breathes on the reed of our lives,  and they sing, our lives, they sing.  This is the gift they...

This frightened king, unsettled by the words of Persian pilgrims,  and terrified of the usurping toddler,  sets about his own transcendent terror,  infanticide,  a moat of murdered children  protecting his dominion.  He’s doing what kings do, and emperors,  and presidents, and titans of – whatever.  So, founded on footings of fear and murdered children,  the illusion sticks to the back of our eyes, the conviction trains the shape of our hearts   to expect… …nothing else.  In no time at all  “good news for all the people”  has become a maddening spoor for Herod’s frenzied dogs,  savage and hungry for innocents.  So it begins: the traverse of eternal confrontation –  death’s power and love’s authority –  across the landscape of a single life.  Death governing, ascendent,  love a refugee, hunted.  It is not starting well.

Every Child Immanuel (Advent 1A)  Odd, how the promise of later peace  comes just before annihilation – the tumbling of temple  into Babylonian dust.  Odd how the prophet speaks comfort  as the reckoning beast approaches.  Odder still, how Matthew writes a writhing, wrecked creation  as a plummet into hope – there is One-who-will-return,  who carried creation's violence to a cross,  wore its wounds into a room filled with fear,  will return to bear it to a tree of life  for its healing – for the healing of the nations.  Why do You wait so long,  as cities turn to rubble,  bodies to compost,  and the powerful fashion crosses  for another and another generation?  This is the world.  If the best the luckiest can do  is to cover ourselves with unearned advantage,  and cower into privilege,  what is to become of the unlucky,  with no camouflage of privilege,  no gospel of prospe...

Trapped – in bubbles, not in amber,  watching our partisan cable networks,  talking in code, not language,  antagonist neighbours, intimate enemies,  clutching at pixels and jingos to save our lives.  It was like this before – when one-before-One came to say,  “Repent”,   to say, “change your minds”,  say, “shed your bubbles”,  say, “deep Beauty is so close, so close –  is just a bubble-skin away.”  Leave your bubble, wash it off in water!  Stand in an old – and Ancient – river place,  in a new – and Ancient – way.  Re-enter – like Elisha – the land.  Cross – like Joshua – the river.  Intend – like Amos – justice.  And the Snakes?  The brood of urbane bubble-guardians  protecting the wash-starved world from threats of water?  This one-before-One tells them,  “You can flee the broken future,  and live like washed-off people,  unbubbled and new-minded!”  All these t...

Every Child Immanuel (For Advent 1, Year A )  Odd, how the promise of a later peace  comes just before annihilation –  a tumbling of temple into Babylonian dust .  Odd how the prophet utters comfort  as the reckoning beast approaches.  Odder still, how g ospel frames a writhing, wrecked creation  as a plummet into hope –  there is One-who-will-return ,  who bore violence to a cross,  wore wounds into a room filled with fear,  will portage us to a tree of life for our healing –  for the healing of nations .  Why do You wait so long,  as cities turn to rubble,  bodies to compost,  as the powerful fashion crosses for another and another generation?  This is the world, and if the best the luckiest can do  is cover ourselves with unearned advantage,  or cower into privilege,  what is to become of the unlucky,  with no patina of privilege,  no gospel-racket of divine protection?...

The ashes on our forehead   might be last year’s burned palms.   Or wildfires - burned Lytton, LA, Athens.  Or war-blacked cities,  Mariupol, London, Dresden, Hiroshima,  smouldering remains of commerce,  purpose, neighbours, love.  The ashes on our forehead,  horror, memory –  the kilns of Auschwitz,  Phnom Penh’s killing fields,  napalm, charred bones of village,  burning child.  Caught in the sin of the world,  its leg-hold trap,  gnawing our leg,  self-consuming,  burning our home: making ashes  even of ourselves.

Let us ask God to restore us to a place of Advent waiting.  One:     A gainst the darkness of waiting,  All:        we dazzle ourselves with a garish neon skyline of our own making.                   We are blind to the rising Star of your New Creation.  One:      Against the silence of waiting,  All:        we fill our ears with the clatter of common sense.                  We are deaf to the tone and the tempo of your Song.  One:      Against the uncertainty of waiting,  All:       we hide in the stale air of closed rooms.                  We miss the scent of your Beauty as it passes through our streets.  One:      Against the nakedness of waiting,  All:   ...

This morning it is best to be ready  for the movement of air – to have  a good warm sweater and a sturdy coat.  And mittens. This morning the movement of air is  not-so-obviously-my-friend.  But "not-so-obvious" isn’t "not-at-all",  as a blue fringe of eastern horizon  (that was not there 'til air stirred it and moved it)  inches up morning sky.  Winds trudge across great lake,  airy aqueduct for summer gardens,  sky avalanche to blanket winter fields,  breeze to sweat-soaked faces  in hot sun.  Still, November: the unkind wind shakes branches,  drives rain-sleet-snow into faces, strips off leafy jackets from the trees... We shiver and seek warmth.  November: it’s important  (or in February blizzard) to recall  that where no air moves, nothing lives –  no breathing baby, neighbour, lover, friend,  no blossoms, buds, or bowers  nuzzling horse,  lounging dog,  purring cat,...

Matthew 25. 14-30, November 19, 2023: “Pentecost 25”  Matthew 25. 31-46, November 26, 2023: “The Reign of Christ”  I wonder if we really believe that Jesus is proposing the slaves who double their master’s money as spiritual models, as kingdom-ready exemplary followers of the way of Jesus. Or if, as in the case the wise and ungenerous bridesmaids in the previous parable, their cleverness invites some measure of scepticism towards the idea that we are to emulate them. I wonder if we’re ready to see this as another instance of Jesus telling a story to provoke a probing spiritual and ethical examination of what it means to enter into the fullness of our humanity, to live a “good life”.  All by itself, without the parable that precedes it and the eschatological drama that follows (and if you can overlook the pretty broad smirk in the story when it commends usury as more-or-less “better than nothing”) this could be the story it’s been fashioned into by so many – a story comm...

I am trying to find a way into the parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids, something that doesn’t end with a door slamming shut in my face and an impossible moral. I’m wondering if there is any place in this story where the foolish can touch the hem of hope, as we stand outside the feast with our lamps and our too-late oil.  The Star Word I received at Epiphany is “Wisdom”, but as for so many others, so it is for me – more aspiration than accomplishment. So my question isn’t exactly disinterested. I wonder if there are others who, like me, think that our wise (now-former) companions are pretty hard-hearted, the bridegroom’s expectations unreasonably high, and the consequences drastic.  There were ten of us, and five of us brought extra oil for our lamps. The point was to have a lamp going when the bridegroom arrived, but he wasn’t about to be pinned down about when, exactly, that might be.  So what’s the problem? Is it that we foolish five didn’t plan ahead and bri...

Here’s the end of the gospel portion read at Valerie’s funeral: “Thomas said, ‘Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?’ Jesus said, ‘I am the Way, and the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’”  It’s a tough text for a preacher in a multi-faith world. It can easily seem as if Christians are claiming unique access to the divine homecoming based on having chosen – or inherited – the right religious beliefs. But Jesus isn’t talking about Christianity. He’s not talking about beliefs. He is talking about the human embodiment of the Friendship of God as the way home to God.  In the preaching moment, there was lots of material for a homily without venturing into those difficult waters. So it  was not until a few days later that I realized the way the text and the occasion might have worked together. You see, I was preaching at the funeral of a friend. Not just my friend, though she was that. But a friend . Friend was w...

In "What Am I Without You?", (New Yorker, June 12, 2023) Jiayang Fan writes of her relationship with her mother in its different eras. She tells the story of a Jehovah's Witness visitor her mother calls "Missionary Lady", whose mission is her mother's salvation. Jiayang finally asks her mother, "Did Missionary Lady accomplish her mission?" Her mother replies, "It's a good story, but a story can't save me." What if a story, a good story, is the only thing that can save me, save you, save us? What if the story is all we have? It started, after all, with stories: Adam, Eve, Abel, Cain, Noah, Sarah, Abraham, Isaac (barely), Esau and Jacob tumbling in the womb, a blessing, a limp, Rachel and Leah (it's complicated), Joseph and slavery, Shiprah and Puah, Moses, Miriam, Aaron, Joshua, judges, kings and prophets at loggerheads, exile and return, Ruth and Boaz, Samuel, Jonathan, David, Bathsheba, Uriah, Solomon, Song of Songs, Herod, ...

Like a triumphal return  but without the needy anxious edge  of vanity.    The truth of me known,  yet you welcome  as if there were none better.  Forty years’ worth  of dreams of the place before,  of going back there,  now I dream my return  to this place I have never been.  Weeks of vivid nights, dreams of this place and that,  of every place I have spent my heart –  and now, this dream,  this vivid night, this warm welcome home  to this eternal place,  this new,  this now, this I, this Thou.