I was looking for a sign from God, and wrote this poem

Confessions:

I ate the cheesecake.
I left my notes at home.
It was not the dog's fault.
I don't know everything.
I need a sign from God sometimes,
just the tiniest little sign.
Just one word,
or a splash of water,
a piece of bread, broken
and multiplied.
Multiplied! 
I need to see just a small piece
of forgiveness,
a little resurrection.
Just one word
Multiplied.
I don't know everything.
It was not the dog's fault.
I left my notes at home.
I ate the cheesecake.
Forgive me.

What to Pray For

For snow, rain or sunshine.

travelers, pilgrims, wanderers.
For the smallest blade of grass,
the widest canyon's chasm
and the river that cuts it.
The spaces between people.
For peace.

For the breath you hold.
For breath.
For the silence when you yearn to hear your name.
Your name.
For the flower, that it not be crushed.
The bruised reed, that it not be broken.

For the song not to end
the last pure note to go on and on
until the last outcast hears it
and arrives for the feast.

Today, I Cried

For a long time, I have seen a certain hand-made book on a shelf at the Book Arts Center, and coveted it.

I realize that a "Book Arts Center" is an odd and mysterious place, perhaps one you never knew existed.  At the Book Arts Center I learned to make a couple of basic hand-sewn books, and learned a little about the construction and history of books, as well.  And at the small gift shop, where the tools for making your own books are sold, I also saw this book.

It was called "Sightings."  Inside it there were beautiful small poems and colorful drawings.

I wanted the book because it was beautiful.  It was art.

I also wanted the book because of its title.  When I saw the title, "Sightings," I thought of God-sightings, and trying to teach my congregation how to see God in their lives.

But, it is a hand-made book.  It would have been an extravagance.  There were other books more extravagant, of course (some that took my breath away), but this one was just enough out of my price range to make me sigh.  So I just coveted it, and looked for it on the shelf every time I went into the book arts center.  It was always there, although sometimes they moved it to another location so I would have to hunt for it.

But, this month was my birthday.  My husband has known that I have coveted this book and he gave me the money so that we could go get it.  On my birthday we went to the book arts center, ate lunch at the small cafe and hunted for the book in the gift shop.

We didn't find it.

I asked the clerk to hunt for us.  They said that they were sold out.  I asked if they could find out if the artists had more, or if the edition was sold out.  They said they would try.

Then the emails began.  They were indeed sold out.  There were no more copies.  I sighed and asked the "hail Mary" question:  if they found out that someone didn't want their copy, would they give me a call?  That was it.

And then I started getting emails from one of the book artists.  There were, indeed, no more copies, she said, but one:  the artist's proof.  Would I like to see it?  I might not like it, but if I did, she would sell it to me, for slightly less than the finished book.  She told me about another of her books that I might like, and I told her why I had a special affection for "Sightings."

She said, "If you decide to purchase it, I will tell you the story about it."

So today, I went over to the book arts center, and found the artist, and she showed me the book.  The pages are stitched together, and the title is hand printed in marker.

She told me that she first began to think about this book when she was taking care of a friend who was dying of cancer.  And while she sat with, cared for, her friend, she started to see, and to write, and to draw, what she would miss, if she was dying.

My eyes started to hurt.  I have sat with many people who were dying.

Today, I officially announced that I have taken a call to another congregation, to people I have just met, and to places I have only seen once or twice.  I am thinking about what I will learn, and who I will meet, and what we will do, together.

And I am thinking about what I will miss.

Sometimes, many times, that is just where I see God.

But, it makes my eyes hurt.

Easter: What Difference does it make?

Starting on April 1^st, I have been trying to write a poem a day.  It's National poetry month (I admit to knowing this).  At first I thought that I would find a favorite poem for every day of the month.  But then I threw caution to the wind and decided to write a poem a day instead.  I have never considered myself much of a poet, but I did it anyway.

I have been writing and posting the poems on Facebook, which is odd in a way, but for some reason I am the sort of person who writes a poem if she knows that she has a commitment to post it publicly every day (sort of the anti-Emily Dickinson.)  

Late on Easter evening, I had not written or posted a poem yet.  But here's what came out:

what difference does it make?

on this Easter evening

this question I take to sleep with me.

You rose.

what difference does it make?

what difference to my

lying down,

waking,

working,

dying every day

life?

You rose.

on this Easter evening

I take this prayer to sleep with me.

What difference will it make?

lying down,

waking,

working,

dying every day,

make me an instrument

of your love.

As I reflect back on this Lent and Easter, the question I want to ask is not “What is the meaning of Easter?” but “What does Easter mean to me?”  Not just “What difference does it make that Jesus rose from the dead?”  but, “What difference does it make to me?  What difference does it make to us, the church?  And what difference does it make to the world?”

The more I think about it, the more I want to reflect on this question for the next fifty days.  For I suspect that there is not just one answer to this question, "What difference does it make?"  Perhaps there are fifty answers.  

What is your reason?

What difference does Jesus' resurrection make to you?  

  

Prayer and Poetry

I'm not that good at either one.

I know, this is an odd confession for a pastor to make.  You don't like to hear your pastor saying, "I'm no good at praying."  And don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't pray.  It's just that I am apt to compare myself with people who seem to be able to go on and on, pray aloud for hours with no notes.  When I pray aloud, I admit, I'm always afraid I'm going to get myself into a sentence I can't get out of. My prayers tend to be short, inelegant, a little undisciplined.  

I love both poetry and prayer, even though I confess to being good at neither one.  I love the formal prayers in my prayer books, eloquent and elegant.  I notice that some of these prayers are poetic, using literary devices and structures:  metaphors, allusions, alliteration.  I love all kinds of poetry, too:  from the deceptive simplicity of Robert Frost and Mary Oliver, to the complex rhymes and dense metaphors of Gerard Manley Hopkins and John Donne.  And I have tried writing a little poetry too.  Though I admire sonnets from a distance, and have even memorized a few, the complexities of rhyme and meter have so far eluded me.  Like I said, I am not good at it.

Some of my favorite poets (though not all by any means) have been the devotional ones.  Some of John Donne's Holy Sonnets were really prayers, addressed to God -- the same can be said of Mary Oliver, Denise Levertov, and others.

For the past year or so, I've been writing occasional "haiku prayers" -- not quite "sighs too deep for words", but at least trying to pray using as few words as possible.  It has made me think that perhaps prayer and poetry have some things in common, some things beyond the eloquence of the prayers in my hymnal:  something more basic, more elemental than literary devices, something that goes beyond tradition or eloquence.

1.  Both prayer and poetry have a necessary honesty.  A good poem is, above all, honest.  It doesn't pull punches.  It tells the truth.  In fact, poetry is one way of getting deeper into truth, an expression of joy or lament or love that strips off artifice and reveals the depths of pain and hope.

2.  Both prayer and poetry are elliptical.  They are honest, but they leave some things unsaid.  Perhaps there are 'sighs too deep for words'.  Poems make you read between the lines.  They do not say everything.  Prayers do too, but in a different way, and perhaps for other reasons.  Prayers a elliptical, because it is impossible to say all that is on our hearts.  The apostle Paul has it right, "We do not know how to pray as we ought," and so prayers will always leave some things unsaid.  And yet, not saying everything, a poem or a prayer somehow becomes more than the sum of its parts.

3.  You don't have to be good at it.  That's right.  You don't have to be good at praying to pray.  Just say a name.  Cry.  Rejoice.  Stumble through a few words.  Don't let the eloquent prayers discourage you.  You don't have to be good at poetry to write a poem either.  In this era of the professional poets with their bound books, we have forgotten.  In the past writing poetry was a hobby for some, like knitting or collecting stamps or playing the piano.  But you didn't have to be good at it, to enjoy writing limericks, or rhymed couplets, or blank verse.

Prayer and poetry.  I am not good at either one. Still, I will lift my voice, my heart, my pen.  I don't have to be good at it.  Just honest.  That's the harder thing, anyway.

Poetry is Prayer/Prayer Is Poetry

A prayer is not a poem, and a poem is not a prayer.  But they do, somehow, have something in common, both in theory and in practice.  For today, it's just practice.

I.

O Lord, look kindly
on my heart, broken, bruised, black:
backward, still, but Yours.

II.

what do you mean
"I shall not want"?
I want, O Lord, 
so many things
softness, color, weight
weightlessness
a mountain to climb
and strength to climb it
sleep when I am tired
an unexpected sunrise
to thirst and to be sated
what do you mean
"I shall not want"?
Teach me how to lie down
in righteousness, to love the
still waters, to eat what is
set before me
to live in the valley
of the shadow of death.

III.
God questions me.
O mortal, what do you think?
Can these bones live?
Can these tears flow?
Can these hearts of stone break?
Can these barren bodies bear life?

Why ask me, Lord?
You know.
You know I am dust.
I have cried oceans
and all I have left is salt.
I have no breath in me.

O Lord, you know.
My hands are empty.
I open my mouth
and no words come out.

But hear, again, at midnight
my mourning morning prayer:
O Lord, Open Thou my lips
And my mouth shall declare your praise.

Judges, Widows, and what We Pray For

So I've been thinking about the parable of the widow and the unrighteous judge all week.  I've been thinking about prayer, and the problem of the parable, because, you know, it does seem like the parable is encouraging us to be persistent (perhaps not just in prayer, though), even though after 2,000 years it is clear that that all of the prayers and yearnings of all of the saints have not been answered with all speediness.

So I can't stop thinking about it.  Prayer, and persistence, and what we want, and what we pray for, and hope for, and work for, too.  Because all of these things are tied up in this parable for me, in eight short verses.

What is it we really want?  What is it we pray for?  The widow wanted justice, passionately.

So I was thinking about these things on Friday night while we were bookstore shopping, and I came across this issue of Poetry Magazine.  Near the beginning was a poem by a woman named Alice Fulton.  Here are the first few lines:

For your birthday, I'm learning to pop champagne corks
with a cossack sword when all you asked for was world peace.
I'm actioning the deliverables to wish you many happy returns

of the ecstasies that are imminent when all you requested
was a contentment so quiet it's inaudible.  Remember when
I gave you a robe of black silk that floats and does not rustle?
When all you desired was to turn from what was finished and hard

in the darkness.*

What is it we really want?  What is it we pray for?  We pray for our family to be safe, for roofs over our heads, for food, for world peace.

Persistence is not just about prayer.  It is about lived prayer, our efforts, the mercy we show, the peace we work to create.

And yet, when we are honest, we know that the really important things are beyond us.  At our best, we cobble together little pieces of mercy, shards of peace, remnants of the promise of abundance.

So prayer reveals us.  Prayer reveals both the meanness and the depth of our hopes.

As it turns out, the things we really want, really need, are beyond us.

Justice.
Mercy.
World Peace.

Don't give up.

*Alice Fulton, "You Own It" (October 2013 Poetry)

The Small Picture

Forgive me, for we were at the Biltmore Mansion the other day.  It is the largest home in North America, and it was gorgeous and overwhelming, with all of the layers of history and art and architecture, and even though I am on vacation, it got me started thinking about Mission and Vision and Purpose, big words that help churches and individuals think about Where They Are Going and How They Are Going To Get There.  You Know:  "The Big Picture."

George Vanderbilt had a vision, or a mission, or both:  and it was to build this great and beautiful house, where many people came and stayed and entertained.  The house had its own bowling alley and swimming pool, a gymnasium and a music room and a library.  The garden was designed by the same person who designed Central Park.

As for me, what I remember most is walking across the lawn on the way back to the parking lot, and seeing a small yellow butterfly fly in front of me.

But it made me think, again, about the important and vexing question:  what is my mission?  do I have a vision for my life?  And what about my congregation?  What is the mission of my congregation?

When I was a little girl, I had a simple mission in life, and it was to write stories.  I thought I would be an author.  I didn't have any idea what I would write "about," but I thought I would tell stories of some sort or another.

Then I knew I was going to become a pastor, which also involves telling stories,  and helping other people tell stories, as well as holding hands and breaking bread and pouring water.  Being a pastor involves holding up mirrors to people's pain and beauty, and nudging them forward to do things they never thought they could do.  And Leading -- but where?  I can't seem to get my brain around what is called "The Big Picture":  all I can see is a number of small pictures of daily faithfulness, on the way to the reign of justice and mercy that only God can bring.

A woman from my congregation tutors all of the immigrant children in her apartment building.  A young man comforts his confirmation guide, who is grieving.  A confirmation guide is vulnerable enough to share her grief with her students.  A young mother and her children bring communion to a woman who is shut-in.  They visit every month.  A two year old girl shares the "Peace" with as many people as possible during Sunday worship.  A small yellow butterfly flies across a great garden.

The Small Pictures:  I don't want you to miss them, because if you do, you might also miss the Son Rising every single day.

I still don't know what my mission is, but I pray that God will grant me grace to see my own small yellow butterfly, and courage to follow.

Some Haiku Prayers

I just started writing a few haiku prayers and posting them on Facebook.  My friend Lindy inspired me because she is having her students write haiku.

Tell me which one you like best.

God in the heavens
You are not in the heavens
You are in our hands.

***

Have mercy on us, Lord
Cup your hands around our pain
Breathe life in our clay

Raise us. We are dead.
Fix our wings. They are broken.
Make us walk, run, fly.

***

unravel me, God
then knit me back together
weave in thread of flame

***

I confess to you, Lord
my failure to see robins
hear their quiet song.

***

Lord, open my hands
Pour out streams of mercy
Let water run through

***

God of compassion
heal forgive, help, guide, raise up
Read between the lines

***

Cover me tonight
Sing soft songs of Your mercy
Sighs too deep for words.

Not enough for a book yet....

In the Old Days, we Used to Have Poetry Parties

Here's a poem that's been haunting me for quite a while:

Muted Gold

For Abraham Rich

My father died just as my plane touched down.
He taught me journeys don't happen in straight lines.
I loved him wihtout ever needing words.
Is memory a chain of alibis?

He taught me journeys don't happen in straight lines.
His father sailed  Odessa to Boston Harbor.
Is memory a chain of alibis?
The story I choose a net of my own desires?

His father sailed Odessa to Boston Harbor.
Dad worked beside him in their corner store.
The story I choose a net of my own desires?
I wish I'd known to ask the simple questions.

Dad worked beside him in the corner store.
They shelved the tins of black beans, fruit preserves, and almond cakes.
I wish I'd known to ask the simple questions,
he'd have stayed with me and gossiped over toast.

They shelved the tins of black beans, fruit preserves and almond cakes.
What colors did they wear, what languages were spoken?
He'd have stayed with me and gossiped over toast,
now he's smiling but I can't summon the thoughts he's thinking.

What colors did they wear, what languages were spoken?
Was it a muted gold, a world of shattered feeling?
Now he's smiling but I can't summon the thoughts he's thinking.
I pack his clothes away, mark them for Goodwill.

Was it a muted gold, a world of shattered feeling?
What good will it do to dwell, I hear him say.
I pack his clothes away, mark them for Goodwill.
but I hold fast to one old T shirt, butter-smooth, and brilliant.

What good will it do to dwell, I hear him say.
He much preferred to glide along life's surface.
but I hold fast to one old T shirt, butter-smooth, and brilliant
and tell a story by moonlight, to try to keep him with me.

He much preferred to glide along life's surface.
I love him now with images and words,
and tell a story by moonlight, to try and keep him with me.
My father died just as my plane touched down.

-Susan Rich

From
Beloved on the Earth

That Time of Year....

Yesterday was a gorgeous fall day, with temperatures up into the 60s. It was a day that there was no excuse to stay inside, so we actually got out in the morning (before I had to be at church for a pre-baptism meeting and some other office work) and raked leaves and started cleaning and organizing our back porch.

Scout wanted to be outside too. She always adds an element of fun to "outside". We took a couple of work breaks to take pictures of her.

When we got tired and needed to go inside for lunch and to do other things, Scout didn't want to come in. In fact, she didn't want to come in all afternoon.

She didn't come inside until it was time for her supper.

She wasn't running around, or chasing animals, or digging holes, or barking madly. When we peeked outside to check on her, more often than not, we would find her just sitting in the middle of the yard, just experiencing (it seemed to me) the rareness of the day, the rareness of the time of year -- the fleeting season between summer and winter, when the leaves are down but the snow has not yet come, when the sun is not too hot, the wind is not too fierce, the sun is soothing, the wind massages.

I think I knew a little of what she felt.

My days become so full, my lists so long, my worries so all-consuming, that it seems that I don't have time so often to just sit: to sit and read, to sit and knit -- even just to sit and look around and wonder. My days become so full that I don't notice... the yellow leaves, the breeze, the quiet ticking...

That time of year thou mayest in me behold

When yellow leaves, or few, or none do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the deathbed whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

--William Shakespeare

Praying

The week is getting away from me already, and it's only Tuesday. By this I mean, I had been dreaming of extended, leisurely study and pondering time, as well as quality time with friends and parish members, as well as a couple of important and thought-provoking meetings. And when I was organizing the week, I thought it would all fit together nicely, but it looks a little frantic in places.

I am not carving out the writing (and especially poetry) time that I thought I would be carving out.

But I did take a nice walk in some soft rain this morning.

I did not sit down with the Scripture texts for quite as long as I thought I would this afternoon. I wove my way through all six chapters of Ephesians, on the way to focusing on the doxology of Ephesians 3.

But I did spend an extended time catching up with an old friend from seminary about everything under the sun, from theological passions to personal life updates. I have not done anything like this for a long time, and it felt like an extravagance, but a necessary one.

I got a little book recently, called These Days. It's small, hand-made, and contains a few prayers and poems for the Daily Office. I found it at the Minnesota Center for Book Arts.

My favorite poem right now is by my friend, Pastor Kae Evenson.

Gracious God,
There was a day when we asked who you were.
On that day, you turned your back to us.
"I am" you said, that's all.
There was a day when we asked you to show
us a miracle or two.
In return you asked us to follow you to Jerusalem.
On that day we did not know that strength is having
the courage for small, kind gestures.
And then there was the day when a small prayer
pulled through us like a thread, as taut and hopeful as light.
Forgive them, you said, for they do not know what they do.
Amen

In the meantime, in the space between your hopes and what the day becomes,
in the space between the time that blows through your fingers and the time that rests in your lap,
in the space between your good intentions and your not-so-good intentions,
I offer this poem to you.

Blessings

too bad for me

i am typing this with my right hand. i'm really not supposed to use my left hand at all.
but i have not been good.
i typed my funeral sermon and my elbow ached.
don't feel too sorry for me. it's not such a bad break.
i need to be patient but i'm not
plus i am discovering how hard it is for me not to write
just notes doodles and stuff
it's like not eating potato chips.
i don't mean typing
there's something about feeling a pen in my hand

some things are hard like
driving
washing my hair

some things are impossible though
i.e. opening jars
can't do it

i will still read blogs but probably not comment
for awhile

maybe i'll write some
haiku

Sometimes Interpreting the Bible Can Be Like This Too

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to water-ski
across the surface of a poem
waving ath the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

--Billy Collins
The Apple that Astonished Paris

What are some scripture passages you (or others) have tried to torture a confession out of?

Poetry, Mystery, Dogma

(the next part of the story)
I don't have a neat time-line any more of how my faith life developed over my college years. I just have impressions and vignettes. I will share some with you:

I remember that I belonged to a charismatic prayer group on campus, although I don't remember a regular meeting time any more. People came and went from this group and it was unclear who were the leaders. I remember one night in particular a young man who was tangentially connected to this group asked if he could wash everyone's feet. I wasn't sure about this, although we let him do it. He had long blonde hair, and dried everyone's feet with his hair. (I also remember that he had a great recipe for cheesecake.)

I remember that there were several prayer and fasting vigils. I had not heard of the discipline of fasting before, and read a book about it. None of our fasts were more than 24 hours. (I no longer remember what we were fasting and praying for.)

I remember that there was a sort of a scandal when one of the engaged couples (among this Pentecostal group) broke up. They were seniors when I was a sophomore; I remember that he was a musician and song-writer who wrote wonderful Christian songs. (I remember listening to him sing his versions of Matthew 6 and Romans 12). I learned later that he was gay; in our Pentecostal group, of course, this was considered a terrible sin.

I remember that once we invited a student to our prayer meeting. He prayed in tongues for the first time -- and, according to a few students who understood him, it was French. He was also a literature student.

I went on some spiritual retreats at a nearby church camp. I remember that we received Bible verses for the weekend on our bunk beds. I also remember that getting "Slain in the Spirit" was all the rage. I couldn't figure out where being "slain in the spirit" was in the Bible; to me, it just seemed like a kind of "spiritual high." Since I was reading up on Classic Christian Doctrine at the time, I was suspicious of spiritual highs that were not endorsed in the Bible.

I had headaches. Sometimes I had headaches in prayer meetings. The others liked to pray for my headaches to go away. Sometimes it hurt so much to have people put their hands on my head that I lied and told them the headache had gone away, just to get them to stop.

At the same time that I attended charismatic prayer meetings, I joined a group called "Lutheran Youth Encounter." It was a sort of evangelical group of Lutheran students who formed small teams of 6-8 students, and went out to different churches to work with their youth groups, plan church services, lock-ins, etc. We learned skits, games, songs, and activities. Though not charismatic, this was not by any means a progressive organization. We had the first woman "team leader" my senior year (not me), and it was sort of a controversial move on our part.

Do you wonder how I had any time to study at all? I absolutely devoured my Interpretation of Poetry class as a sophomore, where our Professor used John Ciardi's classic "How Does a Poem Mean?" This also affected how I was reading scripture -- Ciardi's thesis that the form of a poem is an integral part of its meaning seemed to apply to Bible passages as well.

At the same time, I overloaded on Religion classes: not only the Introduction to the Bible class, but Church History, Christian Ethics and, my senior year, Mysticism. My Pentecostal experiences had made me curious about Christian Mysticism. I ended up taking Mysticism at the same time as I took a class in 17th Century Metaphysical Poetry (think George Herbert and John Donne, for example).

I remember that while I still embraced the conservative theology that I learned from the Pentecostals, I was realizing that I admired the piety of those who were merciful, generous, and full of charity.

To say that I was thinking about a lot of things was an understatement.

And somewhere during my senior year, I discovered the author Henri Nouwen. The first book I read was The Living Reminder.

I was unaware at the time that it was a book about what it means to be a minister.

....to be continued

The Next Installment....

As I mentioned before, after my pentecostal experience, I was perfectly insufferable for about six months (at least, I think it was about that long). I offended friends and family members who had not shared my particular religious experiences; I was willing to divide people into "true belivers" and "everyone else." I also wrote letters to a couple of my high school friends, telling them about my experiences. They never wrote me back.

I read a chapter in the book of John every night; I also read a lot of the Pentecostal literature that was popular at that time: Dennis Bennett's book Nine O'Clock in the Morning; Francis McNutt's book Healing, and Erwin Prange's The Gift is Already Yours. Agnes Sanford's classic book The Healing Light is quite intriguing and is one of the few that I have retained. (Also Larry Christianson's The Christian Family, which sets the women's movement back about 100 years -- led to some interesting discussions with my mom). (Most of these books are now out of print). I attended a "coffee house" worship service once a week which was hosted, I think, by a few people from the Four Square Gospel Church.

In the summer I began attending two evening church services: one at a Catholic church, and one at what was called a "New Testament Church". I continued to worship at my Lutheran Church on Sunday morning. I attended the Catholic charismatic meeting with a Lutheran friend of mine from college. I attended the other worship service with an old friend from my childhood who I had "coincidentally" met on a bus on day. (But I was sure that it was not a coincidence.) I thought that the music at the Catholic charismatic church was especially beautiful, especially when the congregation did something called "singing in the Spirit."

Although I was pretty well converted to a charimatic/pentecostal point of view on most things, I was very stubborn in two areas: baptism, and the book of Revelation. The first semester after my charismatic experience my college friends put a lot of pressure on me to be re-baptized. I read everything I could get my hands on about baptism, and became more and more convinced about the sacramental nature of baptism. I also resisted a full immersion in the dispensationalist, pre-millenial view of the End Times.

When I went back to school my sophomore year, I was still an extremely earnest Christian. I took a Bible class that fall that introduced me to the historical-critical view of the Bible. (Well, that's not exactly true; I knew a little about the historical-critical view of the Bible from my lay theologian uncle.) I don't remember suffering any profound doubts from what I learned; I retained my enthusiastic faith and got an 'A' in the course, as well. I developed the practice of taking Sunday as a sabbath from studying during that year. For that year, at least, it worked out, too. I also spent the entire year taking classes from a professor new to the school. She was a literature professor -- and a Roman Catholic nun.

As the school paper reported, in an interview with her, she was "unlike any nun you ever met." For one thing, she was a T.S. Eliot scholar, steeped in classical literature. For another, she was a mystic. She preached that year on the Feast Day of St. Thomas Aquinas, and claimed that she was going to preach about Jesus, not Thomas, because that's what Thomas told her to do.

That year, I took Interpretation of Fiction, the January term course Poetry and Music, and Interpretation of Poetry from her. I remember her walking into class one day in January, and reciting from memory

I say more: the just man justices
Keep grace, that keeps all his goings graces
Acts in God's eyes who in God's eyes he is: Christ
For Christ plays in ten thousand places
Lovely in eyes and lovely in limbs not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

from the Sonnet, "When Kingfishers catch fire", by Gerard Manley Hopkins

At that moment I discovered that there were other kinds of religious experiences than speaking in tongues. I was having one.


... to be continued, (maybe)

I thank you god....

Tomorrow at church we are installing our new music director and organist. There will be no sermon, but plenty of music tomorrow, at all services. Even our contemporary worship service will have a mini hymn sing, featuring the organ.

Between the hymns or songs, the other pastor and I will have short reflections. I decided to read e.e. cummings poem, i thank you god for this amazing day. When searching the internet for it, I found this marvelous choral version I'd like to share with you.



Personally, I need a break from "other news" these days."

This is one of the reasons I bought a digital camera

Seen on a house in a nearby neighborhood....

Confirmation Sunday

You show me the path of life. In your presence there is fullness of joy; in your right hand are pleasures for evermore.
--- Psalm 16:11 ---


The path of life to me unknown,
through your word it now is shown.
Though the road goes up and down,
your loving face shows not a frown.
You’ve made my life eternally blessed,
my faith to you I have confessed.
Your followers Janet, Jon, Gene have found,
your heavenly body above sacred ground.
You lead the way through bad and good,
in you the strong have stood.
You strengthen, you cure, you love all

I know you will never let me fall.

A follower I intend to be
forever faithful as you speak to me.
An answered prayer I always seek,
for love, for hope, for a higher peak.
I wait for you in the shadows,
like a lamb in the meadows.
I look for you in the stars,
and see you in the flowers, the clouds, in passing cars.
I follow in your footsteps like a winding trail,
not sure where you’re taking me, but I won’t bail.
Send me an angel from your side,
uncover my path do not hide.
I will come out unscathed,
by your love I’ve been bathed.
In my Confirmation adventure
my path is still unsure,
I believe you will lead me to use talents

and keep me on my track to balance. -- Alison O.

Today was confirmation for 20 young people in our congregation. At our last service this morning, they said the prayers, read the lessons, carried the cross and torches, helped with communion. They led the service, except presiding at the communion.

Outside in the narthex, their faith statements and banners they had created were displayed for everyone to see. This is one faith statement; she and her parents gave me permission to share it here. Enjoy!

My Dog Never Thinks About It

My dog never thinks about it
she doesn't wonder
should I eat that steak?
should I chase that rabbit?
should I bark or howl or whine or whimper?
should I wait at the window with hope?
should I invite that dog to play
with wagging tail and open smile?

I always think about it
worry about it
have second thoughts about it
I wonder
should I eat and drink
should I fast and pray
should I chase my dreams
should I wait with hope
should I invite a stranger
to my adventure
should I speak
should I be silent

I hesitate

and all is lost

(draft draft draft!)