Year of mercy

Washington Post correction

A previous version of this essay incorrectly identified the material Catholics apply to their foreheads on the first day of Lent. It is ash, not charcoal.

Chick Fil A (Supersize my waffle fries)

Genetically altered chicken breast
wrapped in bacon
dropped in grease
on white bread.


Cardiologists
and St. Peter
ready themselves
for the onslaught.

LINK

"Jesus, Are You Real?"

Jesus, are you real?
Did we make you up?
Is salvation what you want
Or is faith enough?
 
Do you know where I'm bound?
Do you know who I am?
Are you just a word I use
When I don't understand?
 
Standing like a statue in the sea
In a little truck stop in Tennessee
And bombs are crashing down in waves
On a giant TV screen
 
And I am struck
I cannot move to make it stop
What can I do? People are dying in their beds
While this flag flies over our heads
 
Jesus, are you stronger than a loaded gun?
I'm beginning to believe you're not the only one
Strong enough to show your love, strong enough to give
Strong enough to go through hell, strong enough to live
 
And all night long I sat with you
In a darkened hospital room
And nurses checked in by the hour
I was made aware of a higher power
 
And how this fragile life we live
Is not ours to keep but ours to give
What in the world am I gonna do
If anything should happen to you?
 
All I do is doubt you, God
All is do is love you, God
All I do is question you
What else can I do?
 
This world was never solid ground
The past is coming back around
All I do is search for you
What else can I do?
 
And when I say I search for you
I mean I search for peace
I search for hope, I search for love
And one day for release
 
Jesus, my life does not feel the same
New things happen everyday, things I can't explain
But I am not a man of faith, I'm a man of truth
But is this feeling in my heart, is this feeling proof?
 
When you do not know, you know
And when you know, you do not know
And when you think you do, you die
And when you do not think, you grow
 
Are we left here in the dark
Or are we left here in the light?
It seems to me that both are true
And it's up to us to know what's right
 
All I do is doubt you, God
All is do is love you, God
All I do is question you
What else can I do?
 
This world was never solid ground
Religion cannot help me now
All I do is search for you
What else can I do?
 
And when I say I search for you
I mean I search for peace
I search for hope, I search for love
And one day for release
 
God give me strength to accept the things
That I just cannot know
And even when I lose control
I will not let you go 

 MASON JENNINGS

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3sU0Dn5Bgk

LIFE WHILE-YOU-WAIT

Performance without rehearsal.

Body without alterations.

Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.

I only know it's mine. I can't exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot

just what this play's all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,

I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.

I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.

I trip at every step over my own ignorance.

I can't conceal my hayseed manners.

My instincts are for happy histrionics.

Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.

Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can't take back,

stars you'll never get counted,

your character like a raincoat you button on the run –

the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,

or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!

But here comes Friday with a script I haven't seen.

Is it fair, I ask

(my voice a little hoarse,

since I couldn't even clear my throat offstage).

You'd be wrong to think that it's just a slapdash quiz

taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.

I'm standing on the set and I see how strong it is.

The props are surprisingly precise.

The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.

The farthest galaxies have been turned on.

Oh no, there's no question, this must be the premiere.

And whatever I do

will become forever what I've done.

***Wislawa Szymborska

trans.  Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak

Morning Commute

(Easter 2015)

 

I hurry off to work

in the early dawn.

I cut through

the cemetery,

past the grieving

friends and widows,

and as I reach

the shade of

the caves,

I knock over

some poor soul.

As I reach my hand out

to lift him up,

I notice the scar on

his wrist.

"Nasty cut, you have there."

Arisen, he grunts and says "Thanks."

"A lot to do today. Shalom."

"Me too. Shalom."

And as I reach the east gate,

with my face meeting the rising sun,

I hear a cry

"He is not here!"

Mama told me

Some students take offense very easily.

During one lecture, a student asked a question I’ve heard many times: “If we evolved from monkeys, why are there still monkeys?” My response was and is always the same: we didn’t evolve from monkeys. Humans and monkeys evolved from a common ancestor. One ancestral population evolved in one direction toward modern-day monkeys, while another evolved toward humans. The explanation clicked for most students, but not all, so I tried another. I asked the students to consider this: Catholics are the oldest Christian denomination, and so if Protestants evolved from Catholics, why are there still Catholics? Some students laughed, some found it a clarifying example, and others were clearly offended.

Two days later, a student walked down to the lectern after class and informed me that I was wrong about Catholics. He said Baptists were the first Christians and that this is clearly explained in the Bible. His mother told him so. I asked where this was explained in the Bible. He glared at me and said, “John the Baptist, duh!” and then walked away.

Defending Darwin

Ash Wednesday

(2015)

Joel 2:12-17

No gifts.
No chocolate.
No parties.
No alleluias.

Just the faithful
gathering at
His command
on an
ordinary
winter Wednesday.

They pray that
their hardened hearts
be opened
so the ashes
of pain and sin
that are
encased in
them
be scraped away. 

To Be Rid of a Rival

For this curse,       you need a liter of good grain liquor

and a heartful       of unquenchable hate.

Keep the bottle corked,       and spend a long, dry night

thinking of everything       your rival has

that ought to be yours.

                                     At dawn, roll up your trousers

and set off barefoot       down an unmaintained

side road that dissolves into sand,       then dead-ends

at the river.       Walk upstream until you see

the swift skein of the water       tangle and fray,

marking the snag

                              where the river dumps its garbage.

An almost spokeless       bicycle wheel, an oil drum,

two traffic cones       and the aluminum

bones of a beach chair       have fetched up on this altar

of wet rock and weed.       Wade in as close

as you can to make your own

                                                 ugly offering.

The stream may be icy,       but your stoked-up rage

will keep you warm       as you unstop the bottle

and drink deep,       wishing your rival

gone gone gone gone.       Your curse will gain

strength with every swig.

                                            Picture a heart attack;

picture a jittery       mugger with a gun;

a missed stoplight       and a truck; a sailboat

in a thunderstorm.       When your head starts to swim,

take a final pull,       then throw the bottle hard

onto the trash heap. A trail

                                               of white lightning will

glitter for an instant like shards       of glass across the air.

Wish once more.       If your libation is accepted,

some misfortune will soon       carry your rival away­—

cast off, washed up, worn down—       until nothing is left

but a slight catch       in the river’s throat.

 Melissa Monroe

ecclesiastes

The trick is that you’re willing to help them.
The rule is to sound like you’re doing them a favor.

The rule is to create a commission system.
The trick is to get their number.

The trick is to make it personal:
No one in the world suffers like you.

The trick is that you’re providing a service.
The rule is to keep the conversation going.

The rule is their parents were foolish,
their children are greedy or insane.

The rule is to make them feel they’ve come too late.
The trick is that you’re willing to make exceptions.

The rule is to assume their parents abused them.
The trick is to sound like the one teacher they loved.

And when they say “too much,”
give them a plan.

And when they say “anger” or “rage” or “love,”
say “give me an example.”

The rule is everyone is a gypsy now.
Everyone is searching for his tribe.

The rule is you don’t care if they ever find it. 

The trick is that they feel they can.

Khaled Mattawa

Healing

The desire to grow without dying

reveals not all childish things have been put away.

This was the still and wounding prick

Peter felt during the cock-crow at dawn.

Boy, I bet that was quite the morning, huh? -

a warm-up crucifixion before the main event.

All illusions of hasty transformations were squashed

as the sun began its crawl over Golgotha.

There the stony disciple began his betrayal of

the gross inadequacy of speedy recoveries

in favor of the long difficult repentance

required to save the soul.

John Blase

Youth

Youth is not a period of time.

 It is a state of mind, 

a result of the will, 

a quality of the imagination, 

a victory of courage over timidity, 

of the taste of adventure 
over the love of comfort. 

A man doesn't grow old 

because he has lived a certain number of years. 

A man grows old when he deserts his ideal. 

The years may wrinkle his skin, 

but deserting his ideal wrinkles his soul. 

Preoccupations, fears, doubts, and despair 

are the enemies, which slowly bow us 

toward earth and turn us into dust before death. 

You will remain young as long as 

you are open to what is beautiful, 
good and great; 

receptive to the messages of 
other men and women, 

of nature and of God. 

If one day you should become bitter, 

pessimistic and gnawed by despair, 

may God have mercy on your old man's soul.

General Douglas MacArthur

The power of women

There were 11 people – ten men and one woman – 

hanging onto a rope that came down from a helicopter.

They all decided that one person should get off, 

because if they didn’t, the rope would break and everyone would die.

No one could decide who should go, 

so finally, the woman gave a really touching speech saying how she would give up her life 

to save the others, 

because women were used to giving up things for their husbands and children, 

giving in to men, 

and not receiving anything in return.

When she finished speaking, all the men started clapping.

Little Flower

It seems to me that if a little flower could speak, 
it would tell simply all what God has done for it 
without trying to hide its blessings. 

It would not say, 
under the pretext of a false humility, 
it is not beautiful or without perfume, 
that the sun has taken away its splendor 
and the storm has broken its stem 
when it know that all this is untrue. 

The flower about to tell her story
rejoices at having to publish 
the totally gratuitous gifts of Jesus. 

She knows that nothing in herself 
was capable of attracting the divine glances, 
and His mercy alone brought about 
everything that is good in her.

Thérèse de Lisieux

Six words

It is said that the shortest story ever told was 
written by the then young Ernest Hemingway, 
who said he could write a complete story in 
only six words!

His colleagues disagreed, 
and each bet $10 against the claim.

Hemingway wrote down the words on a napkin
and passed it around.

Everyone agreed that he won the bet.

Here is the shortest story ever told:

For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

I believe…

Lord,

I will never know or understand

You or Your ways.

Your birth or death

Heaven or Grace

Miracles or exclusive love of all

And especially - Resurrection.

Instead I believe. 

As carefully as the cupbearer

That serves Your blood 

At the Sabbath sacred meal.

let it go

let it go - the

smashed word broken

open vow or

the oath cracked length

wise - let it go it

was sworn to

go

let them go - the

truthful liars and

the false fair friends

and the boths and

neithers - you must let them go they

were born

to go

let all go - the

big small middling

tall bigger really

the biggest and all

things - let all go

dear

so comes love

e.e. cummings

Everything is Different Now

John 21:15-19/ Matthew 16:13-27

Peter was hurt

because of the Boss’s repeated questions.

Who could blame him?

We want to be forgiven

As quick as possible.

And Peter in a passive-aggressive manner states:

“You know what the answer is,

But I will say it again and again until You stop:

I love You.”

Then, like that day in Caesarea Philippi

The Master after hearing the answer

He was searching for

Told Peter of the path ahead.

Again with murder

and glorification.

But unlike the first time,

With his outburst and the Master’s rebuke,

Peter humbly obeys the command:

Follow Me.

Yes, Peter was born again ,

But he wasn’t born again yesterday.

Best in City

Now my ice cream truck is painted like a cheerful Panzer tank,
with a freezer full of ices and a fylfot on the flank.
And the music box is set up --hey, it's not against the law!--
to play 'Deutschland Uber Alles' after 'Turkey in the Straw'.
And although I scorn the Untermensch, the deviant, the Jew:
I tell them so politely, and I serve them ice cream too.

But so narrow-minded are they (so unethical as well!)
that they seldom come to sample the fine ice cream that I sell!
Nor even will they enter into rational debates
scheduled daily in my ice cream truck with all my skinhead mates.
So you see, it's a rankest prejudice -- as blatant as it's shitty --
that my fine all-natural ice cream has not yet won "Best In City".


FROM A COMMENT SECTION - COMMENTER LIGHTHILL

Seek Your Servant

Luke 23:39-43/ Psalm 119:176

O Lord, 

Omniscient One.

You who knows what

the internet can't record.

The actions,

            victories,

                       and defeats

of the eternal war

between the spirit and the bone. 

O One,

who does not forget

His own,

I humbly repeat

your cross-mate's request

"Remember me."