"Thy name"

(a meditation on each word(s) 

of the Lord's prayer)

Your Name

which signifies omnipresence

in a land that

stares into 

its self-absorbed screens.

Your Name

which signifies omnipotence

in a land that 

fights over 

scraps of power.

Your Name

which signifies omniscience

in a land that

hung Truth

on a cross.

The Bird With the Human Head

~ Anne Sexton

I went to the bird

with the human head,

and asked,

"Please Sir,

where is God?"

"God is too busy

to be here on earth,

His angels are like one thousand geese assembled

and always flapping.

But I can tell you where the well of God is."

"Is it on earth?"

I asked.

He replied,

"Yes. It was dragged down

from paradise by one of the geese."

I walked many days,

past witches that eat grandmothers knitting booties

as if they were collecting a debt.

Then, in the middle of the desert

I found the well,

it bubbled up and down like a litter of cats

and there was water,

and I drank,

and there was water,

and I drank.

Then the well spoke to me.

It said:  "Abundance is scooped from abundance,

yet abundance remains."

Then I knew.

Irish Folk Tale

Once there was a poor and generous old man from Ballaghaderreen who has a dream.  In it he is told to make a journey at the end of which he will find a pot of gold.  In this case the old man has to leave Balla and travel a good way to Dublin and there, when he crosses one of the bridges over the River Liffy, he will find a pub, and there he will find his treasure.  

The old man follows the dream map and when he sees the pub that was in his dream he looks around but there's no place he can dig for a hidden treasure, so he stands beside the door and waits.  He waits all day and at nightfall the publican comes out and asks,
"What are you standing here for all day long?"

"I had a dream that told me to come here."

"A dream?  I think you must be a daft old man to follow dreams.  I, myself, had a dream a month ago and it told me to go to some poor old sod's cottage on the crossroads from French Park to Ballaghaderreen and if I did, I would find a pot of gold in his front yard.  Do you think I would go traipsing all over the countryside because of a dream?  It's cold.  You should go home."

"Indeed I should and will," said the old man.

And when he got home he dug in his front yard and found the treasure and wasn't he himself and all the others the better for it.  

And if he hasn't given it all away we might share a bit with them.

The Radical Priest on Luke 18:1-8

(Parable of the Persistent Widow)

Now most of 
my brethren
will preach
that the lesson of
the text is
to be persistent in prayer.
To pray unceasingly 
as St. Paul puts it.

However,
the problem I
have with this
message is
by extension
the unjust judge
is God.

Whom we
can badger
anything out of
Him 
if we are  
relentless in
our petitions.

Allow me
to turn the tables
on this parable.

God is the
widow.

Constantly 
pleading 
to the point of 
being pushy
to get us
to see His way
is the best way.

And I can see
by the look in
some of your eyes
you sense
the implications
of this.

WE ARE THE UNJUST JUDGE!

Do we
don't care
what God thinks?

Do we 
ignore
what God is pleading with
us about?

Do we worry
about 
God upsetting 
our apple cart
or worse?

(Aside: I never before noticed 
in the  text
that judge was afraid
of physical harm 
by his continual
rejecting of her claims.)

So the 
message I have for 
you this
Sabbath 
is this:
Yes,
be faithful in prayer.
Pray in the Spirit.
Pray in love and truth
and unceasingly.

But also
listen to
and contemplate
on the Father's
continual
prayers for you.

Buddha on Matthew 6:25-34

An old farmer went to the Buddha 

seeking help for his problems. 

First, he had professional problems. 

In his part of the world, 

farming was extremely difficult 

and his work completely vulnerable to weather. 

Even though he loved his wife, 

there were certain things 

about her he wanted to change. 

Similarly, he loved his children, 

but they weren’t evolving 

the way he had hoped and anticipated. 

Listening carefully

as the man explained his frustrations with life, 

the Buddha responded, 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“What do you mean?” 

questioned the farmer. 

“You’re a highly regarded great teacher 

who has insight into all of life’s problems.”

“All human beings have eighty-three problems,” 

the Buddha explained. 

“A few problems may go away, 

but soon enough others will arise. 

So we’ll always have eighty-three problems.”

The farmer, both indignant and frustrated, asked, 

“So what good is all of your teaching?”

To which the Buddha replied, 

“My teaching can’t help with the eighty-three problems, 

but perhaps it can help with the eighty-fourth problem.”

“What’s that?” the farmer asked with great curiosity.

“The eighty-fourth problem is that 

we don’t want to have any problems.”

“Hallowed be”

(a meditation on each word(s) 
of the Lord's prayer)

I

"Honor Me with their lips"

Lord,

when I'm in a

church 

that is in 

more awe 

of the preacher

than You,

I believe 

I hear them

pray:

“...hollowed be thy Name”

II

The Beauty of His Holiness

You are 

holy.

Compassionate before a person sins,

Compassionate after a person has sinned,

and

mighty in compassion 

to give all creatures according to their need.

Merciful, that humankind may not be distressed;

Gracious if humankind is already in distress.

You are

slow to anger;

plenteous in mercy;

speaking in truth;

keeping mercy unto thousands;

forgiving

iniquity;

transgression;

and sin;

and pardoning

because

You are 

holy.

Adapted from Shelosh-'Esreh Middot

"in Heaven"

(a meditation on each word(s) of the Lord's prayer)

Your eternal address.

You

once sublet

the place

to that

nice couple

You created.

Unfortunately,

 You had to 

evict them

because they

broke

the 

Lease.

And for 

a long time

you let 

the place go vacant.

Then

You decided

to 

advertise

Kingdom Properties.

First

the prophets.

Then

Your Son.

Telling

all who 

would listen

about

the new terms

of the Lease. 1

And revealing to people 

the new name of the estate --

Graceland.

Note 1  - John 1:17

"Who Art"

(a meditation on each word(s) of the Lord's prayer)

I

A Mystery.

All

of the modern 

versions of

the Book

have dropped 

this line,

so why

do we pray

as if 

Jesus

proclaimed

the Good News

in 

Old English? 

II

Jehovah-Shammah

"You are"

Jesus insists.

No ancestor 

worship

of

Abraham,

Isaac,

and Jacob.

You 

are

the God

of the living.

You are 

Presence.

Jehovah-Shammah

Benediction

Rabindranath Tagore

Bless this little heart, 

this white soul that has won the kiss of

heaven for our earth.

He loves the light of the sun, 

he loves the sight of his

mother's face.

He has not learned to despise the dust, 

and to hanker after gold.

Clasp him to your heart and bless him.

He has come into this land of an hundred cross-roads.

I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door,

and grasped your hand to ask his way.

He will follow you, laughing while talking, 

and not a doubt in his heart.

Keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him.

Lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves

underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come 

and fill his sails and waft him to the heaven of peace.

Forget him not in your hurry, 

let him come to your heart and

bless him. 

Our

(meditation on each word(s) of the Lord's prayer)

You made us.

I can understand

why You call us 

Yours.

But it’s only through

Your gift of 

grace

that we can begin

in prayer with 

“Our”

Father

(meditation on each word(s) of the Lord's prayer)

You love us

unconditionally.

You desire 

relationship.

Yet,

You allow us to wander

away.

No Amber alert.

No pictures on a milk carton.

Just

the confidence

that Your children will

 repent their sins

and understand

there is no place like Home.

Meal Blessing

(From a prayer book)

Blessed are you, Father

who gives us

our daily bread.

Blessed is your only begotten Son,

who continually feeds us

with the word of life.

Blessed is the Holy Spirit,

who brings us together

at this table of love.

Blessed be God

now and forever.

Amen.

Avarice and Usury and Precaution

When the accumulation of wealth

 is no longer of high social importance, 

there will be great changes in the code of morals. 

We shall be able to rid ourselves

 of many of the pseudo-moral principles

 which have hag-ridden us for two hundred years, 

by which we have exalted

 some of the most distasteful of human qualities

 into the position of the highest virtues. 

We shall be able to afford

 to dare to assess the money-motive

 at its true value. 

The love of money as a possession — 

as distinguished from the love of money

 as a means to the enjoyments and realities of life — 

will be recognized for what it is, 

a somewhat disgusting morbidity, 

one of those semi-criminal, 

semi-pathological propensities 

which one hands over with a shudder

 to the specialists in mental disease.

 But beware! 

The time for all this is not yet. 

For at least another hundred years

 we must pretend to ourselves

 and to everyone

 that fair is foul

 and foul is fair; 

for foul is useful and fair is not. 

Avarice and usury and precaution

 must be our gods for a little longer still. 

For only they can lead us out of the tunnel of economic necessity into daylight.

John Maynard Keynes (1931)

The Radical Priest on Luke 16:19-31

Luke 16:19-31

Sometimes,

when I think of the afterlife

the question I have is:

“Will it be much different than now?”

(In other words: on earth as it is heaven (really?))

Consider this as

we read this parable of the

one percenter.

Does his world view change

with fires of Hades

lapping him?

To start, he still treats

those in power 

with respect.

(Father Abraham)

And as usual,

 the conversation

of the powerful turns to 

how the 99ers can do their will.

(Send Lazarus to cool my tongue)

Next, there we hear

of a chasm.

Except the tables are turned.

The earthly who 

amassed and stockpiled

the gains of the economy

and separated themselves

from the rest of society

now live in a gated community

that eternally faces an abyss.

(A physical and spiritual one)

And the last aspect of

this parable is the benefit

of those who have

power and influence:

inside information.

He pleads with

Father Abraham

to let his family know

to tell them 

his story 

of Breaking Bad

by sending Lazarus.

And Abraham 

tells him,

“They just need to listen

to Moses and the Prophets.

They told the truth."

And the Patriarch concludes:

"Anyway, remember 

where you came from!

Do you really think 

Lazarus would be able to

ring your door bell?"

The Powwow at the End of the World

BY SHERMAN ALEXIE

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   

after an Indian woman puts her shoulder to the Grand Coulee Dam   

and topples it. 

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall 

after the floodwaters burst each successive dam   

downriver from the Grand Coulee. 

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall 

after the floodwaters find their way to the mouth of the Columbia River 

as it enters the Pacific and causes all of it to rise. 

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall 

after the first drop of floodwater is swallowed 

by that salmon waiting in the Pacific. 

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   

after that salmon swims upstream, through the mouth of the Columbia   

and then past the flooded cities, broken dams and abandoned reactors   

of Hanford. 

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   

after that salmon swims through the mouth of the Spokane River   

as it meets the Columbia, then upstream, until it arrives   

in the shallows of a secret bay on the reservation where I wait alone.   

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall 

after that salmon leaps into the night air above the water, throws   

a lightning bolt at the brush near my feet, and starts the fire   

which will lead all of the lost Indians home. 

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   

after we Indians have gathered around the fire with that salmon   

who has three stories it must tell before sunrise: 

one story will teach us how to pray; 

another story will make us laugh for hours;   

the third story will give us reason to dance. 

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall 

when I am dancing with my tribe 

during the powwow at the end of the world.

A Sham Argument

James 2:14-26 / Matthew 11:28-30

Someone will say: "You have faith, I have works." (Vs 18)

This unidentified person

has wasted so much time

for Christians.

Debating whether 

the gift of

eternal life rests on 

faith,

works,

or both.

Yes,

God grants 

all who believe

in the saving power

of the Cross

and Resurrection 

eternal life.

But

Jesus gives

to all

who are

born from above,

born again,

saved,

slain in the Lamb

another gift.

The gift of the Holy Spirit.

And that gift 

working 

in a transformed life

will be evidence of  

those who

  will receive the 

reward of

eternal life. 

The sola fide

people

give the impression

 that works 

are a 

checklist to go to heaven.

Instead, it is

God

(in the third person of the Trinity)

working

through

your weaknesses 

so you 

can do His will

on earth. 

The works alone assembly

(a much smaller crowd)

work on their projects

as if they were going submit

their resume 

to the Almighty.

All this talk

of work

and deeds

is making me tired.

Lord,

Thank you for

Your yoke is light.

Walk with me

the rest of 

my days

as I do Your will.

Today on earth

and for eternity

in Paradise. Amen.

“The Vacation”

Wendell Berry

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.

He went flying down the river in his boat

with his video camera to his eye, making

a moving picture of the moving river

upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly

toward the end of his vacation. He showed

his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,

preserving it forever: the river, the trees,

the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat

behind which he stood with his camera

preserving his vacation even as he was having it

so that after he had had it he would still

have it. It would be there. With a flick

of a switch, there it would be. But he

would not be in it. He would never be in it.

That’s what Easter’s all about, Charlie Brown.

Believing in the resurrection 

does not just mean 

assenting to a dogma 

and noting a historical fact. 

It means participating 

in God’s

creative act.

If it were merely 

a historical circumstance, 

we should simply say: 

‘Oh really?’, 

register the fact, 

and go on living 

as we did before.

But if it is a creative act of God’s, then – 

if we really know and understand 

what it is about – 

we shall be born again to a new life. 

A faith like this is the beginning of freedom

Resurrection is not a consoling opium, 

soothing us

with the promise of a better world 

in the hereafter. 

It is the energy 

for a rebirth 

of this life. 

The hope doesn’t point to another world. 

It is focused on the redemption of this one.  

Jurgen Moltmann (Jesus Christ for Today’s World)

The Cast of Christmas Reassembles For Easter

Take the wise men to the Emperor's palace.

Wash their hands in water.  

Get them to say something about truth.

Does anyone know any good Jewish jokes?

The one about a carpenter

who thought he was a King?

The one about the Savior 

who couldn't save himself?

The shepherds should stand with the chorus.

They have a big production number -

'Barabbas, We Love You Baby'.

Mary? She can move to the front.

We have a special section reserved

for family and close friends.

Tell her that we had to cut the manger up.

We needed the wood for something else.

The star I'm afraid I can't use.

There are no stars in this show.

The sky turns black with sorrow.

The earth shakes with terror.

Hold on to the frankincense.

We'll need that for the garden scene.

Angels? He could do with some angels.

Avenging angels.

Merciful angels.

He could really do with some angels.

Baby Jesus.

Step this way please.

My! How you've grown! 

**Steve Turner

A blessing for one who holds power

May the gift of leadership awaken in you as a vocation,
Keep you mindful of the providence that calls you to serve.

As high over the mountains the eagle spreads its wings,
May your perspective be larger than the view from the foothills.

When the way is flat and dull in times of grey endurance,
May your imagination continue to evoke horizons.

When thirst burns in times of drought,
May you be blessed to find the wells.

May you have the wisdom to read time clearly
And to know when the seed of change will flourish.

In your heart may there be sanctuary
for the stillness where clarity is born.

May your work be infused with passion and creativity
And have the wisdom to balance compassion and challenge.

May your soul find the graciousness
To rise above the fester of small mediocrities.

May your power never become a shell
wherein your heart would silently atrophy.

May you welcome your own vulnerability
as the ground where healing and truth join.

May the integrity of soul be your first ideal,
the source that will guide and bless your work.

John O'Donohue,  Benedictus, a Book of Blessings.

Batter my heart (Holy Sonnet 14)

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,

Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.

Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,

But am betroth'd unto your enemy;

Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

**John Donne

IF JESUS HAD A IPHONE

Grimalkin by Thomas Lynch

One of these days she will lie there and be dead.
I’ll take her out back in a garbage bag
and bury her among my sons’ canaries,
the ill-fated turtles, a pair of angelfish:
the tragic and mannerly household pests
that had the better sense to take their leaves
before their welcomes and my patience had worn thin.
For twelve long years I’ve suffered this damned cat
while Mike, my darling middle son, himself
twelve years this coming May, has grown into
the tender if quick-tempered manchild
his breeding blessed and cursed him to become.
And only his affection keeps this cat alive
though more than once I’ve threatened violence -
the brick and burlap in the river recompense
for mounds of furballs littering the house,
choking the vacuum cleaner, or what’s worse:
shit in the closets, piss in the planters, mice
that winter indoors safely as she sleeps
curled about a table leg, vigilant
as any knickknack in a partial coma.
But Mike, of course, is blind to all of it -
the gray angora breed of arrogance,
the sluttish roar, the way she disappears for days
sex-desperate once or twice a year,
urgently ripping her way out the screen door
to have her way with anything that moves
while Mike sits up with tuna fish and worry,
crying into the darkness, “Here kitty kitty,”
mindless of her whorish treacheries
or of her crimes against upholsteries -
the sofas, love seats, wingbacks, easy chairs
she’s puked and mauled into dilapidation.
I have this reoccurring dream of driving her
deep into the desert east of town
and dumping her out there with a few days’ feed
and water. In the dream, she’s always found
by kindly tribespeople who eat her kind
on certain holy days as a form of penance.
God knows, I don’t know what he sees in her.
Sometimes he holds her like a child in his arms
rubbing her underside until she sounds
like one of those battery powered vibrators
folks claim to use for the ache in their shoulders.
And under Mike’s protection she will fix her
indolent green-eyed gaze on me as if
to say: Whaddaya gonna do about it, Slick,
the child loves me and you love the child.
Truth told, I really ought to have her fixed
in the old way with an airtight alibi,
a bag of Redi-mix and no eyewitnesses.
But one of these days she will lie there and be dead.
And choking back loud hallelujahs, I’ll pretend
a brief bereavement for my Michael’s sake,
letting him think as he has often said
“Deep down inside you really love her don’t you Dad?”
I’ll even hold some cheerful obsequies
careful to observe God’s never-failing care
for even these, the least of His creatures,
making some mention of a cat-heaven where
cat-ashes to ashes, cat-dust to dust
and the Lord gives and the Lord has taken away.
Thus claiming my innocence to the end,
I’ll turn Mike homeward from that wicked little grave
and if he asks, we’ll get another one because
all boys need practice in the arts of love
and all boys’ aging fathers in the arts of rage.

Love Is Not All

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; 

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink 

And rise and sink and rise and sink again; 

Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, 

Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; 

Yet many a man is making friends with death 

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. 

It well may be that in a difficult hour, 

Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, 

Or nagged by want past resolution's power, 

I might be driven to sell your love for peace, 

Or trade the memory of this night for food. 

It well may be. I do not think I would. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay

First Shot

Michael Leviton

When I was four years old, 

my mother took me for my first shot. 

We waited in a line 

of sobbing children, 

asking their mothers, 

“Will it hurt? Will it hurt?” 

The mothers all said, 

“No, it won’t hurt.”

I asked my mother, “Will it hurt?”

She said, “It’ll hurt a little 

but it won’t last very long.”

When it came time for my shot, 

I didn’t cry. 

The nurse told my mother,

she’d never given a shot to a child 

who wasn’t crying, 

that I was the bravest child 

she’d ever seen. 

My mother said it wasn’t about bravery, 

that the other children weren’t 

crying out of fear, 

but out of sorrow 

at the betrayal of their mothers.

Marked by Ashes

Ruler of the Night, Guarantor of the day . . .
This day — a gift from you.
This day — like none other you have ever given, or we have ever received.
This Wednesday dazzles us with gift and newness and possibility.
This Wednesday burdens us with the tasks of the day, for we are already halfway home
     halfway back to committees and memos,
     halfway back to calls and appointments,
     halfway on to next Sunday,
     halfway back, half frazzled, half expectant,
     half turned toward you, half rather not.

This Wednesday is a long way from Ash Wednesday,
   but all our Wednesdays are marked by ashes —
     we begin this day with that taste of ash in our mouth:
       of failed hope and broken promises,
       of forgotten children and frightened women,
     we ourselves are ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
     we can taste our mortality as we roll the ash around on our tongues.

We are able to ponder our ashness with
   some confidence, only because our every Wednesday of ashes
   anticipates your Easter victory over that dry, flaky taste of death.

On this Wednesday, we submit our ashen way to you —
   You Easter parade of newness.
   Before the sun sets, take our Wednesday and Easter us,
     Easter us to joy and energy and courage and freedom;
     Easter us that we may be fearless for your truth.
   Come here and Easter our Wednesday with
     mercy and justice and peace and generosity.

We pray as we wait for the Risen One who comes soon.

Walter Brueggemann (b. 1933)
Taken from his Prayers for a Privileged People (Nashville: Abingdon, 2008), pp. 27-28.

Desert Prayer

Jan Richardson- Painted Prayerbook.com

I am not asking you

to take this wilderness from me,

to remove this place of starkness

where I come to know

the wildness within me,

where I learn to call the names

of the ravenous beasts

that pace inside me,

to finger the brambles

that snake through my veins,

to taste the thirst

that tugs at my tongue.

But send me

tough angels,

sweet wine,

strong bread:

just enough.

American Christmas Card 2004

I met a man in Nigeria years ago,

an Ibo,

who said he had three hundred relatives

he knew by name.

His wife had just had a baby.

They were going to take it 

on foot

to be welcomed and marveled at

by as many of those relatives

as they could find,

even though

there was a war going on.

Wouldn’t you love to have been

such a famous baby?

I wish I could wave a magic wand

this Christmas,

and give every desperately lonesome

and hungry and lost American

man, woman, or child

the love and comfort and support

of an extended family.

Just two people and a babe in the manger,

given a heartless Government, 

is no survival scheme.

Kurt Vonnegut