The Little Friar

God came to me, rebuked me for my life of sin and showed to me a way in which we both could win; I heard his offer out, but in the summit of my pride I chose to win alone.  God I crucified. I hanged him on the tree, and on the tree he died. But God does not just die; he must rise to live again, and soon returns, rebuking me for my life of sin. Frustrated with his returning, that he does not simply die, I choose myself again, and him I crucify. I hang him on the tree again; on the tree he dies. He returns and comes again, each time so vital, bold, that I can only crucify by growing yet more cold. Where our ending finds us is where we did begin; we either taste of glory's grace or we crucify with sin. Each time we hang him on the tree; again on the tree he dies. Finally, though, my will submits because his grace is so true. That will now crucified with him; on the tree we die. My life now found in God with Christ alone, crucified and dead, I'm raised to li...

The autumn leaves are falling brown and dusty on the road, the winter chill is beating like a hammer on the brain, the sun perhaps forever-lost is hiding, veiled by cloud. A dull and aching boredom rules, worse than any pain, and time -- the word is inexact, but we may call it 'time' -- time is bare, oppressive; it smothers the sublime. We itch to walk and wander, inquire, think, and ponder -- we itch but do not scratch, for where is there to journey when the sameness never ceases (brown below and gray above) and life in bits and pieces knows not peace nor joy nor love? All drained of every color, now fades life and light, and all without reprieve await an all-elusive night. Yet in a little building, quiet, tucked away, a little light of day through dismal day is breaking, a single subtle ray of sunlight bright and pure like water to the thirsty, to the ill a cure: like bread plain and unobtrusive yet of endless grace diffusive, like red wine upon ...

The autumn leaves are falling brown and dusty on the road, the winter chill is beating like a hammer on the brain, the sun perhaps forever-lost is hiding, veiled by cloud. A dull and aching boredom rules, worse than any pain, and time -- the word is inexact, but we may call it 'time' -- time is bare, oppressive; time is numbered in one word, advent ; it covers all the sublime. We itch to walk and wander, inquire, think, and ponder -- we itch but do not scratch, for where is there to journey when the sameness never ceases (brown below and gray above) and life in bits and pieces knows not peace nor joy nor love? The world is drained of every color, fading is its life and light, and all without reprieve await an all-elusive night. Yet in a little building, quiet and tucked away, a little light of day is through the dismal breaking, only a little ray but a beam of sunlight pure like water to the thirsty and to the ill a cure: A little bread, unobtrusive,...

Thank you, Lord, for infant smiles and children bright at play; thank you for the silly souls who goad us every day. I appreciate those most, O Lord, those crosses that I bear, and I thank you that I'm not yet bald from pulling out my hair. I thank you, Lord, for mercy! It saves me from the brink; and thank you, Lord, for righteous wrath -- I need more of it, I think. But thank you for all gentle souls who always tempers keep; protect them, Lord, from the rest of us, lest we kill them in their sleep. I thank you, Lord, for cheerful sun that rises every dawn, and that my students learn to hide the sound and sight of yawn, that education is a joy that overflows with awe, and, on those crazy grading days, that there are murder laws. I thank you, Lord, for fruitful fields, for wide and healthful skies, and for the hopes that we can have that are not marred by lies. And thank you, God, for mysteries still left for us to solve upon this awesome floating b...

I could (which you cannot) Find reasons fast enough To face the sky and roar In anger and despair At what is going on, Demanding that it name Whoever is to blame: The sky would only wait Till all my breath was gone And then reiterate As if I wasn't there That singular command I do not understand, Bless what there is for being , Which has to be obeyed, for What else am I made for, Agreeing or disagreeing? -- WH Auden, from his poem "Precious Five"

The sleepy world in darkness slumbers now, the quiet doze before the rising dawn, a peace that knows no troubled sigh nor doubt: the world in shadow, dream its only law. A seeping light begins to gild the clouds like joy as it infuses idle thoughts. The blossoms all with dewy crystal crowned are waved by breeze that tumbles on the lawn as birds are throwing off a raucous sound. The early-waking heart is touched by awe, to glory vowed.

Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless. -- Ephesians 5. Having loved you, I know I am never alone, and whatever fear I have known is now released into the world in love. Having known you, I know no fear, for your love has cast out my fear and given my aloneness a joy together. My fear shall never return, for you, my love, are my all -- the one for whom I would surrender even my life.

It's a privilege to see tonight's full moon: the stars through cloudy covers peek, the silver glow leaps over houses, and big and full the moon is bright. Upon the grass the droplets gleam. The air is still and lightly cool. On beam of moon my heart takes flight -- it's a privilege to see tonight's full moon.

The summer rain in spectra splashing filters sunlight through the air; the breeze is clean, the birds are laughing -- and you are there.

How foolish the world, how foolish am I; from mewling of the babe to hopes that must die, from vagrant cloak to toppled crown. This illness knows no cure, or so it seems, this flu of hearts, pathology of dreams: almost do we win, and so we are struck down. No matter our plans, our paths are not sure; prepare as we will, new grief we endure, and, learn as we might, we still play the clown. Ah, folly, how vast is your kingdom and reign, extending through ages o'er mountain and plain!

The words. These tell the story of our curse. The mark of Cain upon our foreheads. Hell never was our punishment. Dust you are to dust you shall return. We were severed from life . Death , this is our punishment. The ash. Burnt black residual of fire, sign of lamentation and grief for all that we have torn in the world and left bleeding. Dawn of turning and advent of conversion. Repent! Cries a voice in the wilderness. Make your crooked heart straight. The kingdom of God is near. The sign. Etched upon our skin by the church to contradict all that must die. Emblem of paradox. Intersection of life and death. Mark of unexpected and surprising grace. Life after death , this is our destination.

Speaking of Shakespeare, I was put in mind this morning of Sonnet 73, as I carried groceries from the car: That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest 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 seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed 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.

I was walking between buildings outside. And the grey cloud above began to drop her rain. I noticed it first in the small circles turning grey to black as each tiny drop touched the sidewalk. I stopped and turned my face upward closing my eyes to the sky as a child would. And the rain felt like cold pinpricks. Small, chilly kisses upon my skin. All it was was a soft spring shower. But my heart ached as I looked up to heaven. For I felt surprised by kindness and grace.

death hangs off everything like tattered Spanish Moss on ancient, gnarled oak trees and spiderwebs on decaying, rotting things death blows coldly with the plastic trash rolling through empty alleyways like tumbleweeds but on this day the birdsong of dawn seems more real than the abandonment of night and the news of life echoes a hope that the hegemony of loss is cracking under the soft caress of love it is here in the surprise of blue small flowers impossibly splitting the weight of oppressive concrete resurrection in the cracks blooming underneath it all this is the way of the Gospel life, out of death

Put yourself aside, and help others get ahead.  Don't be obsessed with getting your own advantage.  Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand. -- Paul, from Philippians 2 * * *  I am tired of myself. And not, let me say, in any morbid, psychopathological sense. (And why do we so quickly go there? I've become impatient with the mental health frame and worry. How everything is shadowed by diagnoses and the fear of being mentally ill. Because really, who among us is healthy? Let me be sick for a moment. If that is what this is. Which it isn't.) As I said. I'm tired. Of myself. Not sad. Not depressed. Not suicidal. Not dark. Just tired. Tired of being an ego. Having an ego. I'm tired of filtering everything through myself. What I like. What I agree with. What I don't like. What I don't agree with. Who put me in charge of sifting the world? Myself. Which goes to my point. Why is it my unthought assumption that everything...

the smallest intake of beauty breaks me carrying me, always, to the edge of love I cannot breathe when overtaken by birdsong or captured by the play of a child or arrested by the chance meeting with flowers standing vigil at death

they did not seem to notice, grazing, oblivious that the sky was burning, that this world was ending. above each icy fleck grew and warmed, and exploded into this conflagration of heaven. nor did they seem to hear, grazing, deaf to the melody cascading over the grass and ceders. a Song that seemed so very old and ancient, but News to us Christmas is this emptying News that God has come to us released now from heaven into the warmth of a young girl's womb vitally yoked to her heartbeat and life sharing the scandal and embarrassment of flesh this is the covenant of love sealed in ligament and bone Glory to God in the Highest. Glory here in straw and blood News now to us the air is cool on the skin and fresher out here away from the animals the mother of God is sleeping now and we are tired but happy the baby sleeps too he nursed well latching on after only a bit of trouble The stars seem so close Joseph thinks of angels again and dreams Th...

For my wife, Kendra She is beautiful,          and not like those girls in magazines.  She is beautiful          in the way she thinks.  She is beautiful          for that sparkle in her eye,     when she's talking about things she cares about.  She is beautiful          for her ability to make others smile      with jokes that might make others blush.  No, she's not beautiful based on something       as temporary as looks.  She is beautiful in a way that you know      her beauty will last.  She is beautiful, deep down in her soul. 

Greetings to you in the Name of the Lord! Welcome to the First Church of St I.  We Crucifiers meet every Sunday to lie about Jesus.  The sermon slides off our collective self-image      and into the common cup            to be consumed with the body and blood of our Victim, and so to pass through, changed by us, not us by him.  Greetings to us in the Name of the Lord! The peace of the Lord be with me.      (I'm not worried about with you.) A smile, a handshake       -- it's all a Judas kiss.  Pieces of silver we collect      for service to our Values -- nothing special, just nothing different.  We come to First Church of St I, after all, to be comfortable, above all.  The peace of the Lord be with me. Visitors welcome. Join with me and mine  sometime. 

O God of peace, whose peace is Christ your Son, put on your armor that the war be won, the war on war, your Word against the gun:     Alleluia! Alleluia! O God of power, whose power appears so weak, call up your soldiers from among the meek, who won't turn tail, but turn the other cheek:     Alleluia! Alleluia! O God of love, whose love casts out all fear, steady your people when the warlike jeer, but rather insults than their blood and tears:     Alleluia! Alleluia! O God of hosts, whose host is bread for life, feed us by faith for strength in times of strife, and fill with hope the grieving child and wife:     Alleluia! Alleluia! O God of time, whose time is always nigh, keep us alert to leaders' lethal lies, come now your reign when truth will never die:     Alleluia! Alleluia! ____________ This poem might also be sung in worship.  It is particularly appropriate for All Saints' Day, as it's written with t...