O God,
You offered no suggestion:
You commanded
That we take a day of rest.
High upon the mountain
Moses waiting, listening
As you demanded
Sound and righteous
Rules for living.
Do not do harm to neighbor.
Once given, keep your word.
Don’t give your trust (or substance)
To an idol all unworthy
Of your worship.
Take one day
And keep it holy.
So here on my day off
I rise, and shower, and dress,
And steer my car to work
To set my mind to wrestle
With a task so far intractable,
In hopes that this last effort
Will bring it to completion.
I sacrifice this Sabbath
So my heart may have relief
From obligation overhanging.
A Sabbath for a Sabbath:
Is not that a fair trade,
An exercise of faith
A holy day tomorrow
For a labor day today?
It’s not like any other project
Slumbering will wake
In days ahead, and claim another day
And claim another day
And claim another day…

But did you not also proclaim
In Psalmist’s song:
“Be busy, and you’ll know that I am God.”
No?
You didn’t?
Oh.
Amen. 

Sensation
Of a finger
As it glides
So tenderly
Across the cheek.
Sensation
Of hands flat
Upon my shoulder,
In the hollow of my back:
Gentle pressure
Drawing me
Into the warmth
And softness
And firm strength
Of chest and shoulders,
Hips and waist
Before me.
Sensation
Of lips dancing,
Fingers flowing. 
In a single life
This is some of what I miss.
Transcendent One,
In whose image I am made,
Could the wonders of
Sensation
Be one reason you
Enrobed yourself in flesh?
Do you miss
The calloused fingers
Of the fisherman,
Your mother’s cheek
Against your beard,
The arms of Magadalene
Against your back
As she impulsively
Embraced you near the tomb?
Sensation
Of your lips
Brushed lovingly
Upon her brow? 

I read a story on the Internet
This morning, how a young man pulled upon
The bra strap of a classmate once, and twice,
In fact so many times they both lost count,
Until the teacher told her, “Ignore him,”
Until she off and banged him in the nose.
Her mother, summoned, heard the sorry tale,
Demanded why the teacher failed to stop
A sexual assault upon the girl
And why her daughter now faced discipline
For acting to defend herself when the
Officials of the school would not. This prayer
Is not about the girl. This prayer is for
The boys, the boys and men: the boys and men
Who act as if they own the women they
Encounter, act as if the metaphor
Of Adam’s rib grants power that cannot
Be questioned. “Once the rib was mine, so you
Are mine, and I can follow every whim,
Shout epithets, touch wantonly, decide
For her, invade her body sexually
And surgically. As if the rib was not
A sign of shared connection, seal of joint
Authority. O God, you came to Earth
A-walking in the robes of man. You stood
Upon the temple with the tempter, looked
Across the world a-glitter, turned aside
The proffered gift of power. “Lead us not
Into temptation,” you invited us
To pray, who knew temptation’s charm and lure.
Equip us to resist temptation, we
Who cannot seem to understand that we
Deserve no privilege of power one
Over another, no ability
To shape the life of woman (or of man)
To our will. Equip us to resist
Temptation, and deliver women from
Our evil. In your holy name, Amen. 

Then he looked up at his disciples and said:

“Blessed are you who are poor,
for yours is the kingdom of God.”

We will not share with you the realms of Earth.
When deep recessions come, recovery
Will favor first the wealthy, those whose greed
And recklessness wrought ruin. We will hold
You culpable for every crime, yet grant
Excuses infinite unto the rich.
We will not share with you the realms of Earth. 

“Blessed are you who are hungry now,
for you will be filled.”

We will not feed you when you hunger here.
Are you a child, are you a woman who
Expects a child? Expect instead a state
To cut the funds which keep your health, to trim
Support for food and shelter, to refrain
For years, for decades, from an increase to
The legal minimum a boss must pay.
We value work until the moment we
Must pay you: then, your labor counts for naught.
We will not feed you when you hunger here. 

“Blessed are you who weep now,
for you will laugh.”

We will not grant you justice when you mourn.
No, we will blame the fallen. We will say,
“He should not have been standing there, he should
Not have turned back, he should have just complied.
Then all would have been well with him.” Then we
Will cut state funding for interment of
The poor. And we will piously deny
That race had any role in this man’s death
And disregard the growing list of names
Of people with dark skin who rest now in
The arms of God. Then we will lecture those
Who march to raise the voice of justice. No,
We will not grant you justice when you mourn.

“Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.”

We will not honor prophets in the world.
We will not heed their holy cries to care
For neighbor, stranger, sojourner, the one
Who crossed the border secretly to seek
A better life for her and for her child,
The one whom we have covertly employed
Because we can pay her far less than those
Whom we impoverish by paying a
Minimum wage. We will repay her work
By calling for her deportation, we
Will call her “parasite,” though it is we
Who feast upon her labor in our fields,
Who wear the product of her skillful stitch,
Who see that she pays taxes we evade.
When others cry that she deserves a chance,
Then we will solemnly pronounce that she
Must demonstrate respect for rule of law
Before we grant her rights among us. Have
We truly eyes that cannot see those laws
Are ours? We created them to keep
Us in our comfort. Prophets testify
That we can change our law to welcome those
Already here among us: We can make
Them us. Yet firmly echoes the refrain:
We will not honor prophets in the world. 

Jesus said:

“But woe to you who are rich,
for you have received your consolation.
Woe to you who are full now,
for you will be hungry.
Woe to you who are laughing now,
for you will mourn and weep.
Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.”

O Holy One of justice and of grace,
Fulfill the words of Jesus. Overthrow
The world and its false worship of the gods
Of power, wealth, and comfort, though it means
That I, who benefit from privilege
I do not fully see or understand,
May hunger, weep, and bear the awful truth
Of justice. Overthrow the world. Amen. 

God, do you grieve when

you see me? My heart aches to

see one who hurt me.

For once this winter, snow was followed by

A warm and sunny day, the mercury

Above the freezing line. More to the point:

Above the line which brings the long-for thaw.

The morn, however, shivers. Once again

The dancing molecules of water halt

And stand, prescisely rigid, in thin sheets

Upon each surface where the liquid ran.

The gentle breeze which barely moved a twig

Howls once again, and my mind echoes its

Deep moan. It’s tempting, and though it is Lent,

I succumb to temptation to assign

A metaphor of meaning, observing 

The way free flow of feeling freezes hard,

A human peril of relationships

As treacherous as ice invisible

Upon the streets and sidewalks. I will drive

Wih special care today. But will I speak

With friends and colleagues with as much or more

Thought and diplomacy as I accord

To icy surfaces, or will I breathe

A wind as cold and merciless as that

Which howls now beyond the windowpane?

Cold metaphor! A sound reminder still.

Though I could turn the image on its head:

For is not water’s formlessness just like

The fickleness of promises unkept,

And should I not give praise to ice and its

Incomparable beauty? I will let

Both metaphors inform, and from them bring

A warmth of spirit for the people I

Encounter, and a pledge to keep my vows.

Amen.

Dear God,

I had truly hoped

To give up shoveling snow for Lent.

I’ve failed.

I’m sorry.

Truly sorry.

Really really really really sorry.

I don’t think I can say

To even You

How really really sorry

That I am.

For beauty, I could hardly ask

For better than the place each grain of snow

Had chosen by the random flow of chance

To rest upon the ground.

Certainly each place I’ve labored to uncover

Lacks the sweet serenity

Of ground that still lies dreaming

Beneath its argent comforter

Of snow.

Nor can I claim the hills and ridges I’ve created

Match the simple loveliness,

The subtle curves,

That gentle the harsh character of earth.

My only claim upon your mercy

Is, as always, your great love,

And just perhaps, the promises I’ve made

To you and some among your children

Which now I may just keep

Because I’ve moved

Your miracle of snow.

Amen.

The logo on the vehicle before me

Solemnly declares its owner’s wealth.

The stubborn course the wheels pursue,

Firmly steady in their designated lane,

Unwilling to accommodate the vehicles oncoming,

Where snowbanks and parked cars

Constrict the open passage,

Proclaims the driver’s privilege.

And my internal satisfaction,

Linking signs of wealth

With signs of boorishness,

Will not I be judged

As I have judged?

Forgive me, God,

As I forgive.

Dear God, I confess

That earlier this week

When I forgot

To turn my thermostat

Down from its daytime temperature

To the colder level of the night

It was much easier

To leave my blankets,

Stand, and start the day.

Forgive me

Not because my human frame

Takes comfort in more clement air

And layer upon layer

Of cotton, wool, and nylon,

Nor because my weary mind

One evening left one task undone

Despite its firm belief.

No, forgive me,

Gracious God,

For my poverty of heart this day

That is not matched by poverty of wealth.

Move me to give

So that another may arise

From a bed as warm as mine

Into a home as warm as mine.

Amen.

Note: I first wrote this poem many years ago. I haven’t been able to find a written copy, but it has stayed in my memory, and this winter has certainly evoked it time and again. I suppose this is a re-written version, for in places I’ve made changes. Some are new and conscious, while others reflect the influence of years and the fragility of the mind.

 

 

A fire that is banked against the night

Will last, endure to meet the coming day

And with its own greet dawn’s pale gleaming light

In muted soft and sable rust display.

They covet fire to chase away the chill

Who rise amidst the rebirth of the sun,

Whose blazing beams ignite the pearly hill

While warming nothing but lands far beyond

The realm of snow where we have stirred the hearth

Beneath a kettle on an iron swing.

Its whistle trills its challenge to the dark,

The embers lift their burning heads to sing

The song they’ve sung from sunset until morn

While we in silence watch the new logs burn.