Ripples in the Font–Spiritual Reflections and Poetry

Tag: Poetry

  • Consider the cincture

    Consider the cincture

    “Blessed are those slaves whom the master finds alert when he comes; truly I tell you, he will fasten his belt and have them sit down to eat, and he will come and serve them.”
    Luke 12:35-37

    We speculated. How
    to translate “fasten
    his belt” in mind’s
    eye? Service, yes,
    to be sure. Battle
    metaphor? Apron?
    Further searching
    yields history, both
    social and literary.
    Rich in meaning,
    a treasure, though
    largely different
    for the genders. Must
    explore the strands
    more. Mostly to do
    with prowess or
    virginity. Somehow
    all of this ties, becomes
    parabolic.

    Cincture is the Latinate
    form; girdle, Anglo-Saxon–
    think Thor, St. George,
    Gawain.

    None of us seated,
    clergy or laity,
    considered the cincture.
    Woven cord worn
    (and often well-worn),
    to yoke the alb, while
    we serve at table.
    Encompassing belt;
    reminder of limits. No
    purse nor sword, just
    love.

    Now
    this     is what
    it     means to
    gird your loins.

     

  • Distracted Women

    Distracted Women

    But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”  Luke 10:41-42 (NRSV)

    perispaĂł: to draw away, from Strong’s Concordance

    Is it Martha whose head is being turned?
    Cooking, cleaning, what else to worry on?
    Drawn away, weighed down, hampered–
    oh, yes, laundry in piles. Distractions acting
    upon her; Luke actively bestows passivity;
    she passively surrenders her will.

    The better part. The women here today
    retreating,     writing silently in camaraderie, safe
    from the distractions of life–children, cats, media–
    unencumbered in these precious hours.

    Focused. A corporate man’s word?
    Can we be women in this man’s world?
    Or will we be driven mental, closeted first wives?

    Possessed. Consumed.
    Demons. Witches. Fires at the stake.
    Conformity at stake.
    Electroshock therapy for those
    not Martha enough. But Marys
    risked the danger, too.

    Cumbered, oh most lovely and clunky
    word, Shakespearean-sounding verb. Chosen
    betimes for King James and all the English world.
    Come hither and lend us thy sense.

    Can you not see the weights tied
    to Martha’s wrists, ankles? An x-ray
    would show the cartoon marbles
    rolling ’round. They threaten to burst
    her brain. Will the Messiah catch them if they do?

    Is this solely a woman’s madness? Obsession
    (oh, Calvin Klein, oh, Ahab, oh, Augustine)
    is Mary’s game, too. But she is drawn forward,
    is she not, by the scent of wisdom? No apostasy,
    no need for metanoia. No spinning ’round
    and ’round, just loving focus in silent contemplation.

    Thank goodness Luke didn’t write that Martha talks too much.

    Distraction–so dry a word, so
    intellectual. So
    forbidden.
    In her basement carrel, she writes.
    Service to others
    beckons.
    She feels those squirrely marbles;
    constantly rolling,
    drawing
    her out to the world. The better part,
    or simply more
    squirrels?

    Encumbered by love, and probably sibling rivalry,
    Mary and Martha are yoked, an easy burden or no?

    Jesus knew we’d always be chasing squirrels.
    Women are human, too.

     

    Artwork: Christ in the House of Mary and Martha, attributed to Johannes Vermeer, from the Google Art Project

  • Ecce gratia

    Ecce gratia

    This is a reflection I wrote last week for the Good Friday Project that St. James Episcopal Church presented on April 19, 2019. It’s an annual program they present, a variety of artists from their community, and from other churches in the area, offer pieces of music, poetry, dance, and more, in a contemplative setting.

    Part I: Ecce homo “Behold the man”
    “It is finished.”
    They long for the final 
    exhalation, these lips that still
    pucker at the tang of sour wine;
    Arid gust swirls a faint musky–sweet  po
    scent upward from the Mary who
    kneels at the foot of my cross.
    Ah, I recall the rough silk of her
    hair on my feet. Nard for burial
    while I breathed and lived. Her gesture 
    was for me; she graced my death,
    where Peter and the others could not.
    There, my mother and my beloved disciple;
    no man can sunder such love.
    I focus on their loved faces and my pain
    subsides. 
    Ecce homo, Pilate commanded.
    Demanded the city look and see.
    He did not ask of me, ecce populus;
    no matter, all is Rome’s. 
    Ah, but I love them nonetheless.
    They know not how scorn
    echoes down the ages.
    Father, I will bear the agony
    that in the garden began. 

    Part II: Ecce tibi “Behold oneself”
    Boston in spring 2007. Our heroine, a grad student presenting at a national conference. Pop Culture—easy to get into, true–exciting, nonetheless. Her paper all about quest literature. The lesson: there’s no one in Avalon to save us; we must save ourselves. Medieval studies sessions catch her attention. The grail’s in Boston, she learns—alive and well in the public library. So, on that Friday in glorious spring, she’s skipping out to quest and finds Edwin Abbott’s eerie paintings in the library’s reading room. Perceval’s gaze still haunts her dreams, and the Holy Grail, that sacred cup, is unveiled in sacred, public space. Behold! What a joyous day with still time to quest. Out into the square she steps. Across the way, a well-aged church beckons her; come. No hesitation, off she goes, such pride in all she’s accomplished. “You can’t take pictures,” she’s told at the door, “but please come in and be seated in silence.” The usher hands her a bulletin. It’s not until she’s seated and seen the quote straight back on the wall of the nave–He who does not love does not know God, for God is love—does she see the words on the top of the page: Good Friday—come in and pray. Our heroine weeps with sudden understanding: salvation and God have been present all along. She’s just finally been opened to God’s call. 

    Part III: Ecce ipsi “Behold ourselves”
    Have you heard the prophet C. S. Lewis’ words? 
    “No man can be an exile if he remembers that all the world is one city.”  

    Part IV: Ecce familia 
    Today, we stand outside of time and watch and pray.
    Behold thy family, graciously, O Lord.
    Love again begins. 

     

     

    Credits: The C. S. Lewis quote is from Till We Have Faces. The featured image is What Our Lord Saw From the Cross, by James Tissot, painted between 1886 and 1894.

  • In Our Addiction to Convenience, Have We Forgotten the Word’s Ancient Meaning?

    In Our Addiction to Convenience, Have We Forgotten the Word’s Ancient Meaning?

    Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves. Genesis 3:7

    Part of my daily ritual most mornings involves stopping at my local 7-Eleven convenience store. Freedom and spontaneity abound in my breakfast or lunch choices—planning a week’s worth of meals can be so inconvenient. Sometimes I stop at one on the way to my other job when I feel the guilt of a McDonald’s craving—exchanging one convenient corporation for another. Convenience stores have an abundance of those conveniently healthy food choices—individual packets of nuts, yogurt, power bars, and more. Convenience stores are also convenient oases for homeless persons, have you noticed?

    I have a hate/love relationship with the words convenient and convenience. They have become such self-focused words—as consumers in a largely corporate economy, we measure the world in terms of our own “coffee spoon” comfort: how quickly and easily can we gratify our desires? No frustration must enter our lives, heaven forbid that we must wait in line at a grocery store, let alone interact with others who (might) thwart our ease of access. Convenience means little or no human interaction.

    In seminary a few years ago, I became enamored of the now obsolete usage of the word, the original Latin conveniens, which means “fitting.” This usage forms the basis for many of Thomas Aquinas’s arguments in the Summa Theologiae. When I first read it, my eyes opened, not to a brave new world, per se, but to knowledge that there were others like me in the world–scholars, theologians, poets–using reason to understand God; faith was seeking understanding, to borrow St. Anselm’s phrase.

    I had found my kindred spirits. Seemingly, the practical world has little use for mystics, though, let alone poets. And yet, I would say that even these head-in-the-cloud saints still had their hands and feet in the world.

    ***

    Adam and Eve

    God’s economy
    begins in this convenient
    car wash; by spurting spigot,
    the man fills plastic water jugs
    crafted by a nameless
    corporation.
    the woman produces eclectic plastic
    ware–squares, saucers–from ubiquitous
    black garbage bag carryall.
    Synthetic black clothes her corpus, too,
    leadenly animate in the chill.
    Giving each dish a quick rinse under
    the gushes, she then lays
    them out on the grass.
    No shame in either frame
    as each performs their corporate chores.
    Store’s red-shirted clerk ignores
    their theft.

    Gas pump clicks, banishing me
    from this Eden, not them.
    Conveniens? I whisper, a Thomist
    ghost flitting ‘round
    my reasoning heart.
    Fitting, I murmur–
    this is the wisdom of the world.

    ***

    In my off-kilter, poet-theologian mind, I hate that we speak of, say, helping the homeless, in terms of inconvenience, as I’ve heard some priests preach, trying to wrestle with that word. Get out of your comfort zone (such a convenient cliche)! And I don’t disagree with the thought, but . . . if we are all children of God, all imago dei (made in God’s image), then should we not re-frame the wisdom of the world in terms of the fittingness of opening our eyes and truly seeing each other in that light? Inconveniencing ourselves may be the most convenient action we can take.

    Image:  Välko Tuul – Art Museum of Estonia, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=61409440

  • Poem written for McLean Baptist Church

    This poem was commissioned by Rev. Megan Clapp, Youth Minister at McLean Baptist Church in McLean, VA. The first week of August 2016 was VBS time, and the children learning about creative praise. Megan and Katie, the other minister, wanted a poem that could be read at the Sunday worship time by a child, with a playful tone, and be about the church’s worship space.

    The Most Important Part of My Church

    Do I love my church home?
    Yes!
    Why?
    I spy
    beautiful jewels
    emerald, sapphire, amethyst,
    with ruby and gold at the heart—
    the crown and cross
    of Jesus Christ our King.
    Can you guess?
    Yes! Our stained-glass window,
    With colors bright.

    Do I love my church home?
    Yes!
    Why?
    I spy
    simple, strong structure,
    space to grow in Christ.
    Cradling us safely, yet
    with windows clear, and doors
    for all to enter and go forth.
    Can you guess?
    Yes! Our sanctuary walls,
    a welcome sight.

    Do I love my church home?
    Yes!
    Why?
    I spy
    cross and threefold shadows here,
    hovering over waters deep,
    promising eternal life in Christ.
    Before and after I’m immersed,
    Jesus’ teachings I’ll learn to keep.
    Can you guess?
    Yes! Our baptistery,
    With its inner light.

    Do I love my church home?
    Yes!
    Why?
    I spy
    the place that we gather
    to be joined as a body,
    the body of Christ. Together
    in communion at the table,
    where the Word of God often rests.
    Can you guess?
    Yes! Our altar, set for
    the feast of life.

    Do I love my church home?
    Yes!
    Why?
    I spy
    every time I’m here
    the most important part
    of our church—its soul and heart—
    singing, laughing, crying,
    praying, ministering, loving.
    Can you guess?
    Yes! We are the church,
    in our pews together, all
    snug and tight.

    Do we love our church home?
    Yes! We do! Amen!

  • “Not All Who Wander are Lost,” or Apotossomai to All That

    http://tinyurl.com/ChristinePentecost6A

    By way of a prologue—

    When does a journey begin? In stories, in poems, in epics, we, as the audience, know because the poet or the writer tells us. We have Chaucer’s “Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,”we have the Beowulf poet’s “Listen!” But the characters don’t necessarily know the nature of the journey to which they’ve been called—no chance or thought to make preparations. Characters such as Perceval, the paramount knight of King Arthur’s court and the Grail quest, and Tolkien’s hobbit of Lord of the Rings fame, Bilbo Baggins, come to my mind.

    I also think of my own journeys, and especially this week (the Tour de France is only a week away!) of one for which I was totally unprepared. When my priest, my mentor, at Trinity Episcopal in Waterloo, IA, asked if I was interested in being a support driver for a charity bike ride around Missouri, I didn’t think, I just said, “yeah, that sounds like fun!” Packed my bag and off I went! No inkling of what was to come—shepherding cyclists and yelling at motorists, writing about the Tour de France, going to seminary, learning about mission and community and connections. Helping to lift others up.

    Today, Luke starts us on a journey; we take the first steps with Jesus and the disciples at the beginning of the road to Jerusalem, the road that will bring them to the cross. We have would-be disciples, including one who asks if he might say good bye to his mother and father, echoing Elisha’s question, asked of Elijah, his mentor. The Greek word apotossomai in Luke that means “say goodbye” is the verb form of the word “apostasy” that we use today as turning away from, a turning one’s back on, a withdrawing from, one’s principles, one’s religion, one’s cause.

    I don’t know if you’re familiar with our (All Saints’ Episcopal, ATX) lectionary group, which meets between the services as an alternative to the Adult Christian Education forums; I invite you to join us sometime. Part of our discussion involves thinking of creative responses we might have to the Gospel. And so, that’s what I have for you today. The journey’s about to begin; I invite you to close your eyes and listen:

    Do we set our faces toward Jerusalem?
    Apostasy means never having to say goodbye again.

    Perceval, the ultimate knight, the straight, the true, who
    hopes to hold the Grail, doesn’t look back
    following the angels in shining armor
    he wants
    to follow without question
    the men who must serve God in their perfection

    Never saying goodbye to the mother who
    hid him, bore and raised him,
    in the security and surety of the forest.
    But he sets his face toward . . . what?
    Glory, fame, to be the best, among the best,
    To quest.

    Apostate to his mother
    she lies dead in the clearing
    A hand outstretched, a heart broken
    “Let the dead bury the dead”
    though she taught him communion and to say Our Father
    he never looked back, his hand on the plow
    turned into a sword.

    Perceval should have asked
    “who does the Grail serve?”
    but hand to the plow, eyes
    and the body’s grace do not allow
    him to look behind; mazed at the samite-clad
    silent procession,
    the single wafer
    upon the platter.

    What is the cost? “I’ll follow, I’ll follow. . .”
    Fools rushing in where only an angel offered a place for his head
    “where ever you go”
    Even the cross? Can you let go?
    Where is your face set?

    A young Bilbo runs down the road
    without a handkerchief to hold
    Dwarves and dragon await.
    Much, much later, apostate, withdrawn,
    Bilbo, older now, slips on the Ring,
    the one to Rule them all,
    though it should go into an envelope.

    The hand falters on the plow
    but finally “the Road goes ever on and on”
    face set toward Rivendell and elves.
    The Precious left with his nephew,
    precious, too, to follow the precarious Road,
    to set his face,
    to lose a finger,
    hand on the plow,
    but heart in the Shire.

    The prophet cries out against Israel
    His face set toward Jerusalem
    but Elisha’s set his eyes on him.
    He slaughtered the oxen with the very
    yoke under which they served
    straight and true (all twelve)
    fed the people in farewell, his father
    and mother and uncles and cousins
    a feast of apostasy. “Turn in the rags
    and giving the commodities a rain check.”

    And Paul, free and Spirited slave, apostate to himself,
    to Saul, on the road to Damascus, turns his face from Jerusalem
    turns toward Christ. The writer writes, urging others to journey, to apostasy—say goodbye to the Law; lift up each other in love.

    Where does your journey begin? Where do you set your face? Amen

  • Claustrophobia II

    She’s not fool enough to actually stick her head all the way out the window, riding in the backseat of a friend’s SUV at the finish of a sacramental night, instead settling for an inward chuckle. For a brief space, she wears a dog’s mien as she gazes in rapt attention at the midnight Texas sky, unbounded by city lights.

    The temptation to lean out into the night air is almost overpowering–just to feel more fully the cool autumn air rushing past; just to more fully take in all the stars, the Milky Way, to look for familiar constellations–long-lost friends kept at a distance by orange-sodium urban incandescence.

    Head rush, soul rush–tranquility and tumult exist in the liminal space between one heartbeat and the next; the dog collar, invisible, yet felt, always binding her heart, just like the stars newly binding her wrist.