I hike on Sabbath.
I want to glean it, eat it,
use it, consume it,
slice it, price it,
pour it, and burn it.
But underneath my feet,
the leaves lay soft,
and the sticks splinter limp,
and together they receive my boots
just as they do the great trees –
offering their gentle bed,
their fertile path,
to finally fall,
to become
fuel for Sabbath.
Text: Matthew 10:16-31
[Show Powerpoint slides with etchings from Martyrs Mirror]
They seem so distant, so illusive,
these martyr memories –
sisters, brothers laying down their lives . . .
why?
They are etchings, not photographs.
They are shadows in black and white.
They are fading dreams of movie scenes,
so it seems.
But these mute stills, they had voices.
They spoke in tongues we don’t know.
“Into your hands, my spirit,” they say.
They pay.
And here we are, with those stories under our feet,
with carpet that is bright blood red –
its color ordered by us, made for us,
not with us.
Jesus walks to the cross, serving, suffering love,
and the bloody theater played on,
martyrs mirroring Jesus through time, and we?
Is there a need?
Look. Can we see the vision they witness?
Listen. Can we sing their unchained melody?
Can we count Christ’s blessings as his disciples’ cost,
defining loss?
They seem so distant, so illusive,
these martyr memories –
sisters, brothers laying down their lives . . .
why?
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 5:10) Continue reading
[In preparing a sermon about Jesus' encounter at a well with a Samaritan woman, I thought about how the setting for that story has been repeated daily for thousands of years. We who turn the faucet for water tend to miss the impact of what Jesus means when he calls himself the source of living water. But the Samaritan woman didn't. "Give me this water," she said to him, "so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water." (John 4:15)]
Around the world, every day,
women are walking for water.
They go to the well, to the river, to the lake
with one hand on their side,
with one hand holding the pot above.
They walk
slowly, carefully, gracefully,
like swans stepping through tall green grass.
Around the world, every day,
women are walking for water.
They walk through sand, in mud, on streets,
with babies on their backs,
with children by their sides.
They walk,
pictures of strength, and sweat, and style,
bracelets, buckets, scarves, and stains.
Around the world, every day,
women are walking for water.
They wear reds, and blues, and browns.
They carry plastic, and clay, and metal.
They scoop, they fill, they lift,
they walk
from here to home, from home to here.
Each day, the tides ebb and flow.
Around the world, every day,
women are walking for water.
To boil, to rinse, to drink, to soak
to cleanse, to nourish, to save, to live,
they do what their mothers did –
they walk.
The proud, the shamed, the old, the young,
they go to the source, then they go home.
A while back, I was listening to people on the radio reflecting on the terrorist attacks that happened in this country seven years ago. So often, I hear people referring to that day as the day when “everything changed.” I wrote the following poem on September 11, 2008, trying to used the images from 9/11/2001 to call us back to Easter.
September 11, 2008 If you squint, you still might see them Your kingdom come. If you listen, you still might hear them Your will be done. If you squint, if you listen on earth as it is in heaven.
the embers, I mean
still floating, still blowing
delicate memories raised high
drifting down below.
the voices, I mean
still longing, still groaning
a muffled hum amid the rubble
binding distant wails.
you might see, you might hear
the broken body, the whispered sigh
still falling, still calling
the ash and the echoes
resurrecting life
