I have known since long before I was
A gardener that weeds seem always to
Find their way back around. I am
Unsurprised when a dark day finds me
Again; this is the work of darkness.
What darkness knows is to come and to come
Again. To make a home where it is
Unwelcome. I am unsurprised to find myself,
Again, in the struggle with my
Self, taking up the trowel and digging
Out what does not belong. I am
Learning that this is a laborious
Endeavor, that this is not one of the
Disciplines that eases with practice.

I am surprised in the moments when an
Other voice speaks within, whispering,
“What if there were another Way?”

Instead of warfare, a path to transformation.
Violent striving traded for redemption, anger
Disarmed. Repurposed not as a bludgeon for
Holy conflict, but as a plow for the
Holy passion of sowing righteousness,
Of reaping peace. Could my
Pride be opened wide, turned to face
Outward. Not self-exaltation, but lifting
Up my neighbor in stride?
I have lacked
Imagination. I have lost what I later learned
In the garden: that weeds are flowers too,
By a lesser name.

(March 23, 2021)

My prayers have always been true. I’ve
Asked God for just those desires
Which, I find, he asks me to cultivate.
Begged relief for my suffering friends,
Neighbors whose struggles I do not know;
Enemies whose civilities I do not acknowledge.
Heaven to rise up in small movements of
Liberation as a stream which will not be
Damned.
Bread for the hungry. A baker to prepare it.
A kitchen for it to rise. A table at which
They can rest.
Often, for forgiveness of the wrongs
I do, the rights I do not.
Open eyes to see a more complex story of
My own missteps.
Less often, for a silent tongue; to let
Go my just retort when wronged. To
Extend a welcome hand of fraternity.
I’ve prayed in apophatic wonder, charismatic
Expectation, impatient silences, in canons recited
Again and again.
“Teach us to pray,” we asked,
And so he teaches us:
“Which among you know to give
Good gifts?”

(April 13, 2021)

Let me find a way
Through tangled vines. I wander through
A wasteland or a vibrant jungle. I catch
My foot on thorn and briar, or upon
Tumbleweeds gathered just before me, or
Upon vining sweet peas in bloom. I
Cannot tell if this path is blocked by
My own failures or envy at another’s
Success.
Let me find a way to tear away any
Snare which entraps. If not this, then to
Drown out the snare’s rolling, its soldier’s
Announcement of another possibility, a
Past or future I might have seen if
Only this, if
Only that.
Let me find a way to remember where
I’ve tread; the unseen miracles blessed in my
Favor. Or to remember where I’m going, which
Is to say onward and upward. Remember the
Treading of this path for me, that I would
Tread it before she or he who follows behind.
We, small footprint-makers in a fractured
Legacy walking along this pilgrim way.
Let me find, and be found by, the way.

(March 23, 2021)

Impart the seed upon the ground
And see what fruit, arising, grows:
A sprouting vine, though all around
Grow thorns which will no mercy show;

A hopeful bud upon a path
Which birds shall fall upon to feed;
An eager leaf which not the wrath
Of sun nor rocky soil heeds;

A humble seed in prayerful soil,
A bounteous, multiplying crop?
We pray for fruit amidst our toil.
We pray the bounty not to stop.

Too, with our holy plowshares we
Shall till each wanting soil to Thee.

(September 16, 2020)

Nine times out of ten
The dog does not catch the car.
The storm’s snow does not
Provide the child’s escape
From school’s next day.
The exception which proves the
Law is the light of
Each day:
Monotony steered just
One degree off its path.
A day whose expectations,
Whose normalities eclipse
The sun.
But the sun blazes yet,
Brightest at the edges.

(December 7, 2019)

“Remember,” the singer says to us all,
“Remember when this happened to you, too.”
The pastor’s quiet voice, often pointedly
Charismatic, echoes a magnified whisper,
The overhead speakers giving voice to unspoken,
Unspeakable reverence.
Who ever said technology was not a miracle?

The pastor remembers his own immersion,
The first of many deaths and daily
Resurrections. He had held the preacher’s hand,
His nose plugged. What words did the man
Utter to imbue the ritual with its cleansing
Efficacy? He knew, of course, that this
Basin was not where the washing took place.

He knew the mystery was greater than the
Words he could not recall, but that, as always,
Words are and do matter. He remembered
The shock of the pool, the momentary
Oneness with water. He remembers so little
Of his first sight as he was raised up to life,
Squinting in the newly bright sun, water

Flowing over his eyes. As he lowers his
Firstborn son, he wonders what he will
Recall of these words. It is not a worry
Of something Ultimate, but for the daily walk:
Will my son remember into whose name
He is baptized? And I remember my own
Two baptisms, a clerical misunderstanding

Unwittingly telling of the many forgetful days,
The momentary ignorances of this call in my life.
But today, how could I but remember this baptismal
Joy? As you rise from the rippling surface. As the
Parishioners begin to clap. As we begin to sing. As you begin.
As your father holds you he does not weep. He
Only smiles. He remembers. He remembers. He remembers.

(April 6, 2021)

Never have I hoped so ardently, so
Openly to be wrong of my confident,
Particular convictions. I pray with my
Quietest vocabulary that this stumbling,
Resurrecting world’s graces to come would
Shine with radiance, outshine what I
Think, what I know it will not. I hope that I might
Understand that hope is not a prayer for
Vindication. It is another word for faith and a
Word for fear, too. I hope I will notice when my
Need to see the order in things has lost its
Utility. I hope that it will be enough for
Me to lack answers. To know you will be what you will
Be.

(April 1, 2021)

I hope my car will start today. I hope that the
Air conditioning kicks in, that my commute is
Bearable. I hope that there is still warmth in my
Coffee. Too, that one day I will not so
Depend on things to keep me attentive, to
Extend my waking hours. I hope my dreams to be less
Fitful than my days. I hope that my complaints
God will hear. I hope that,
However long it takes, this catalogue, this
Itemized list of my worries, my
Judgments, my incontinuous calculations, will not
Keep my eyes turned away, my ears from
Listening to the silent voices behind
Me.

(April 1, 2021)

“Jesus Paid It All” we sang at church again today.
And pondered I the darkest of the deeds that I have thought,
The sharpest words which I have said or only thought to say.
The works I know I ought to do which lately I have not.

And pondered, too, the contemplations of my neighbor, who
Has gathered ’round my dinner table time and time again.
And gathers now to worship in a catawampus pew;
In what way do they think on Jesus’ payment for their sin?

Is theirs a professorial examination of
A penal sacrifice to bend our everlasting fate?
A humble reverence at the holy judgement that was spent?
Like me, is their mind set only on the things above?
And, like me, are they free to never have to contemplate:
“Can Jesus’ payment help me when I cannot pay my rent?”

(March 23, 2021)

It is a crushing feeling to cry oneself to sleep
Aware that the tears are only there because they are.
To cry because one is crying,
To feel the breaking inside which results only from
And only in
Brokenness.
No step taken in contention with oneself seems quite to produce
A reconciliation,
But contend, we must.

In a senseless time, I long for hope,
Though I will settle
For a moment’s pause.
A breath that comes without shaking.
If I cannot have relief, then
Lord, contend with those
Who contend with me.
With me as I contend with my self.

(April 6, 2020)