Andre Rieu - I Will Follow Him

poem for holy thursday

Ongoing Incarnation

I lift it up, firm yet pliant, aromatically doughy

hear the rip of it tearing in my hands

and think of the calloused skin

of men toiling under the hot sun

often with little pay

in constant threat,

ever asking themselves:

Will I be sent back as illegal

unwanted

rejected?

despite their long labors

and searching for hope

toiling to plant and harvest the grain that bore this loaf?

As I open my mouth, ready to whisper ancient words

I cannot but think of the body I watched

laying still and quiet

a tangle of cords its shroud

entombed amidst white hospital walls

just as sure as that fated Galilean lay

in rocky borrowed grave

the only sounds surrounding it are

the constant beep of machines

we call life support

which instead of bringing life

simply delay the inevitable

freeing of that one woman’s soul

from a body

transformed from a house of joy

to a stifling prison of pain,

a sound that mingles with

machine-borne labored breaths

which together resound in that room

like water dripping

on stalagmites

deep below Linville caverns.

“This is my body,” my lips whisper

and I cannot but have my mind transported

to the hills and seas of Uganda

where Idi Amin left bodies

piled in the sun

of little girls

just like that African princess

who is like a daughter to me

whom he thought defective,

and the smoke clouds of Aushwitz,

which rose engulfing all those

whom madmen called unworthy

while good people watched unmoved.

“Broken” I whisper

and think of the man

whose life remains shattered

by one he trusted as a boy

who left scars no one , nor time itself, can heal.

“Broken” echoes

as I remember little girls and mothers

hiding for their life

from the ones that left them bruised.

I take the cup, I raise the glass,

and realize

in each of them the Sacred Light burns bright

just as surely as it shined in Mary’s baby boy

and in me.

This is my cup, I hear him whisper as I say his words

poured out in you and many.

As I hear Him, I remember

how often we fail to see.

We say “keep those dirty souls out of our parks”

not letting love win for the likes of them.

We say “send them back”,

forgetting that it is in their eyes,

eyes of the stranger

the broken

and the poor,

that the Savior’s eyes shine back upon us.

We say “they are too far away”

while so many baby girls

fall under tyrant’s tank

and terrorist’s bomb

their fathers likewise

helpless to save them.

And I fall to my knees

broken

remembering

all those I turned away

not seeing

calling crazy, faggot,

wetback, and gimp

heart broken wide,

face wet with tears.

And somehow, somewhere,

in the music of the moment

I hear a whispered reminder

This, broken, is my body.

This one poured out bears my life.

Be my body, broken with the broken,

be my life, poured out to the empty.

Let us lay a table together

in the valley of death

so your cup overflows

with drank of healing

for all my who lie broken

trembling in fear.

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A poem for Holy Thursday — ongoing incarnation

Today is a holy moment.  It is tonight in the Christian year that we mark Jesus’ last supper, when he broke bread and offered a cup, introducing the central celebration of the Christian life — the Lord’s Supper – and also when he was betrayed by one of his own, to begin the journey to the cross and through the cross to resurrection.

As a way of marking this time, I would like to share a poem based on the celebration of the Lord’s Supper.  May it help you sense your part in the journey of Easter.

And I’m not just whistling Dixie,

Your Progressive Redneck Preacher,

Micah

PAPA

Papa
February 4, 2002
I lost my papa today,
But not really.
He is in the smiles on the faces of his friends.
I see his peace in the calms and swells of the ocean waves.
I see his love reflected in the passion in my mother's eye.
I see his patience in the remote control model airplanes he built,
And his humanness in the crashes of some of those planes.
I see his love and respect for his church family
reflected in the guidance and love given back to him.
I see his wonderment at the beauty of the sky.
I see his strength in the depth of his faith,
And gentleness in the core of his hugs.
So you see, even though I lost my papa today,
I haven't, really.
I love you.
Janet Kipp Lerch
Copyright ©2007  Janet  K. Lerch

A SILLY ONE

A SILLY ONE

My furs are not in storage.

Or draped across my bed.

They are standing at the backdoor

Waiting to be fed.

One is fat, The other fuzzy

They watch the birds and bugs  so buzzy.

OK, food is coming

The cans are hard to open

Fingernails break making less than ten,

The meow insisting I hurry with my task

OK OK  all you had to do was politely ask.

 

 

JANE NEALE

love the poor

Love the poor and love poverty, for it is by such love that we become truly poor. As the Scripture says, we become like the things we love. If you love the poor you will share their poverty and be poor like them. If you love the poor be often with them. Be glad to see them in your own home and to visit with them in theirs. Be glad to talk to them and be pleased to have them near you in church, on the street, and elsewhere. Be poor in conversing with them and speak to them as their companions do, but be rich in assisting them by sharing some of your more abundant goods with them.

-Francis de Sales

Autumn - George Winston

dream of a soldier

I Dream A World
I dream a world where man
No other man will scorn,

Where love will bless the earth
And peace its paths adorn

I dream a world where all
Will know sweet freedom's way,

Where greed no longer saps the soul
Nor avarice blights our day.

A world I dream where black or white,
Whatever race you be,
Will share the bounties of the earth
And every man is free,

Where wretchedness will hang its head
And joy, like a pearl,
Attends the needs of all mankind-
Of such I dream, my world!
Langston Hughes