Center of the universe

As I write this, I think about writing a whole series of center of the universe stories.  We could all write this series.  

My love tells me about a professor who uses a balloon to describe how all the stars are moving away from each other at the same rate.  He puts dots on the deflated balloon and then blows it up... sure enough... all the dots move away from each other, at the same rate.  I love illustrations that can be used for a wide variety of things.  We are each one of those dots, and everyone is moving away from each of us at the same rate.  We are each the center, The Dot.  The more inflated the Universe, the more others move away from us... and, of course, we move away from others.  Hmmm.

We are each the center

Of our very own universe.

How could it be otherwise?

Of course

Not me.

The man in the parking lot

Doesn*t see us at all.

He is not looking.

We do not run him over.

In the grocery store we see him

With his cart,

One bunch of bananas

Headed for the checkout line.

We walk behind him.

He is very slow.

He stares at a paper in his hand,

Wads it up and throws it

Into the display next to him.

We chuckle.

A close friend loses her cell phone

Three days in a row.

She tells me she has prayed.

She tells me it is clear the Universe

Does not want her to have a cell phone.

So what will you do?

I ask.

She says she will buy a cheaper

Cell phone.

We are each

The center.

But not me.

Even as I laugh

Vague recognition sparkles

The edges.

But I am not the center.

Certainly

Not me.

The perfect example

We sometimes dream of living on acres in the country.  Truth be told we can scarcely manage the 1/4 acre we have now.  There is so much to watch here.  There are the plants we think we have organized, and those which will always be volunteers from past years.  Every year it is a surprise to find what returns and what is new.  And yes, TruGreen stops by two, three times a year, sure that we must be unhappy.  We*re not.

It is amazing what full out sun

Does for the spirit

And plants.

The clematis on the last pillar

Will definitely survive

Now that its octopus feet

Are covered,

The two short vines

Trellised.

I sing to it in the morning

When no is listening

Patient growing songs.

The lilies of the valley

connected as one

underground

Have crept to fill the empty spaces

Behind the garage.

The chemical lawn people

Declare our yard a disaster area

Every year.

Every year we answer the door

To the TruGreen man

With a chart.

He outlines all they could do

To bring back an even smooth

One shade of green lawn.

A person could use it

For a putting green,

Nothing with a broad leaf

In sight.

I like the peonies and lilies of the valley,

They tryst behind the garage.

There is something low and green with little purple flowers

Under the crabapple.

It too is probably invasive,

Has its own checkbox on the TruGreen chart.

There is still forsythia visible

Behind the crabapple, but barely now.

The redbud in front has begun

Its purple burst through the bark.

Our yard is the perfect example

Of the TruGreen nightmare.

We think it might be Eden.

I know I should write

Yes, I saw The King*s Speech and liked it a lot.   Great movie in its unexpurgated version.  What is it about the Royal Family that is so all-fired fascinating that we have to see and comment and have visions of tea and scones, clotted cream, with the Queen?  I was bound and determined not to write about The Royal Wedding when Jeff and I went to work out this morning... and there they all were, lined up TV after TV after TV.  Jeff tells me the men*s dressing room featured the NFL draft.

I know I should write

About the Royal Wedding today,

Will and Kate married

And all the accoutrements

That come with such things,

Big and public and all the people that matter

Present and British.

I should write about

The Americans who got up early

To make scones and drink tea,

Raise glasses of champagne, in a toast,

At

I do

Or

I will

Even though the wedding prayers

Are sexist.

I am after all

An Episcopal priest and claim some ties

To the Church of England

And by that I mean

To Royalty.

I should write about the crowds

The color of the Queen*s dress

The Londoners who rented out their houses

For a pretty sum.

Now they are married with the Archbishop of Canterbury

Presiding

The Bishop of London

Preaching

He is a favorite of Prince Charles, you know.

I should write about all the memories of Diana

Of course she would have been there.

What would she have worn

To the wedding?

If  I wrote such a thing I would figure

What she would have worn,

Being Diana

Of course.

I know I should write such a thing

Everyone is watching

You know.

Everyone is watching.

Still watching.

Easter Friday, normal things

The disciples had gone back to their livelihood, the place where Jesus found them in the first place.  They had gone back to the old familiar ways.  When everything is upside down and inside out, we find comfort in doing normal things.  But even in doing normal things, the result is just not the same normal.  Put your nets out the other side of the boat is not normal advice, and having it bring in 153  fish where it seemed there were none... well that*s not normal either.  So Jesus makes them breakfast on the beach and they break bread and eat fish... and they begin to see a new normal. 

When things are topsy-turvy

Upside down

When we don*t know

What to think or do,

We seek out

Normal things:

That old familiar place

We used to fish,

The particular spot

On the edge of the reeds

We remember

From before.

The pull of knotted nets

Our hands and arms, shoulders and backs

Know well.

We keep each other company.

We seek out the normal things

We know so well,

We don*t even have to think.

We don*t have to think

About normal things,

Only hope

They might bring back life as we knew it:

Work and food and sleep,

Repeat.

Work and food and sleep.

Repeat.

We catch nothing all night

Try it another way,

The man offers, from the shore.

We throw the old familiar nets

Off the other side of the boat.

We knotted those nets in the sun

Once upon a time.

It seems so long ago now,

Time has a way of expanding

In times like these.

Topsy turvy upside down

Times like these.

We want to get our bearings

Seek out normal things.

Go back to what we knew once.

What we once knew well.

FISH

153 FISH

It*s Him.  It*s Him.  It*s Him.

He found us here.

Even here.

Easter Week, Balance

We pay great attention to walking through Holy Week, the Triduum, go all out for Easter Sunday.  Then comes Easter Week.  And the Sunday we often call Low Sunday.   People are tired.  Heck, the disciples were exhausted.  It took more that a week to allow the Resurrection to soak in.  No surprise they all doubted (not just Thomas).  No surprise Jesus had to walk through closed doors, meet them on backroads, give fishing instructions.  This is the week we begin to get our balance back.

This is the week for balance.

I will practice squats on the Bosu

When I get the chance.

But now

Just as I walked

through Holy Week,

This week is for balance.

This week I walk with Resurrection

In mind.

The forsythia has carried over

From last week.

It still blooms by the side of the road

Lemon yellow.

Every day this week Jesus walks,

Prophesies,

Breaks bread,

Eats fish,

Every day he fulfills Scripture,

No list except the one in His head.

Maybe it*s inscribed

On His heart.

Don*t be afraid

He says

I am alive

He says

You have nations upon nations

To tell

He says.

God will help you.

Wait here for the Helper to be sent.

There is forsythia when he speaks.

It glows gold in the upper room

Where they wait.

It will take the disciples

It will take us

more than a week

To get our balance back.

Never mind the squats on the Bosu

For now.

This is a more serious

Balance exercise.

It requires full attention

Core and all.

I focus on the forsythia

In the living room.

It still blooms

Full bright yellow.

Easter Wednesday, Recognition

It seems Jesus was not one to force things... even after the Resurrection.   He allowed his disciples the space to come to things, on their own.  He walked and taught and shared the Good News, yes, but He didn*t invite himself to dinner.

Then the two went over everything that happened on the road and how they recognized him when he broke the bread.
                                                                            Luke 24:35 The Message

I wonder if Jesus was frustrated when they didn*t recognize him

Immediately.

Probably not.

He probably didn*t have the need

To jump up and down

Say

It*s me, guys, it*s me

Look, here, my hands

Look, here, my feet

Listen to my prophetic words.

Sort of like when we meet a childhood friend

He looks maybe a little familiar

But until he shows us

 The scar from that bike accident,

Laughs that laugh with the funny hiccup

On the end,

We don*t recognize him.

Even though he*s grown up now

Even though he looks a little different

The scar is still there

He still has the funny laugh

Like he always did.

Of course we recognize you, we say

Of course!

How have you been?

Sit

Stay awhile

Have a bite to eat.

But Jesus?

Even before the penny dropped,

Before the note of recognition sounded,

Jesus waited to be invited

To dinner.

It seems he would have walked on down the road

Or simply disappeared,

If they hadn*t invited him.

Scars and all,

He waited

To be invited

To break the bread.

Easter Tuesday, forsythia apparent

 It*s amazing to me how one simple thing, like forsythia, can carry so much.  That*s part of Easter for me this year.  Mary recognized the Risen Jesus only when He said her name.  I don*t think it was because he looked radiantly different.  No, we are told she thought He was the gardener.  She didn*t see what she was expecting to see: a dead body.  There are all kinds of experiments which show we simply don*t see things we are not expecting to see.  Our focus is elsewhere.  The forsythia has been blooming all of Holy Week and now into Easter.  I am still seeing its sign and symbol.  Alleluia!

Our garden in back

Is not immediately apparent

From the street.

The garden gates are open

All the gates are open.

The forsythia

Began to speak gold

In the rain,

In anticipation of the Day,

Well in anticipation

Of the Day,

Wild haphazard yellow gold.

Inside the open gates

It waited to see Him,

Waited for His voice

To be heard.

It was there all along

Yellow gold.

She saw it only

After the empty tomb

After the angels,

Only when he called her

By name.

Then, only then she heard his voice

The familiar voice.

It held her name the way she

Held his feet that night

Poured perfume.

Then

She saw the forsythia, yellow gold,

The gates open to the street.

Then she heard the forsythia

Sing.

Easter Monday, all new

We know how the Story will go every year.  Or at least we think we do.  Every year it is the same, the same liturgies, the same Scripture readings.  Still, every year it is different.  We bring ourselves, the same people but different this year too.  We have grown, we have changed.  We hear different things, we see different things.  How could we possibly have missed that last year?

Christ has Risen.  Alleluia.  This year we are new again.  It is different from last year, but once again, we begin.  Once again, we are new.  Like the tiny baby in the pew in front of my family at church yesterday.  New.

We begin again.

The sheen is still around the edges.

The memory of the Easter spectacle

In the best sense of the word

Spectacle

Still bright, shining,

Absolutely new.

The tiny baby

Eyes of a china doll

Burps on her mother*s shoulder

In the pew in front of us

As we kneel.

So new so new

All three of them

Mother, father, tiny baby

So new they are not sure

What exactly to do

When it comes time for Communion.

So new.

But all of us were new

Yesterday.

It does not occur to me

Until hours later

Hours later when I am told

They are new to the church.

Yesterday all of us were new.

We stood and sang

Together

Received Communion

Together

Smiled at the tiny baby

Eyes of a china doll

Eyes wide open on her mother*s shoulder.

All new.

Resurrection

Because He lives, we live.  Alleluia! 

Forsythia blooms

Outside and inside the Tomb.

Forever.   Now.   Life.

Reminders of all the colors

As my daughter prepares the dye baths for the Easter eggs, I remember past years holding dyed hands up for Easter communion.  I also remember a piece written by Martin Bell in The Way of the Wolf entitled Wood and Nails and Easter Eggs.  It*s worth a look-see by googling.  It is still just as powerful as when I first read it years ago.

The birds sing all afternoon

In the garden,

Still the forsythia winds and blooms.

Now the four bunches of daffodils

Bought with paper skins

Closed tight

Have opened.

They trumpet, blare, yellow

In the living room.

On the sideboard

The sprays of forsythia,

In their turn

accompany the pussy willows,

Fur catkins now with small green leaves.

They curve yellow quiet

In contrast.

We get ready to color eggs

Before church.

Our fingers will be dyed many colors

By the time we are done.

At church

We will celebrate what God has done

With bells and dyed hands.

The dye will take a couple days to wear off.

I will be more than glad

To have reminders

Of all the colors

on my fingertips,

Even as I am surrounded

By loud daffodils

Quiet sprays of forsythia,

Pure gold.

Washed in Gold

I always wanted to have a place I could preach Holy Saturday.   

Above all, maintain constant love for one another, for love covers a multitude of sins. 

                                                                                         1 Peter 4:8 (NRSV)

The sky slowly lightens again.

All is quiet except for birds singing

In the backyard,

In the garden,

A slight wash of forsythia

Begins the chant of gold

In sprays.

This is the empty time the Church Fathers

Seek to fill,

The time left in between.

After He Rose

They knew Jesus must have done

Something huge,

Fecund even in the tomb.

Not content to rest

He yanks the Gates of Hell

Off their hinges

Hauls up Everyman

Everywoman.

We have ancient church pictures

Of events underground,

They are washed in gold.

In the emptiness

They proclaim

Love covers the multitude

Of sins.

Love wins

Love wins

Love wins.

New light catches the wash of gold.

In the garden the forsythia

Sprays bright gold

In the name of Love.

The Burial

In grief we are often entombed ourselves, like it seems the disciples were after Jesus* crucifixion and burial. 

The sense of smell is our only hard-wired (unmediated) sense.  I wonder what smells brought back the disciples* memories of Jesus.  Of course we know the rest of the story.  But they didn*t then.

Jesus is in the tomb

Bound and wrapped and sealed

Into place.

Officially positively

Dead.

The disciples are lost

Among themselves,

Entombed:

Denying, depressed,

One even dead and

Soon to be buried himself

In the potter*s field.

It is night and dark

And very damp.

No stars in the sky,

No moon.

No light at all.

The mixed scent of earth and myrrh

Lingers

Long after the stone

Is rolled into place.

Lost

Among themselves,

Lost in grief,

Still they breathe in blood and iron

Earth and myrrh

bread and wine.

Still

They remember water poured,

The final words.

Still the scent of earth mixed with myrrh

Sweet spices

And nard

lingers

And returns.

I am thankful God

This is as close to a Good Friday meditation as I can come.  It is different this year for me, yet it remains the same.  How like God to do this for each one of us, in particular.  How like God to do this for all of us, together.

I am thankful God

Is not a theological construct:

Divided into three parts

But really only one.

Today, again, he is put to death

For us.

His mother watches.

His disciples watch.

We watch

Helpless to staunch the blood

Or the death.

We are only able to find him

A tomb

Where he can rest awhile.

I am thankful yesterday

Today and tomorrow

The Triduum

Is not a theological construct,

Divided into three parts

But really only one.

It continues beyond and beyond

Until we are promised he will rise

And come again.

I am thankful

I don*t have to digest this all at once,

Rather week by week

I am offered His Body,

His Blood,

So I can begin again to understand.

Again

Not a theological construct

Not divided into neat and tidy parts

Rather

Like the forsythia which appeared this year

For the first time

Growing wild

In the backyard,

Framing the ducks

In gold.

Day Off

Jeff and I worked out this morning.  It was clear by the number of children present that every school in the area is closed today.  Many offices are as well.  Everyone is celebrating the three day weekend.  Never mind that today is Good Friday.  It is somewhat of a secret that today is anything more than an extra day off before Easter. 

It is an odd bow

To Christianity.

So many

Have the day off

To watch a crucifixion.

I think of towns in the Old West,

People gathered around the gallows

With picnic lunches.

It was a public spectacle

And somehow a celebration.

Today forsythia blooms.

Rain rains.

It is too cold and wet for a picnic lunch.

I am glad it is too cold and wet.

The forsythia blooms.

In the backyard it offers sprays

Of bright yellow,

Hopeful sprays of bright yellow.

I like it best

Untidy.

Public spectacles should never

Be tidy.

It is an odd bow

To Christians and non-Christians

Alike

This day off to watch

The Crucifixion.

Forsythia in Gethsemane

I wonder if the disciples were expecting more from Jesus.  I wonder at His words in the dark garden, at his loving chiding about them not being able to stay awake, at their insistence that they were there for him.  I wonder if they felt anything but holy.  I wonder if He felt alone in that way we do when we*re facing something huge, and we can*t quite explain it to those around us, even those closest to us.

The road to church is lined

in forsythia.

On the way home it is dark.

I am sure the forsythia

Is still there.

Even so

I do not feel holy.

I feel anything but holy

Or even present to the holy.

I know it has to be there.

Still

All night

I see what is missing.

Even the memory of forsythia

Is not as bright

As it seemed two days ago.

I know it is still there

In the dark.

Forsythia

Will not be forced

Into existence

in the dark.

I wonder if there was forsythia

In Gethsemane.

If it bloomed lemon yellow

Before the leaves of summer.

I wonder If the Garden was prettied up,

Jesus monstranced in some sort of sunburst display

So everyone would know

Who he was.

Tonight I keep vigil at home

With my vase of pussy willows

sprouting green,

Forsythia from the backyard.

I do not feel holy

I feel anything but holy

Not even present to the holy.

I see what is missing.

It seems I may as well sleep

As stare at pussywillows and forsythia

In the dark.

This is not a horror movie

The journey continues.  We learned a big word in seminary:   anamnesis.  Amnesia is its opposite.  In Holy Week, we remember again and make real the final events of Jesus* life. We celebrate the Eucharist tonight, which will be the first Eucharist again.  We hear again, and for the first time, the command to love one another, the mandatum, and make it a physical remembrance and reality by washing each other*s feet.  It will be different, yet the same, this year.  This should not come as a surprise, for each one of us is different, yet the same, this year, from last year.  The journey continues.

I*m not one for horror movies.

They*re not worth the price

Of the ticket.

Heck, they*re not worth it

For free.

There is always enough

Real stuff

That scares me almost witless.

It springs from closets,

Leaps in the dark,

Lurks.

Sometimes it even grows in the dark

Like mushrooms.

There is enough real stuff

 Plenty scary.

I aim to come at it

With my eyes wide open,

See what*s there,

Take a spade, unearth it

Like worms;

Walk the path

See hear feel

All the details

All

The details.

I aim to walk it

With eyes and ears and heart

Open.

This is no horror movie.

I*m not one for such things.

They*re not worth the price

Of the ticket.

This is the real thing.

I pay as full a price for the ticket

As I can,

I know It will never be enough

So I walk it,

Pay attention to as many details

As I can.

This Week

Is real,

Different and the same

Every year.

Real.

Whoa!

We have set services for Holy Week, and I believe God sets our paths, if we will follow.  With free will, we human beings take a lot of detours, but like a wonderful GPS, God recalibrates all the time.  Really... All The Time.  And we still get there.  Amazing.

I will attend the Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Vigil services (the Triduum) at my home parish of St. Mark*s, Glen Ellyn.  I will see what words come throughout.   What*s funny to me is that I set out to write one reflection for each service.  Then I thought: there should also be one for each time in between.  But really, I have no idea what I will write.  Part of the plan seems to be that I don*t get to measure or count:  how many reflections, how many clients, how many hits this blog gets.  I*m not in charge of the counting.  So... do not take mine as a traditional rendering of Holy Week.

I love the Stations of the Cross Malcolm Guite has written in sonnet form, lovely braided sonnets, a crown of sonnets.  If you haven*t encountered them: Please Do.    http://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/author/malcolmguite/   

There are also wonderful reflections/meditations people have written/preached on all three services, and the parts thereof:  footwashing, Jesus* commandment to love one another, Jesus* seven last words on the cross.  There is so much to preach on, so much to meditate upon.  This is a rich, very rich, thin time, particularly for those of us in liturgical traditions.  Join us in the walk/ride through the Triduum.

Before the beginning

Of the roller coaster ride

That begins the Triduum,

This early morning before it all begins

I know there will be several things to write.

I do not know how many.

I figure they will not be separated

Into traditional parts.

I have never really, after all,

Been traditional.

I will not know until I get there

With Jesus.

I will not know,

Even as I know so well

The given pieces

To walk through.

This year

I am somehow being carried

On a track which will take me

Where it wills.

I do not know if Jesus is the roller coaster

Or the track.

I suspect the track.

Do not ask me how this fits into anyone*s concept

Of the Trinity,

Much less my own.

Even as I know I will be carried,

I know

This year will be different

And the same.

Every year it is different

And the same.

This year will include that roller coaster

On a track I have not laid.

This year will include

The barely budding clematis in front.

The ducks out back

Will probably be along for the ride,

Hopefully in their own car.

I know I will see it all

Through the forsythia

I have never seen before

This year.

All who go with me will wave

Lemon yellow forsythia.

Forsythia will line the tracks

Jesus has made.

This year I believe it will all end

In forsythia.

Wednesday in Holy Week

 As a parish priest it was always a conundrum on what to do on Wednesday in Holy Week.  Tenebrae? healing service? A simple Eucharist?  Sure there are Scripture readings for the day which focus on Judas* betrayal (the John version where it seemed Jesus names it, then Judas follows suit, or the Matthew version where Judas has already made arrangements with the authorities)... Wednesday it seems, is for waiting, for preparing, for getting the drama set in place before the roller coaster ride of the Triduum.  Wednesday is for waiting.

There are so many ways

To walk through Wednesday;

So many ways

To wait for the Commandment:

The preliminary preparation

For the Passover meal;

The right food in the right place;

The betrayal set to go off as ordained,

The person named

Or found out.

It would be better if he had not been born,

But it seems then

Someone else

Would have done it.

So many ways

to prepare for the ritual slide

into the end,

So we can get to the beginning

Again.

So many ways to walk through Wednesday,

Ways to wait

In the dark,

Wait for the meal,

The washing of feet,

The washing of the altar

When everything is clear.

So many ways to wait

For the final dark,

The inevitable slide into the end.

We know the end.

Today

We wait.

Wednesday is for waiting.

Mood swings

Sometimes we don*t pay attention to the emotion-rich part of Holy Week.  Sometimes it seems easier to picture Jesus walking through the week and coming out the other side unscathed, even as we know we would not be unscathed ourselves.  Still... Jesus is the Son of God, right?  Right?  Tell me.

This week is rich in emotion

All sorts of emotion.

I wonder if Jesus had mood swings,

Certainly this week of all weeks,

I wonder.

Did he continue on

Steady as a rock

On that donkey

Through Jerusalem

Palm Sunday through to the cross

And out the other side?

Did he wait for the Garden that night

To complain,

To feel a little low?

And then

Was it a real low?

Or only a dip?

Was Jesus like me?

Mood swings and all?

Tell me he was.

Tell me he felt low before

He was finally lifted up,

After the cross

After the burial

The final lifting up

Out of the tomb

Framed in angels and forsythia

Wild blooming yellow?

Tell me he knew full joy 

then.

Different club

It*s a toss-up for me.  Are well-meant but awkward questions better than ignoring that something has happened... at all?  Probably the awkward questions win the toss-up, but I find I am particularly grateful to people, friends new and old, who have shared their stories of joining this different club for which there is no secret handshake.  You know who you are.  Thank you!  Your lives have been a witness for me of moving on and through.  There is a grace about the way you ask your questions.  There is grace in the way you share the answers you have found helpful.  Having such company helps me to hold on to the God who has me, indeed all of us, in His hands.

Four months ago

I joined a different club.

There is no secret handshake.

Still

It is easy to tell

Who belongs.

These are the ones who ask

How I am doing today

Not

Are you feeling any better?

These are usually the ones

Who have lived scared witless

And come out the other end.

These are the ones who have made plans

Only to have them unmade

In an instant.

I never knew the distinction was so huge

Until I joined the club.

So:

Ask me the diagnosis.

Ask me when I can drive again.

Ask me if I*m scared.

Even ask me to rate my scared-ness

On a scale of one to ten:

One being barely scared

At all.

I joined a different club

When I had the seizure. 

If you really want to know:

Most days I rank a one or two

As scaredy-cat.

Most days I know that no matter what happens

Between now and the middle of June

I will remain a member of that different club,

No secret handshake but

I know I am still held in God*s hands

No matter what happens

At all.

Forsythia yellow

Today was clergy Quiet Day at Morton Arboretum.  It was a gift and a blessing, from people present, to worship, to time spent in quiet, looking out at trees in the rain.  It was lovely to be in a place where little needed to be said.  Indeed, there were many hugs exchanged, and fewer words.  A good way to spend the Tuesday in Holy Week.  

For whatever reason, I am now realizing forsythia yellow, noticing it everywhere.  It seems once a deficit has been noticed, God plants it everywhere.  It is a good reminder, this yellow on a gray rainy day.  It is a reminder of joy.  It rains in my heart.

Being driven to Quiet Day

It was all forsythia:

Roadsides

Yards

Patches

Whole bright yellow

Swatches,

Yellow like I*d never seen.

Years ago I had bad memories

Of aqua.

Aqua was redeemed,

Returned to me in a dream of picking

Aqua flowers.

I held them in open hands

Let the petals sift through my fingers.

After that I saw aqua everywhere.

It had never occurred to me

Certain colors could be redeemed.

The spoken word this morning offered:

Joy reigns in my heart.

It became:

Joy rains in my heart.

Today forsythia yellow has been given back.

Joy rains.

I have received it

Hold it in open hands

Watch it permeate the landscape.

Yellow is everywhere

Bright in the rain

Yellow forsythia joy

Rains in my heart,

Redeemed.