When I die

When I die

Whenever it is

However it is

I would like a service

Calling to mind

The Resurrection

And me

With it

And

In it.

When I die

I would like a party

In celebration of my life

Including the difficult bits.

We all have

Difficult bits.

When I die

I would like to become ashes

And spread

And scattered

And strewn

Somewhere the family

Deems fit

Where I can nourish

Nematodes

Prairie flowers

A scrub pine,

perhaps,

A black panther

Maybe even

A hawk.

When I die

I would like to be returned

To the earth.

When I die

I would like to see

What comes next.

Life released

Liturgy is not as much production, as participation. No wonder I am tired.

I am no longer responsible

For the variety of liturgies,

Coordination of all the players.

In liturgy of course

That includes everyone

Who walks through the door.

Everyone who walks

Out the door.

Why

Am I so exhausted

Easter Sunday afternoon,

Even when I only did

Bits and pieces

Of Lent and Holy Week?

Now the tomb

Is empty and life released

Into the world.

Now comes the greening

Who wouldn’t be tired?

Holy Saturday 2015

So like Him.

On this beautiful blue day

They say

Jesus is down

Evacuating Hell.

What’s the Son of Man to do?

Twiddle his thumbs?

Maybe

Play Gin Rummy,

Or even

Go Fish

With the Heavenly Host?

What’s a guy to do

With this free Saturday

Like no other Saturday

This free blue beautiful day?

So like Him

To throw open

The gates of Hell,

Invite absolutely everyone

To the Resurrection Party

Tomorrow.

Lazarus

I have often felt that Lazarus was used a bit like a shill.  I know this is not the most faithful response to Jesus bringing Lazarus back to life.  Still... I see all the illustrations of a bound Lazarus coming out of the tomb, the strips of cloth hanging off of him, and I am irritated that John's Jesus deliberately waited until Lazarus was good and dead before appearing on the scene.  I do wonder how many folk were convinced by this that Jesus was who he said he was.  

Lazarus lay four days

In the tomb. Waited to prove

Jesus’ point.

New life

One of the Easter lilies from Easter Sunday was delivered to my office this morning.  My office is on the lower level of St. Mark*s.  I have one small narrow window.  I have put the lily in the only spot which gets daylight. For now it helps me think about Easter.  

This week I also signed the OneWheaton letter and offered to proclaim Easter to those who need to hear it, freely and unabashedly Easter.  No stone - full-angeled - Jesus walking about as the gardener - Easter.

The lily sits on the edge of my desk

In the only spot of daylight.

It trumpets Easter here,

New life possible

Here.

Three Easter trumpets

One more to come.

I am holding down Easter

In the basement.

The lily helps.

I wonder if I will be able to plant it

In the window well

Later.

I have signed the letter

For my newest alma mater.

I will offer Easter to those

Who need to hear it,

To those who doubt that Easter

Is for them.

Here next to the parlor,

One small window shows the lawn,

The sky.

The Easter lily drinks light here.

Easter is the offer.

The stone is rolled away.

There are angels in the basement,

Jesus is out

Gardening.

Here the offer

Is Easter.

I see what I expect to see

OK.  There are way too many metaphors in this one.  I know it.  My excuse is that Jesus used a lot of metaphors and stories and ways of seeing things to reach us.  Still... too many metaphors.  I know it.  Long about 6 o*clock this evening I realized I had been hearing a whole lot of wonderful things all day about good Christian response to Osama bin Laden*s death.  I had breakfast with a friend whose son is in the Special Forces.  She was grateful he was Stateside when it all came down.  I realized I had my eyes and heart set on seeing the cheering people outside the White House.  Anyway... too many metaphors.  And Jesus is really truly here.  And the Light.  And the cornerstone.  And it*s Easter.  He has risen.  Alleluia!

Too often I hold my breath,

I wait for the other shoe

To

Drop.

Then another one

And another.

I hold my breath and look

For what I know I will see.

Sure enough

I see it.

The sun gets in my eyes.

It is after all a beautiful day

Finally spring

The sun is in my eyes but I know

It is God*s light

I sing it as the Light of Christ

Too often I hold my breath

And chant

The Light of Christ.

I miss the next breath

And the next one.

I wait to see what I know

I will see.

Sure enough I see it.

Some days

Like today

I name what I expect to see,

What is surely coming next.

There it is.

With the sun in my eyes

I hold my breath

And wait for shoe after shoe after shoe

To drop.

I forget to look for the building

Being built

The next block over.

The sun is in my eyes.

I name it the Light of Christ.

But that building being built

A block away

The foundation is solid

The chief cornerstone is Jesus.

How could I miss it?

Reminder of Easter

I have no social commentary on Bin Laden*s death or the particulars surrounding it.  Others have mined the Scriptures for words which condemn or allow for celebration.  That is not mine.  Like many, I feel mixed and jumbled.  This reflection is what I do know.  

We are in the season

Of the Risen Jesus.

He is with us awhile.

He walks through closed doors,

Shows his scars,

Gives advice from the shore,

Grills fish.

Jesus joins us on the road.

He waits to be invited

To dinner.

He holds all that happens now.

He holds it,

The whole mix of things.

Jesus assures us that the Comforter

Will be sent to sit with us

Walk with us

Eat with us

Give advice from the shore.

It will be different

But the same.

After this season

Now

The Comforter is with us

Until Jesus comes again.

Resurrection life

A friend posted a beautiful Easter prayer which seemed to cover most contingencies.  Except of course, it didn*t.  There is no such thing as a prayer which covers everything.  I found myself focusing on what it lacked, which seemed to defeat the purpose of anything enlisting Resurrection life, the life we celebrate in this season.   So I wrote this instead.

This is my 27th anniversary of being ordained a priest.  The ordained life has not been what I expected from the beginning.  Ever.  It seems God has planted me unlabelled, and hung me slightly crooked.  I get older so my chain is a bit rusty.  I am grateful for Resurrection life out of all that seems to bring death.  God continues to breathe life into me and sing songs for my twining, like the clematis.  I know He does this for everyone, twining and blooming.  I believe even God can be surprised.

In the front yard the clematis

Take hold of life,

Begin to vine it

Around the pillars.

Soon enough they will offer

Purple and striped flowers.

One came without a tag

From the nursery last year.

I planted it anyway.

It will be a surprise

When it blooms.

I breathe on it,

Sing growing songs.

I do not know if it will match

Anything else.

The painted butterfly WELCOME

Hangs slightly crooked

From the garden post.

It used to hold a hanging pot.

No matter how often I straighten it

The butterfly moves to slant

Slightly,

Chain rusted,

Yellow unnamed butterfly

Intact.

No matter how we pray Resurrection life

It comes up different,

Blooms match one another in ways

We could never have planned,

Would never have thought of,

Wild, unpruned.

Welcome signs are almost always

At a slant

Except when they aren*t,

Of course.

Our particular Resurrection prayers

Could never cover the whole realm

Of possibility.

I breathe life and sing songs

To all the unlabelled flowers and vines.

I look for the welcome signs,

No matter how they hang,

The condition of their chains.

I breathe life,

Sing songs.

I know I*ll be surprised.

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.