The Lonely Places: Poems of the Incarnation (2)

The Lonely Places

Very early in the morning… Jesus got up … and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Mark 1:35; 14:32-42

He sought out the lonely places
in the darkness before dawn.
The wild places drew him—
the desert, a mountain trail,
a spot between the roots
of an ancient oak. A stream close by
gurgled its own prayer.
There in the solitude
he sat in silence
or wrestled with words,
holding the world’s agony
in his heart. There he listened.
Three years hence, he would pray
in a garden. No place
would ever be more lonely.


Indignant
Jesus was indignant. He reached out his hand and touched the man…. Mark 1:41

It was a brief but uneasy encounter.
On his knees and using his beggar voice,
If you want to you could heal me,
the scruffy man pleaded.
It irritated Jesus,
this whining attempt at manipulation.
Even so—the touch.
Leprosy spots vanished,
the man rose to his feet.
With no tender words, Jesus
demanded silence.
Was the man listening?
It seems not. He went out
and bragged so freely
Jesus had to leave town.
It was not the best of encounters.


Willing
Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean. Luke 5:12

The leper had heard of the miracles,
possibly witnessed a healing or two,
but he doubted any of it could apply to him.
Not only miracles, but basic good luck
was something that happened to other people.
And so the face-in-the-dirt
tentative groping, the if-you-are-willing request.
The first miracle, and possibly the greatest,
was that Jesus touched him, laid a hand on his skin
without shuddering.
And then the impossible words,
I am willing. These words reach down
the years, touch my skin and my fear,
tell me my future is as good
as the mercies of God.
He’s willing.


I Am Willing
Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said. Matthew 8:3

I confess I’m like
the man with leprosy.
I approach Jesus hesitantly,
with trepidation.
I’ve had this condition for so long.
I’ve asked before, and nothing happened.
Others have prayed for me.
People with impressive healing ministries
have laid hands on me and ordered
the illness to leave. It stayed.
I’ve disappointed a lot of people.
What do I make of the promises?
Am I the exception to the rule
that Jesus heals every disease and sickness?
I’m still waiting to hear him say to me,
I’m willing.

A living hope

A friend of mine in California is reading 1 and 2 Peter this year. Only 1 and 2 Peter. He is focusing his heart on what the Spirit might be saying to him through these two books.

He inspires me. So in my morning exercises on the elliptical machine, I’m reading 1 Peter. Over and over and over. It actually makes the exercise less painful, keeps me from ticking off the minutes. This morning I read the first chapter in English, Spanish, Portuguese and Aymara, all while running nine laps around the football field. (Pardon me, but I feel so virtuous!)

I’ve noticed some interesting things:

1)      ---The book clearly presents the Trinity: “…chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father, through the sanctifying work of the Spirit, to be obedient to Jesus Christ….”

2)      ---Like James, Peter talks about the Father who gives us new birth. I find that fascinating. A father who gives birth. It shows the inadequacy of our anthropomorphic images of God. Both Father and Mother, but neither the one nor the other. Mystery.

3)      ---I love the “living” references: a “living hope” (1:3), the “living word” (1:23), the “Living Stone” (2:4) and us as “living stones” (2:5) in a spiritual house.

Especially the living hope. Right now in the middle of the break-up of Northwest Yearly Meeting, hope is hard to grab ahold of. What is a living hope?

Spirit, sow that kind of hope in me.

Here’s an old poem, come back to help me now.

Meditation on 1 Peter 1:3-4

Rooted in red-rich dirt,
resurrection soil,
my hope is a green and living thing:
a wide willow
offering respite from summer’s heat;
a blossoming sorrel
left to surprise squirrels and deer mice;
a licorice fern.
It has texture and hue;
real edges define it;
its roots are credible.
Tiny fingers stroke moisture/life
from ground.
Each single cell drinks light and air,
releases an energy green and good.

My hope is a young sequoia.

Slender now,
its trunk will thicken
in a larger garden--
a sure inheritance.

My hope enriches Eden’s slopes.

Yearly Meeting hope

Hope is arising in me on this uncommonly grey morning in July. Northwest Yearly Meeting’s annual sessions begin today as I meet with the Board of Global Outreach (what we used to call the Mission Board). In a sense this is a time of closure as Hal and I are officially retiring from our service under this board, a service we began with great hope and anticipation in 1971. At the concluding banquet on Thursday evening, the yearly meeting will honor us. I hope (that word again) it will be a gentle celebration, not too much hoopla. Not any loud cheering. A few quiet handshakes, a mutual thank-you to all concerned. After all, we don’t plan to stop serving and traveling and writing and living this incredible adventure God called us to so many years ago. We just won’t do it officially any more.

But of course this yearly meeting time is about more than us. We find ourselves, as do so many other parts of the Body Christ, embroiled in the controversy surrounding human sexuality. In particular, our positions on gay, lesbian, and transgender issues are being called into question. And we are a divided people. Many meetings strongly affirm the traditional position that the Scriptures only allow for marriage between a man and a woman, and that any deviation from this position means we are in danger of compromising the faith. Fear combines with sorrow for these dear people. Many people, and at least one meeting, believe the Spirit is leading us out into a brave new world where we can affirm committed same-sex relationships. Most of us are somewhere in the middle. We’re all longing for a clear word from the Lord.

Part of my nature as a poet embraces the ambiguity and basks in God’s silence. But that doesn’t work so well when we’re faced with the concrete need to revise Faith and Practice. And the longing to stay together, even in the midst of controversy.

We don’t know what will happen during this year’s sessions, and I sense that many outside of our community are watching and waiting. That’s why I find this hope that’s twirling around inside me so strange, illogical and lovely. “Hope and a Future” also happens to be the theme of the sessions, and I anticipate what our special speaker, Noah Baker Merrill, will bring.

As I’ve been praying for us all this last year, the words eventually come down to two basic requests:

Lord, have mercy.

And, Holy Spirit, come.

Yes.