No rats in heaven: the Sermon on the Mount (1)

 Salt

You are the salt of the earth. —Matthew 5:13

A grain of salt is too tiny
to be of use, but when joined
with other grains
an energy compounds,
a sharpness emerges.
Even so, salt doesn’t
draw attention to itself.
Sprinkled or poured out,
the focus shifts to the object
of its intention—the roast,
the potatoes and carrots,
even the chocolate cake.
No one relaxes after a good meal
and says, Wasn’t that salt delicious!
I am a hidden ingredient
for making this world
a sensually marvelous place.


Light

You are the light of the world. —Matthew 5:14

A particle or part of a wave,
my identity is confusing
even to myself.
It's weird being invisible.
You may not see me
but by me you see everything else.
The redwood tree across the street,
the one with a chunk cut out
so the telephone lines pass through.
The telephone lines.
The birds that perch on top.
Your neighbor’s smile.
The broken glass on the sidewalk.
The path ahead.
Whether you know it or not
you owe your awareness
of all of this
to me and my companions.
We light up the world.


No Rats in Heaven
But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy—.  —Matthew 6:20

No rats in heaven.
Jesus said so.
That means no nasty diseases,
no rat poop on the floor,
no government condemnation of your property,
and plenty of space to store your heavenly treasures.


Healthy Eyes
If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be full of light. —Matthew 6:22

It's not cataract removal surgery or new glasses
that will do the trick.
What I really need is a tree,
at least one tree a day
and not through a window
but out in the air, close enough
to touch bark, hear leaves rustle,
smell resin, and fill my eyes
until tears wash them whole again.
Medicine for a healthy body and a holy soul.
Light coming through trees.

 

Choosing life in a time of pandemic

As the children of Israel were approaching the promised land at the end of their 40-year trek in the wilderness, Moses delivers God’s words of warning and promise to the people. He tells them, “I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him” (Deuteronomy 30:19).

Choose life. God speaks those words to us, now in this time of pandemic.

As I walked along Hess Creek yesterday, the clash of two realities became clear. The current crisis is real and choosing life doesn’t mean negating the danger or the darkness. But the other reality I met along the creek is the coming of spring. The green of new leaves, the sounds of running water and the occasional afternoon bird, the sense of hope this season bring—all sang, “This is my Father’s world.” Such a contrast. And both are real.

So I hold the two. I continue to walk by the creek and nourish myself with the beauty of the earth, even as I keep praying for the world, affirming that the darkness has never yet (and never will) overcome the Light.

First Light

Response to the query: "How did you first become aware of the light?"

The reflection of flames pulsated off the walls of my bedroom, and the scent of smoke filled the air. Distant sirens did nothing to calm the panic I fought as I lay there. I was nine years old, and that summer the brush fires surrounding my Southern California community raged out of control. Although told we were in no immediate danger, I was terrified.

Our home was not Christian, although my parents were good, educated and loving people. We didn’t go to church as a family, said no grace at meals, and the Bible was up on the shelf alongside Dante, Shakespeare and Omar Khayyam. Good Literature, there for reference but not necessarily for reading.

But when we first moved to this small town, my parents decided we three children needed to go to church and learn Christian values. They were drawn to the Friends, mostly because of the underground railroad and how Quakers had treated the American Indians. So when I was seven, my mom started taking us kids to the local Friends church.

And it was there, in the second grade Sunday school class, that Mrs. Kunkel taught us about Jesus and about confessing our sins and asking him into our heart as our personal savior and friend. I already trusted grown-ups, so I was predisposed to believe her. And it sounded good, like something I might want to do someday. Mrs. Kunkel put no pressure on us, and as my sense of sin was totally undeveloped (remember, my parents actually liked me and told me so), I was in no rush. She did tell us that people who did not know Jesus went to hell.

So laying there that night, with the sirens and smoke feeding my fear, the thought of hell popped into my brain. I decided that I never ever wanted to go there, and that I’d better do something about it quick. I knew just what to do. I said that little formula Mrs. Kunkel had taught us. I was not motivated by any need to repent of sin or any deep sense of longing for God. I was simply afraid of fire. So I pulled the covers over my head, whispered the right words and waited to see what might happen next.

What happened was—he showed up. Without great emotion, without tears or repentence, I quietly became aware that I had a new friend. He really was there. I had no doubts. So I began talking with my new friend, having no idea that this was called “prayer.” After a while, I noticed that I was no longer afraid of the fire.

He’s been my friend ever since.