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.

Some poems from Psalm 119

Psalm 119 is the longest of all the psalms at 176 verses. The theme is love for the laws of God and a determination to follow them. Laws is also expressed as word, precepts, commands, decrees, statutes, and ways. It’s God’s plans for human flourishing and serving, communicated to us.

The psalm is divided into 22 stanzas, representing the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Each stanza is made up of eight verses. I wrote a prayer/poem for each stanza and will share a few of them here. It’s best to read the actual portion of the psalm along with the poem, although each poem could stand alone.

Sometimes I Delight
“I rejoice in following your statutes.” Psalm 119:14, BET

How can a young person
stay on the path of purity?
Even more pertinent,
how can an old person
faithfully follow you?

I have hidden your word in my heart
so well that some days I can’t find it.
I delight in your word
sometimes. I smile.
I hold it in my hands
and cherish its contours
and patterns. I giggle
at the colored specks of light.
I laugh out loud
and the unimaginable
nuances of love.

I will not neglect your word,
with your help, of course.
Like the old hymn says,
I’m prone to wander.
Hold me to my intentions, Lord.
Do whatever it takes.

Open My Eyes
“Open my eyes that I may see….” Psalm 119:18, GIMEL

Open my eyes, Lord,
when the Bible gets boring.
When familiarity stiffens my brain cells
and my heart feels paralyzed;
when legality repulses
and the light grows dim,
open my eyes, Lord.

I am a stranger on earth,
an alien among ordinary people,
an imposter in church—
unsanctified, blind
and mostly silent.
How will your commands bind my wounds?
Will they bring me
to the place where I can say,
Your statutes are my delight!?

Running in the Path
“I run in the path of your commands.”
Psalm 119:32, DALETH

I run in the path of your commands.

Every morning I get up, put on my sweats
and my running shoes,
then open the door.
It's cold outside but the air is fresh.
I head out of town and up into the hills
where your path twists and climbs
among the pines and Douglas firs.
You’re doing great, you tell me.
Just keep going. Follow the path.
I do. Mile after mile.
I seem to gain strength as I go.
Legs pumping, arms swinging,
my heart beats to the rhythm of your ways.
The scenery only gets better ‘round each bend.
Your commands energize me, cheer me on,
keep me chugging higher and higher,
closer to the finish line
at the top of the mountain.

In the Night
“In the night, Lord, I remember your name….” Psalm 119:55, ZAYIN 

Last night I got up three times
to go to the bathroom.
I worry I’m not getting enough sleep.
I long for the night to be over.
I check my watch. 12:30. 2:30. 3:30.
Last night I dreamed of a green hill,
freshly manicured grass,
scattered wildflowers—a cemetery. 
Death with beauty. I woke up.
I think it was my death.
Should I be distracted?
The middle of the night
always invites fear in.
It's hard to resist.

When I’m tempted to indulge,
remind me, Lord,
to remember your name.

Let It Be Everywhere
“The earth is filled with your love, Lord….” Psalm 119:64, HETH

Everywhere I go and all places
where I stay, your love is already there.
When I drive to the grocery store, I pass it
walking down the sidewalk, peeking out
apartment windows, and sitting beside me
in the car, keeping me company.
When I spend the day indoors,
your love looks out at me from my book,
reminds me I’m not alone.
Your love connects me with the refugees
I see on TV. It hovers over
the war zones of Gaza and the Ukraine,
rides the Santa Ana winds above Los Angeles.

Please, Lord, let this love of yours,
that so comforts me here in my little town,
rain down in more obvious doses today
on Gaza, Ukraine, and the City of Angels.
Fill the places of terror with the love
that fills the earth. Comfort the refugees
with your presence, just as you comfort me.

The beginning of the end

Last week we flew to La Paz, and yesterday we moved into the Hobbit Hole, a small apartment squished in between the New Jerusalem Friends Church and the large Friends school in back. The Hobbit Hole is directly under one of the school’s classrooms, and all morning long the kids have been reciting, singing, scrapping their chairs over the floor and, apparently, practicing for a violent overthrow of the government. I hope somebody is teaching Quaker peace-making. Some silence wouldn’t be bad either.

Last night we had a wonderful meeting with the people on the History Commission, the group we’re working with in this huge Bolivian Quaker history project. We’re encouraged by our team’s progress, initiative and motivation. And they’ve certainly given us a warm welcome.

I’m also encouraged by Jesus’ teaching on persistence in prayer: “Ask (and keep on asking) and it will be given to you; seek (and keep on seeking) and you will find; knock (and keep on knocking) and the door will be opened to you” (Luke 11:9). Here are the prayer requests that I invite you to ask and keep on asking concerning our concluding five months of work on the project here in La Paz:

--That God’s Spirit would fill and motivate us by love (Phil. 1:9-11): love for God that fuels our obedience and hard work; love for the church with all her blemishes and challenges; love for and among our team members. Love.

--That God’s Spirit would fill our team, that relationships stay healthy and open, that we all be able to focus on Christ and worship and work together.

--That we might discover the missing pieces in this complex story.

--For truth; that God would guard us from error and presumption.

--For insight into all the questions our investigation has brought up; for discernment to see where the Spirit was (and is) moving in all the events and problems and people that make up this story.

--For good writing.

--For the joy of the Lord to be our strength.

--For a successful conclusion to this project.

--For it to fulfill its purpose to bless and encourage the church, both in Bolivia and in the Northwest USA.

Amen. Lord, hear our prayer.

Comforting God

I’m still mulling over yearly meeting and our inability to come to consensus on the issues related to same sex relationships. We’re still divided as a yearly meeting, and this is causing paralysis, as well as distress.

One morning recently, as I agonized in spirit, I found myself repeating in prayer, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Then my prayer morphed into, “It’s alright. Please don’t be sad. It’ll all work out.”

This reminds me of when our children were small. After I brought a new-born Kristin home from the hospital, she had her bouts of crying, like all small babies. There were even times when, being tired myself and having tried all I knew to address her distress, I just left her in her cradle to cry it out.

This alarmed her older brother, and three-year-old David would tell me, “Mom, Kristin’s crying! You need to ‘there-there’ her!” Apparently when I held her and patted her back, I would murmur, “There-there. There-there.” Soon we adopted the phrase, “to there-there Kristin.”

Back to the present. As I was praying, “I’m sorry. Please don’t be sad,” I realized that I was trying to “there-there” God. That brought a smile, along with a sense of the ridiculous. Who was I to comfort God? Who was I to tell God to just relax, that it would somehow all work out? Who, indeed?

I sensed God smile back, and real comfort took place, in a God-to-me direction. Seeing the humor in this serious situation again restored perspective and faith.

The church belongs to God, and God will lead us as we seek, ask and listen. In the meantime, I will continue praying and waiting and working and loving. In the words of Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Yes.

There-there.

A Franciscan Benediction

May God bless you with discomfort

At easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships

So that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger

At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,

So that you may work for justice, freedom and peace.

May God bless you with tears

To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger and war,

So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and

To turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless you with enough foolishness

To believe that you can make a difference in the world,

So that you can do what others claim cannot be done—

To bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor.

Amen

(Taken from Philip Yancey's book, "Prayer.")

Ubiquitous kindness revisited

Last week I blogged on the widespread kindness I am finding in the world. I focused on specifically on the way the sports and school systems in Springfield, Oregon have gathered around my visually impaired grandson, allowing him to do things like successfully run on the cross-country track team. All of that is still true.

But I need to revisit the theme because Reilly ran in his second race this week, and it didn’t turn out so well. He ran into a pole.

Apparently the race began late and the coaches released more kids than usual onto the track at the same time. The first part of the trail followed a city sidewalk, until it veered off into a more rural path. It happened on this sidewalk, complete with telephone poles. The crowding of so many kids, the narrowness of the sidewalk—who knows why, but it all threw Reilly a little off. Even though he was looking straight ahead, and even though the accompanying runner was right there, he ran full force into the pole. He’s fast, and those around him watched with horror as he hit, bounced back and crumpled to the ground.

He rallied quickly, but felt dizzy and disoriented. He was taken to the hospital and then kept home the next day to watch for signs of concussion. He didn’t have one. Young bodies are resilient, and Reilly finished the week back in school. Next week he plans on racing again.

But this has served as another wake-up call. Reilly behaves so normally that we frequently forget the extent of his impairment. Even he forgets, which is good. But it can be dangerous, too.

It’s made me wonder if I might have been a bit glib in my last post about God’s grace and kindness permeating the world. I could even be tempted to blame God for letting this happen, or to blame myself for not praying enough. And of course I could blame the system—the very system that I saw last week as demonstrating the ubiquity of kindness—for letting Reilly down.

I could do all of that, but I’ve chosen not to. I will continue to affirm the power and pervasiveness of God’s grace. But I need to put it in the context of this imperfect world, where accidents happen, kids go blind, and millions of refugees wander Europe in desperation. I need to ask, with tears, “Where is God’s kindness in all of this?” I need to admit that I don’t know.

But I need to keep asking. Keep affirming. And keep praying, even offering my life as part of the answer.

So next week my prayers for God’s manifest kindness and grace will accompany Reilly around the curves of that cross-country trail. I will dare to prayer for the refugees across Europe. I will dare to ask how I can be involved.

And I will continue to affirm the ubiquitous kindness of an all-seeing, loving and powerful God.

Art as a door into prayer

I have a certain place in my living room where I go to keep my morning watch and then return to from time to time throughout the day. My chair faces a window with a view of trees and sky. I also keep certain works of art nearby, to help me focus on life and give me courage.

On the stand by the window sit a copy of an icon of Pantokrator Jesus and a picture a friend drew/prayed for me in the Zentangle art style. On the wall above the stand is an original painting of a forest stream.

On another wall I see an original painting of three Aymara women, a crafted wooden picture of a Bolivian village, and a reproduction of Rembrandt’s “Return of the Prodigal Son.”

 Pantokrator Jesus

The original of this icon is a gigantic wall mosaic in the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, once a Christian cathedral, later a mosque, and currently a museum that is trying to restore and blend the art of both religions. Several years ago I stood before this mosaic and felt moved. In the original Christ is accompanied on either side by his mother Mary and John the Baptist. His two fingers represent the double nature of Christ, both man and God, a response to one of the controversies of the 5^th century. I love the tender expression on the face of Jesus. I sense his love and care for me.

Zentangle drawing by Miriam Bock

Miriam prayed for me while I was doing research in Bolivia during January and February. She used this art form to focus her prayers. It’s full of symbolism. The center of the piece, the goose (which emerged and surprised Miriam) is a Celtic symbol of the Holy Spirit. The more ordered squares in the bottom represent the discipline and order of research, and the egg is the hidden treasure I hope to discover. The drawing also contains a playful spirit, the sprouts of poems, and the eyes of God continually watching out for me. There’s more, as I keep discovering. It’s a visual blessing and reminder of the life God offers me.

Forrest stream by Dave Vanderveer

My brother-in-law is a gifted artist. He’s also a generous person. I admired this painting, so he gave it to me. I love the way the light skips off the water. I can almost hear the stream singing over the rocks and the breeze in the trees. It speaks light and life and Spirit.

Three Aymara Women by Oscar Tintaya

Oscar Tintaya is a Bolivian artist who is becoming well known in his own country. He is also a Quaker, and he is my friend. This painting reminds me of the high aesthetic values of the Aymara people, as well as the mystery of this culture. These three women, seated in the market place, aren’t about to let you into their world. And yet God has opened the doors. I continue to marvel at the beauty and mystery.

Wooden picture of an Aymara village

This picture, by an unnamed Bolivian artisan, is formed of tiny slivers of wood artistically arranged to show a village in the foothills of Mount Illimani. Again, the beauty and mystery of the Bolivian landscape and the Aymara culture bring up a spirit of wonder and gratitude.

Rembrandt’s “The Return of the Prodigal Son”

I bought this reproduction of Rembrandt’s painting in The Hermitage in St. Petersburg, Russia, after having stood for an hour in front of the original. Henri Nouwen’s book of the same title was the key that unlocked this work. The picture draws me into the unending story of the father’s love, the possibility of redemption.

Even though a Quaker (with our reputation for stressing reality above symbolism), I’m also a poet with a love for art and a responsive nature. Art helps me pray, and I need all the help I can get.

Of course, the Original is far more beautiful than all these works. Sometimes I just close my eyes and enjoy the presence.

Keeping watch...with Jesus

On Sunday in unprogrammed worship, the gathering word was from Matthew 26:36-39.

“Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, ‘Sit here while I go over there and pray.’ He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.’ Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, ‘My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.’”

As I sat there in the community of silence, I pictured Jesus agonizing in prayer, with his disciples nearby, supporting him (or not). The darkness of the garden matches his shadowed spirit. Sorrowful. Full of sorrow.

What I brought to my meditation that morning was a preoccupation with death. We just lost Hal’s 95 year old mother two weeks back, and then a few days ago we received news of the death of a close friend our own age, Dwaine Williams.

We had expected the one death and were privileged to be at her side when Mom gently stopped breathing and went home. We cried but we also experienced relief that the suffering was over. We felt joy in the sense of her home-coming. In a few weeks, family will gather from different parts of the country to share memories and honor her life.

But with Dwaine, it feels totally different, and our grief has a strange tenor. I’m having to intentionally affirm my faith in God’s loving sovereignty as a way of combating a sense of tragedy. And I struggle with knowing how to respond to Becky, Dwaine’s wife and my dear friend of many years.

So sitting in the silence of unprogrammed worship, seeing Jesus at prayer in the dark garden, my vision shifted to Jesus at the right hand of the Father, still praying, interceding for his people. I saw his eyes going throughout the earth, seeing deeply into the pain and struggles of all of us, and holding that pain tenderly in prayer.

And I heard him say to me, “Stay here nearby. Keep watch with me.” An invitation to co-labor with him in intercession. Even when I don’t know how to pray. Even when all I can do is hold the pain and lift it up to the One who does know how to pray.

This is Holy Week. This is the week we remember Gethsemane and Calvary. Dwaine’s memorial service is on Good Friday. That seems appropriate. And we know that Resurrection Day is coming.

The darkness of the garden will continue in the weeks ahead, but we do not grieve as those without hope. I’m comforted to know that I can keep watch with Jesus, join in his intercession for those who will experience pain in the weeks and months ahead. I will undoubtedly need help to stay awake, but my intention is to sit still, watch and pray. With Jesus.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us.