What Did You Mean?

What did you mean

just then when you

leaned

looked

groaned

sighed

watch-watched

eye rolled

whispered

laughed

grinned

giggled

ignored

I do not have

the road map

to your inner

dialogue

and so spend

much time

wasted

figuring

conjuring

assessing

wondering

just what did

you mean?

Is all the world

paranoid

or just the little

piece of it

that lives inside

me?

I’m no good

at guessing

so if you need

me to know

you have to 

tell me

and for now 

at least

if you don’t

I’ll just assume

it wasn’t about

me at all

Ah

Team Jesus: The Parable of the Talents (Part 1)

God has a commanding word for you . . . a call . . . for you . . . a job . . . for you . . . now you can react to that with fear and hide in the dark.  

Even then, God’s will will be done.  But you’ll be left standing at the gate.

And when you’re in a race, that’s a very silly place to be.

Let us pray the words of Brigid Rees:   O God, you claim me as your partner, respecting me, trusting me, tussling with me.  Support me as I dare to be vulnerable with you, encourage me as I dare to take risks with you, and together we can transform the world.  Amen.

In the parable of the talents that we’re about to read, as you listen, ask yourself what in the story stands for the kingdom of heaven? 

Matthew is writing to a church that has been waiting for Jesus’ return for a long time.  And they’re starting to waver . . . to doubt . . . to forget . . . 

The challenge, then, is to reawaken in them a sense of Jesus’ imminent return, the reality of his claim upon their lives.

So what, then, stands for the kingdom of heaven?

Is it the talents?  The ‘settling of accounts’ – the day of judgment?  The absentee master?  I suggest it is none of the above.

The servants, the men themselves are the kingdom of heaven . . . they are the ‘in the meantime’ kingdom . . . the waiting or preparing, standing pat or investing kingdom of heaven . . .

The kingdom of heaven is not riches, not even well-invested ones . . . it’s not streets of gold and gates filled with pearls . . . and the kingdom of heaven is not an absentee landlord . . . nor is it an event, not even the day of judgment . . . no . . . the kingdom of heaven is what is ‘at hand’ in the words of John the Baptist and Jesus . . . the kingdom of heaven is not far, it is near; it is not abstract, it is concrete; it is not an idea, it is a reality; the kingdom of heaven is not what we do, it is who we are . . . yes, we . . . we are God’s kingdom . . . 

If we are God’s territory, perhaps the question this parable raises is ‘what are we saying about the king’s very self?

A man at a church conference once remarked that our call to ministry is a call to be “Stewards of the Story”, the story of God.

The Stewards of God’s Story . . . 

It seems to me that the problem of the talent-hiding servant was that he mistook himself for the author of God’s story rather than the steward of it.

A steward is someone who takes care of something that belongs to somebody else.

And when it comes to God’s story, we are the stewards of that story; but God is the author of God’s story, not us.

But here’s the twist to the story . . . although the story belongs to God, if you insist on rewriting the story, God will let you. . .  

So frightened by his own imagining, the third man wouldn’t even invest in God what God had already invested in him. . .

How often we are like that servant . . . 

God gave him a chance, but he thought it was a trick.

God gave him wealth, but he saw it as poverty.

God gave him a challenge, but he saw it as a test.

God gave him trust, but he saw it as deceit.

God gave him love, but he saw it as hatred.

God counts on us . . . God . . . invests . . . in . . .  us . . . Isn’t that extraordinary?  The last servant just couldn’t wrap his mind around that one . . . he could not believe it . . . how about you?

The poem Our Deepest Fear by Marianne Williamson perhaps best expresses the downright silliness of the third servant, of us when we freeze in doubt or fear . . . 

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. . . Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. . . It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. . . We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?  Actually, who are yo not to be?  You are a child of God.  Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.  There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.  We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.  It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone.  And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.  As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

[READ MATTHEW 25.14-30]

Peanut Butter & Chocolate: The Taste of Love (and yes, there's a recipe)

For the impatient among you, here is the link to my previous post for the recipe for peanut butter balls, a Christmas season staple in my Dad's family.


sometime, somehow,
I know neither
a young woman
who was my grandma
got a recipe – or
maybe her husband
brought it home from
the plant – he did that
sometimes – and with
her strong hands and her
new receipt, she turned
chocolate chips and
peanut butter into
magic

and every year thereafter
come the cool times
when such things could
be stored without refrigeration
and there was enough money
she did it again and again

her oldest daughter at her side
it’s a two-woman operation,
you know, making all those
balls the size of walnuts

and the years passed and the
daughter became a mother
and aunt and grandmother
and down the slide of the years
her daughters and niece and
grand-daughters (do they yet?)
stepped into the fold and flow
of it all, the niece (me) calling

every year around this time
checking and rechecking the
recipe – too important to
family lore to get it wrong,
but mostly just to talk, to hear
the laughter, the warmth, the
love, across so many miles,
so many memories

and last night an e-mail comes
from my own mother – one of
the steps – daughter of
another father, linked across
time, wants the recipe – my uncle
yearns for a little taste of home
and Puerto Rico is far away
from old mountain receipts
that mix chocolate chips
and peanut butter into magic –

her magic in my imagining
having come from more
exotic, interesting, flavorful
places and spaces, and I write
down the recipe and pull out
a sheet of paper to write down
my shopping list – the air is cool
enough now it’s time –

and I and others along this family
trail of lines and dashes and dots
and memories, will travel to the
altar of memory encased in
chocolate and call it good.

Bird Shadow Dancing

staring out the car window

spit snow hardly a ripple

in the pond of thoughts

swirling to no particular

rhythm when suddenly
my eyes go all disco and

the focus fights to find

its locus as dancing spots

make their away this and

that around, across, on

the road’s paved face

and after the moment of

panic for a woman no longer

young wondering, worrying,

if this is what blindness

will be like, might be like,

floating, random, dancing

spots – and then she looks

up – briefly laughing at her

own foolishness, so ground-

bound – birds upon birds, 

flying, floating, swirling,

dancing on the wind of

their own imaginings, unmindful,

in the way of birds, of the 

fuss their presence creates for

the earth-bound ones below

Jesus' Mountains

Mountains you walked – 

where I’m from we’d

call hills or bumps

in the road – with a smile – 

but the other mountains –

the ones of the topography

of the heart – those mountains –

how did you do it?

where did you find the courage

to even begin?

did you ever turn back,

racing down the scree

of their cruelties?

what stayed you?

where did the next step

come from?

what was it like

roaming the Himilayas

of our hearts?

these are my today questions,

but I’m supposing if you 

actually got here – to sit a spell –

they’d be quick forgot and we’d

just sit, chatting about nothing

and everything and it would

be a fine thing indeed

sitting as we are 

right in the midst of all those 

mountains

I Held a Cup of Sunshine in My Hand

I held a cup
of sunshine
in my hand

its tender warmth
giving
shape
texture
meaning

[or
was it
the mug’s love
of
tea’s
morning
warming?

I
cannot
say

for I know
not
the difference
between
the warmth
of love
and my
love of warmth]

The Browning of Things

The browning of things has begun . . .

the leaves are moving in constant sway
to the winds – time, change, is in the air –
as east to west and back again, maples
and elms, oaks and birch, surrender their
color ecstasies to the browning season

the ground is littered with the detritus
of love – crunchy, fun, kicking-up-heels –
love – of life and cycles and repeatings
as east to west and back again, maples
and elms, oaks and birch, surrender their
life clinging to the browning season

inside onions in butter, hamburger in oil
chicken with a bit of garlic, surge and
simmer and get that good skillet brown
as east to west and back again, maples
and elms, oaks and birch, surrender their
claim to tourist fame to the browning season

as outside fawns turn without effort from
golden butter (the color we name for them)
to brown laced with a bit of black up the spine
the better to hide, to blend, the better camouflage
as east to west and back again, maples
and elms, oaks and birch, surrender their
lives in a final bid at the hoped-for resurrection
of things, come spring, the thing hoped for
come browning season

There's a Balm Somewhere

There is a balm in Gilead 

or so goes the song,

but

where on earth is Gilead?

Somewhere in modern Jordan

among the mountains

where trees did grow

whose resin provided

a healing – a balm – 

a soothing salve – 

there, then, is the geographical

of our Gileads, our safe, healing

places, our sacred, set aside

spaces, our finish-line

races, our no-more-put-through our

paces, our sought-for-in-the-crowd

faces

for

wither Thou art,

O God,

there be my Gilead

I Had Me a Bowl of Color

low-hanging branches of gold

dance in the wind waving their

invitation to come out and play

browning leaves carpet the

still-green grass with the

crunch of that perfect first bite

invited, enticed, seduced, I step

out into the magic of it all – this

fall – and I had me a bowl of

color for breakfast today

Wrapped in Color

Thanks, Laura LaPrade!

A house sits 

nestled

nurtured

surrounded

wrapped

by a symphony

of color

Master Artist

is showing off – 

again –

it is fall 

in the Highlands

and hearts

rejoice

at the hope

promise

found

in dying

things

and all

is well

Larry Died Today

Larry died today

and I found myself

these past days

and weeks – looking –

without realizing – 

for signs – not wonders –

just signs – just a little hint,

Lord, that all is well with Larry,

that all would be well with

Larry, that even as we’re here,

and he was here and not here,

that You are here with us and

more, there, wherever there is,

with him – and who knows about

such things – do I see what I’m 

looking for?  Or did you really 

send some signs to a little ole’

country preacher – was it you

when I saw Larry’s profile, hugged

by a mother, in last evening’s clouds?

Was it you?  Or even Larry?  In the 

swirling dervish of autumn leaves

swirling and swirling round me and

running, like a teasing child, across

the road, taking the leaves with you,

like when Larry used to mulch and

mow and rake and gather and cart

away the many leaves of fall – 

a tender by nature, Larry tended

these grounds I inhabit so very well – 

the leaves did dance around and then

away from me – but leaving a few 

behind in my rocking chair – 

in the hours after – 

when he has gone and we are left

and wondering what to do with

ourselves now in the aftermath, in 

the gone-ness of this thing that was

a life?  I do not know which of you it was

– but I was looking for signs without

even knowing I was looking and 

somehow, I got my answer, didn’t I?

And that is enough and good enough

and more than enough and Larry is

fine and more than fine and it is another

day and the leaves are dancing and 

signs and wonders are abounding

and I?  Well, I suppose I am grateful.

Thanks for the leaves – always the 

perfect leaving – how do you do it?

The Ether of Unkept Things

That place where the things

we should have let go of a very

long time ago – but didn’t – 

yeah, where those things go –

the ether of unkept things –

there is where I hope – or

hope never – to find, for these,

after all, are the things un-kept –

regrets – a whole sea of them – 

guilts and shames and memories

unbidden or bidden that stoop

the shoulders and bend the back

with the sheer weight of them

losses that were for the better

had I but known at the time

chances not taken, fears claimed

that should have been left behind

in unclaimed baggage long ago

there, in the ether of unkept things

do I imagine floating about – it is,

I think, the nature of unkept things

to float – angry letters written and

sent or not, their harm no more – 

friendships severed by time and

distance and change of circumstance –

tangible things – the baubles of 

existence – that necklace, this old

chair – all the things that seemed so

essential in their time – now floating

free form in the ether of the unkept

it’s not sad there – it is just –

unkept

Bonhoeffer for Breakfast

Bonhoeffer for breakfast

the dying dance of life

for lunch

a mother distraught for

mid-day almost tea

a trip over the mountains

and to another state (of being)

and drugs for the dying

for a snack

tea and sympathy for supper

standing on the porch 

smoking cigarettes and talking

in that passing-the-time way

of neighbors and friends now

comrades in arms as he lay

dying for a late-night repast

the table was laden today

and of it all I did eat

An Ungrateful Scoffing of Rain

It’s unseemly to be ungrateful.

There’s lots worse places weather wise on this planet.

***

yesterday was one of those days 

that catapults me in alternating hate and hope – 

hate of the heat and humidity, 

hope when the rain comes of a cleansing, 

only to look at the sky with a practiced eye 

declaring to no one but myself, 

yeah, you won’t last long – 

and be right, more’s the pity.

***

Summer segues to fall, autumn

this first day of the officialdom

of change – as if the leaves falling

stop to notice when it’s time –

or not – as if rain is more forthcoming

when summer segues to fall –

as if the false promise becomes more

real in the clean air of the autumnal promise

and so again the rain comes

and still, and yet,

yeah, you won’t last long –

and I am still right.

Blood-Dripping Tears: A Florida Lament

blood-dripping tears

quench the ground’s

lust for such things

as all is silence - for

death is silent and

only the dead waited

those with eyes to see - 

their dying already

a done thing - waiting

only for living tears to

begin their commencing

turning into salt and light

in the cosmic way of things

even as earth-bound critters

solidify into something

hard and angry, for who

cannot be angry beholding

such horror? 

God

_____________________
Written in response to the news of a grandfather killing his daughter and all her children – his grand-children, in Florida, wondering and worrying about those who found their bodies – their reactions, their internalizations, for how can they not carry hard places with such images residing alongside the memories of favorite meals, Christmas with family, and all that is good?  Only, I think, with, through, alongside, God.

Fall Lifts Up Her Skirt

Fall lifts her skirt

just a wee glimpse

sweet coquette

she shakes her hair

and golden leaves

fall from walnut trees

always the first to 

the party

a sunlit wash of love

and promise

it is time 

To Be Confronted

To be confronted 
to have my failures named
to be blamed and shamed

it is a thing noble, perhaps,
in intent, but nonetheless is felt the sting

and hope and love and kindness, just
a cup, just a sip, the confrontation
does not bring in any way that
can be seen, measured, grabbed hold of

yet in the aftermath
an ash-like arisen thing
comes forth – not brave
it is small, this thing
that looks like it just
might become
hope
kindness
love

and somewhere amidst
the afterbirth of this
new rising, there does
reside a tiny mustard-seed
of a kernel of something
that just might be
the dawning of
the new day possibility of
the resplendent chance of

full thanks
and
recognition
and
acknowledgment
and
honor
and 
indebtedness
and 
grace



_______________
A lectio reading of Matthew 18.15-20, taking the position of the one confronted, the sinner in need of making recompense, all I could feel was the sting, the wounding, of the confrontation, which prompted this reflection on what just might come after, if I am very open, very willing and very lucky.

Rachels Mourning

Posted by the Raqqa Media Center of the Islamic State group,
a Syrian opposition group, broadcast by AP

I see the picture this morning of a young masked man wielding a knife in the air over the heads of   captives and I am moved by his bare arm, his wrist, at his evident youth and ponder his own mother, somewhere and wonder if she recognizes that wrist and imagine what she might want to say to him, this beloved flesh of her own flesh and recall the mourning of Rachel, who will not be comforted, for the loss of all her sons and daughters, a horror wrapped in a tragedy that seems to know no end.

***

Your wrist is so small,
so clear
so young
so blemish free –
in your hand
the knife looks
like a toy
the kind you might
have gotten in a
Cracker Jack box
if Cracker Jacks
still had prizes
of any size to them

and that black stocking cap?
it’s too early for Halloween
don’t you know that?
and I know it’s got to be hot
under there – it’s 100 degrees outside

so wee man, why don’t you
put down your toys – you know
I don’t like it when you play
kill-the-whatevers
and I don’t care if the whole
neighborhood is in on the game
I am your mother and I do not
like it and if all your friends
would jump off a bridge, would
you jump too?  Well?  Would you?

and then my true worry begins
as I look to this imaginary child
of mine and realize he probably
would – jump too – and then
where will we be?

So, no, you cannot go back
outside after lunch – there will
be no jumping off bridges for
you today little boy - do you
hear me?  I am your mother!
Get back in this house right now!
It’s not safe out there for you.
And now I must fear it’s not
safe out there for them either.

Don’t you dare look at me like
that with that stupid mask on –
I am not afraid of you –
you look ridiculous
and I am not having it –
do you hear me?
Don’t you dare pretend
you don’t.  Look at me!

When did you become this machine
of rage?  When did doing unto others
before they even get the chance of
thinking of doing unto you become
our family’s creed?  When did this
happen?  While I wasn’t looking?
Well, I am your mother and I
do not like it one bit.  This is
most definitely not how I
raised you, so you get back in this
house right now!  I mean it!

Don’t you understand?
They will kill you.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not even tomorrow.
But they will kill you for this.
And I will become the mother
of a terrorist and the neighbors
will look on me with horror,
spawner of Satan that they will
believe me to be – that, or pity
and I cannot tell you which
is worse – you bring me shame
and I cannot endure it, so if
you’re going to kill them, you’d
better begin with me, for it is
me you are killing – the one who
gave you birth, gave you life

Where is my little boy?
The one I tucked in to bed
with laughter and stories
and one more glass of mai
and ‘oommee, I’m scared  – 
there’s a monster under
my bed’ and I wonder when
you went from being scared
of monsters to becoming one

and I cry out to the God that
you are not a monster, you are
my boy and I beg the God to
spare you your foolishness
and even as I mutter my
desperate prayer with its
obligatory  inshallah, I do
not mean it – in my heart
of hearts, for I cannot conceive
that any of this would be the God’s
will – for you, for me, for them,
for any of us – you must end this
for it is not yet too late – it will
be soon, but not yet, so please,

[I know the world has hurt
you and I have not kept you
safe from it and they see you
as a monster which tempts
you to become what they see
and it is not right and I know
you think you have no hope
and this is the only way and
it is just, so you’ve been told
by the men who know better
as they keep their own safe
distance from the bombs and
guns while they send you –
a child – and I know you feel
inside yourself you are a man
and yearn to do something for
your people, yourself and I
know the hurt and the shame
you carry within you, but son,
I also know this is not you –
who so tenderly loves the fresh
shoots of the garden in spring-
time and the baby lambs as
they nuzzle your cheek and
your little sister who needs
you to protect her and show
her our ways and this is not
you – their words not yours
– their lies given as dreams
not for you – I know you are
hurt and think the pain and
the injustice will never leave
your heart unless you do this
thing but I am your mother and
I carry the wisdom of ages inside
me and I know too that when you
kill their children, it will not
bring ours back and you will
sorrow but then it will be too
late and you will be one of them
the thing you never meant to
be – the thing that killed your own
for the wisdom of ages knows that
when you kill them, you kill
your self, you kill us, and your
hurt will not go away – it will
explode into the stars and it will
never go away because you will
become the hurt]

I beg you, my son, put down
the toys of war you have picked
up and come back in the house
and I will fix you an iftar worthy
of a king – or a little boy come
home for good – please, my
precious prodigal, do not do
this thing – I, your mother, am
begging you with my tears –
Do.  Not.  Do.  This.  Thing.

What Does Peace Look Like?

Like two enemies or ones who should be
sitting on the porch and talking about
things ordinary and extraordinary
finding understanding and even camaraderie

Like misunderstandings, ship-in-the-night
mishaps being worked out among friends
or those who might become friends simply
because they both decide trust is possible

Like hands held across the generations
as each looks at the other with fondness
and desire – desire to know and see and
learn just what makes this mysterious
other tick and tock its way through life

Like joy in the success of the other
with no thought or idea that what
is theirs should be mine or mine
theirs and happiness at the just
because of it all bursts forth

Like streets quiet not because of
guns and tear gas and batons and
threats or even exhaustion but
because one man dared to cross
the imaginary line and walk alongside

Like a family rent with grief made
public given the space and time to
merely grieve without incessant
chatter from those not in the know
about what should have or could
have or must have been

Like people on a mountaintop
starved and fear-ridden looking
skyward to find even the possibility
of rescue and believing once
again in hope, hoping once again
in normalcy and possibilities and life

Like big people with big guns
coming to their proverbial senses
and pulling back from the madness
we too small to resist would follow
them into not knowing what else
to do

Like ancient squabblers stopping
the incessant chant mine, mine, mine
and seeing in the other that there
is room even in a small land for
all and more when ‘mine’ and
‘not yours’ are left behind for
the dream that peace is possible

The Perfection of Moments

A man – young and old at once

walks side by side with his wee girl

she coming barely to his knees

raindrops on the grass sparkling their walk

she stops to park herself along the low rail

of the fence and the companionableness

of them is something you want to reach

out and touch with your hand, holding back

lest you burst the bubble of a moment of a memory

father and child lie side by side on the couch

she with that sprawl of innocence the young

carry with them in to their sleep making our

hearts break with the sheer goodness of them

the smell and the shape and the touch and the

breath of them taking our breath, our shape,

our touch in their wake and making us and

our problems petty and small in the presence

of such a big thing in such a small package –

and he, well he just lays there still in his love

present in the moment of the grace of her

and I know it will not last but in this moment

she . . . he . . . they . . . are perfect and to behold

this . . . this beauty . . . this perfect moment

is to be blessed beyond measure and maybe it’s

okay that it will not last and yet tears crowd

my eyes for I know that it is not okay 

may yet still be but it is not and why is this

perfect perfection not hers forever?  I so

want to know

***

and I in inner dialogue chastize self for its

insistence on seeing the perfection, the beauty,

knowing and well knowing all the else that 

lies around it like the detritus of what could have been

but why should I not see thus?  for is this not how 

God sees?  is this not how God knows?  

what is can be – we know this and yet fail

fail to cling 

fail to believe

and in our failing

the possibilities that perfect moment presents

fail to imagine what it – life – this – could be

so easily forgetting how it is

in the moments

the perfect moments

and there live my tears

in our forgetting

of what God sees

and sees through