Keeping the Season

"Pieta - Death of Christ 01" by Waiting for the Word, on Flickr

Reading for the Annunciation of Our Lord: Luke 1:26-38
Reading for Good Friday: John 18:1-19:42

Mary Speaks
by Madeleine L'Engle

O you who bear the pain of the whole earth, I bore you.
O you whose tears gave human tears their worth, I laughed with you.
You, who when your hem is touched, give power, I nourished you.
Who turn the day to night in this dark hour, light comes from you.
O you who hold the world in your embrace, I carried you.
Whose arms encircled the world with your grace, I once held you.
O you who laughed and ate and walked the shore, I played with you.
And I, who with all others, you died for, now I hold you.
May I be faithful to this final test, in this last hour I hold my child, my son;
His body close enfolded to my breast:
The holder held, the bearer borne.
Mourning to joy, darkness to morn.
Open, my arms; your work is done.

--
The Crucifixion
Anonymous, Irish

At the cry of the first bird
They began to crucify Thee, 0 Swan!
Never shall lament cease because of that.
It was like the parting of day from night.
Ah, sore was the suffering borne
By the body of Mary's Son,
But sorer still to Him was the grief
Which for His sake
Came upon His Mother.

"Dirty Garden Feet" by jana christy, on Flickr

Reading for the day: John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Washing Feet
by Robert Fawcett

Being thorough, I remove a holey sock
to view a diabetic man’s filthy feet.
I use the time to complete our talk
of what drove him to live on the street
as I wonder how any of this can help.

While he tells me more of his medical past,
I run warm water into a stainless bowl.
I immerse both his feet and begin to ask
myself what good it does for this poor soul
to allow himself to undergo this ablution.

Silently I sluice the water between his toes
and soap the crusty callous at his heel.
I marvel at his arch and notice how closely
it fits my palm. I know he can feel
this proximity too. He shuts his eyes.

Months of useless layers peel away,
revealing layers useless weeks ago.
Removing the tough brown hide of yesterday
yields clean pink skin, but we both know
this ritual will be useless days from now.

Still, this moment may withstand time’s test,
teaching us each lessons unknown before.
I learn the medicine of selflessness.
He learns what medicine is really for–
the hope that basin, soap and touch can bear.

"Night Had Fallen" by Fr Lawrence Lew, O.P., on Flickr

Reading for the day: John 13:21-32

99 Psalms, #2
by SAID

lord,
make room
for the rebellious one i am
for my angerless hands
for my selective loyalty
that betrays everything
except dreams and prayers

"Still Life Xmas Card" by Derek Finch, on Flickr

Reading for the day: John 12:20-36

from We Would See Jesus
by Ann Weems

That it had to come to this!
That Jesus had to die
in order for us to live!
Just as wheat dies to the earth
and later bears much fruit,
Jesus had to die to the world
that he could live again
for all of us
that we through him could live.

I had a plant that died one winter.
Because of the ice-covered earth,
I put the plant in the garage,
thinking I would throw it away
when the ice thawed,
wash out the pot, and replant.

When spring came, I went to
the darkness of the garage
and there in the pot
the plant boomed green.
Resurrection in my face.

"feet" by Kevin K, on Flickr

Reading for the day: John 12:1-11

My Silence is the Lord
by Brother Paul Quenon

My silence is the Lord,
I listen, his silence speaks at all times.
When I listen not, my hearing is filled with words
and my tongue takes to rambling.

My resting place is the Lord
a hideaway on a mountain height.
The lonely seek and find him.

My resting place is the Lord,
a low valley by the runlet.
All humble steps lead there.

"Turn in to my place and sit quietly.
Drink from my stream and my vintage.
Cast off your shoes, discard your hardships
and listen to my evening song:

"I seek a heart that is simple.
With the peaceful I spread my tent.
I will wash your feet and dry them,
my silence will be their perfume.

"In your quiet steps I will follow.
None will know whence we come and where we go.
To the world you will be my silence,
in your passing they will hear me.

"In your absence I will be present.
Though you die, I Who Live am yours -
I live as yours forever."

"Color" by Thomas Wiborg, on Flickr

Common Dust
by Georgia Douglas Johnson

And who shall separate the dust
What later we shall be:
Whose keen discerning eye will scan
And solve the mystery?

The high, the low, the rich, the poor, 

The black, the white, the red, 

And all the chromatique between, 

Of whom shall it be said:

Here lies the dust of Africa; 

Here are the sons of Rome; 

Here lies the one unlabelled, 

The world at large his home!

Can one then separate the dust? 

Will mankind lie apart, 

When life has settled back again 

The same as from the start?

"Nothing that Belongs to Us" by Dee Ashley, on Flickr

Wise women also came
by Jan Richardson

Wise women also came.
The fire burned in their wombs long before they saw the flaming star in the sky.
They walked in shadows, trusting the path would open under the light of the moon.

Wise women also came, seeking no directions, no permission from any king.
They came by their own authority, their own desire, their own longing.
They came in quiet, spreading no rumours, sparking no fears to lead to innocents' slaughter,
to their sister Rachel's inconsolable lamentations.

Wise women also came, and they brought useful gifts:
water for labour's washing, fire for warm illumination, a blanket for swaddling.

Wise women also came, at least three of them,
holdingMary in the labour,
crying out with her in the birth pangs,
breathing ancient blessings into her ear.

Wise women also came, and they went, as wise women always do, home a different way.


-from Night Visions: Searching for Shadows of Advent and Christmas, 1998: United Church Press

Lead Kindly Light
by John Henry Newman

Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th'encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on.
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

Meantime, along the narrow rugged path,
Thyself hast trod,
Lead, Saviour, lead me home in childlike faith,
Home to my God.
To rest forever after earthly strife
In the calm light of everlasting life.

--

Lead Kindly Light - setting by Dan Forrest

"L'interminable/The never ending/La interminable" by Elf-8, on Flickr

In Blackwater Woods
by Mary Oliver

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

-in New and Selected Poems, Vol. 1

"Our Lady of Spring 2015" by Stephen B Whatley, on Flickr

Too Much to Ask
by Luci Shaw

It seemed too much to ask
of one small virgin
that she should stake shame
against the will of God.
All she had to hold to
were those soft, inward
flutterings
and the remembered sting
of a brief junction--spirit
with flesh.
Who would think it
more than a dream wish?
an implausible, laughable
defense.

And it seems much
too much to ask me
to be part of the
different thing--
God's shocking, unorthodox,
unheard of Thing
to further heaven's hopes
and summon God's glory.

--in Wintersong

photo by C. Nolan Huizenga, on Flickr

In Little Bethlehem (Winds Through the Olive Trees)
traditional, 16th century

Winds through the olive trees,
Softly did blow.
'Round little Bethlehem,
Long, long ago.

Sheep on the hillsides lay
Whiter than snow,
Shepherds were watching them,
Long, long ago.

Then from the starry skies
Angels bent low,
Singing their songs of joy;
Long, long ago.

For, in a manger bed
Cradled we know,
Christ came to Bethlehem
Long, long ago.

"José y Maria" by Everett Patterson

Trouble
by James Wright

Leering across Pearl Street,
Crum Anderson yipped:
“Hey Pugh!
I see your sister
Been rid bareback.
She swallow a watermelon?
Fred Gordon! Fred Gordon! Fred Gordon!”
Wayya mean? She can get fat, can’t she?”
Fat? Willow and lonesome Roberta, running
Alone down Pearl Street in the rain the last time
I ever saw her, smiling a smile
Crum Anderson will never know,
Wondering at her body.
Sixteen years, and
All that time she thought she was nothing
But skin and bones.

"Art in Flight" by Wasfi Akab, on Flickr

Advent 1971
by Madeleine L'Engle
in Wintersong

When will he come
and how will he come
and will there be warnings
and will there be thunders
and rumbles of armies
coming before him
and banners and trumpets
When will he come
and how will he come
and will we be ready

O woe to you people
you sleep through the thunder
you heed not the warnings
the fires and the drownings
the earthquakes and stormings
and ignorant armies
and dark closing on you
the song birds are falling
the sea birds are dying
no fish now are leaping
the children are choking
in air not for breathing
the aged are gasping
with no one to tend them

a bright star has blazed forth
and no one has seen it
and no one has wakened

Be Still in Haste
by Wendell Berry

How quietly I
begin again

from this moment
looking at the
clock, I start over

so much time has
passed, and is equaled
by whatever
split-second is present

from this
moment this moment
is the first

"Sun rise on a beautiful day" by Holly Victoria Norval, on Flickr

How Many Nights
by Galway Kinnell

How many nights
have I lain in terror,
O Creator Spirit, maker of night and day,

only to walk out
the next morning over the frozen world
hearing under the creaking of snow
faint, peaceful breaths...
snake,
bear, earthworm, ant...

and above me
a wild crow crying 'yaw yaw yaw'
from a branch nothing cried from ever in my life.

"Bird with snow" by mimmyg, on Flickr

White-eyes
by Mary Oliver

In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless -
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds -

which he has summoned
from the north -
which he has taught,
to be mild, and silent -

thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent -
that has turned itself
into snow.

in Why I Wake Early

"Orion on the Horizon" by Steve Snodgrass, on Flickr