For Breaking-the-Silence Sunday … A few words that fell off Luke’s list …

Blessed are you who say “no,” and teach it as a holy word.

Blessed are you who break-your-silence for the first time in a safe place.

Blessed are you who break-your-silence the hundredth time,
so someone new knows it is OK.

Blessed are you who choose to keep-silence until you are ready.

Blessed are you who accompany a friend or a stranger,
to the emergency room or the police station,
and then stay as long as it takes.

Rejoice or weep. It is your choice.

But woe to you who ask, “what were you wearing?”
(see also “why were you out so late?”
“why did you come home alone?’)

Woe to you who laugh (just to fit in) at a sexual joke,
and teach someone who trusts you how a heart breaks.

Woe to you who can’t keep your mouth shut,
when someone is telling their story.

Woe to you who force an apology on someone
who doesn’t want to hear it (see no above),
or suggest an excuse for yourself or another.

Weep now. It may be a beginning.

The Robin’s Visit

The robin tries to peck a hole
in my office window,
whether to come in or let me out
I do not know.

I saw this morning on the porch
the nest caught by wind
scattered in strands and wisps
of hopefulness,

reminding me of the failure
of so many plans made in my life
and the lives of those I love,

and of those wondering in Maui
when there will be even a plan
for their rebuilding
or those weeping in Sydney
for not-yet-dreamed-plans
of dear ones stabbed to death.

There is a wideness of fallings,

but there is also the robins song
ten whistles of distinct notes
greeting the dawn,
a shorter notice-me
when tapping at my pane,

and the way I weave fragments
of old gospel song’s chorus …

Sometimes there is no singing;
sometimes we are not free,
but if even a sparrow’s falling –
then I know that’s where you’ll be …

O, whenever a nest is breaking
then that’s where I’m called to be.  

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

March, Guest Post by Janeen Adil

I am so grateful for this gift from poet Janeen Adil. Her poetry often reminds me of the inner feelings of Robert Frost. OK she lives south of me in Pennsylvania so daffodils are “March.” The ones I know are April, out and blooming and then flattened by the worst storm of our winter, AND NOW standing up again, not just new ones but the ones that seemed destroyed.

WANTED, the post read:

Wanted, daffodils.
Any extras to give away?
Willing to dig!

I consider the daffodils I know.
Behind the barn grows a sturdy yellow,
   a bright burst of trumpets.
There’s “Twink,” next to the summer kitchen,
   a bi-color beauty from the Roaring Twenties.
And beside the fence’s pickets,
   clumps of the ancient Van Sion,
   a wildly tossing froth of gold and green.
Each bulb dropped in earth, placed and planted
   long ago, by someone’s hand.

No, I cannot fathom digging these.
But surely there are other daffodils…

I remember along the border between
   woods and fields, some miles from here,
coming upon sunny clutches of flowers—
   a cheerful yellow announcing, Spring!
Nearby were stony remains, the last
   vestiges of a long-shuttered house,
the daffodils a sure sign that here, once,
   had been a home.

Yet all these too must stay,
   silent witnesses to people and
   guardians of a place long gone.
I will not disturb them but leave
   them to their growth and multiplying
(with hopes that someone else may
   elsewhere dig and gift).

And I wonder then
   what I too might leave behind:
What will be the markers
   that I once lived and in my life,
   flourished?
And so this March day brings a decision:
I could do worse than to scatter
   daffodils where I travel—
scattering bulbs on my journey,
   and sowing kindness along the way.

Janeen’s Daffodils!

Our daffodils … half-way up from their bent-over position.

Musing about the solar eclipse

I sit on my porch steps,
looking up every ten minutes or so
through the glasses I was given
at the Post Office.

I sit on my porch steps –

it’s ninety-five percent totality here,
but that is enough for me.
I don’t ask for a hundred percent
of my friends, my beloved,
the work I do, the joy of a meal shared,
the beauty of a day,
and, so, I don’t ask it
of the kiss of sun and moon.

I look up every ten minutes or so,
but mostly watch what is around
and not above – shadows sharpening
in the grass, changes
of growing darkness in chipmunk and bird,
and how the cool comes on.

And I am grateful for the kindness
of the clerk in the Post Office,

reminding me to name
all who helped me see things safely –
parents, teachers, poets, friends,
several optometrists,
dead authors of wildly alive books,
a dog whose nose and drag on the leash
show me wonders in the dirt,
and the Diné whose stories
respect the sky.

Communion for Thomas, 2024

This is my doubt …
that these bodies broken for us all,
poured out in the love
of World Central Kitchen
are truly resurrected.

Lalzawmi “Zomi” Frankcom
from Australia
James Kirby, John Chapman and
James Henderson from Great Britain
Saifeddin Issam Ayad Abutaha
so very young, from Palestinian
Damian Sobol of Poland
Jacob Flickinger, who calls home
both United States and Canada.

Thomas, have you seen them,
those whose hands were bloodied,
whose sides
were to take no sides,

not in heaven,
but walking through our doors
asking us to feed the world.

Guest Post from Leah Fowler — A Liturgy for April 7, 2024- Easter 2, on the Eve of an Eclipse

I am so delighted to be able to share this liturgy offered for anyone (with attricution) and written by Leah Fowler, Pastor, Presbyterian Church in Leonia. 

CALL TO WORSHIP 

Great is thy faithfulness, O God Creator 
Sun, moon, and stars in their courses above. 
As spring emerges in its full glory, with buds opening to the sun, 
We remember and trust in your rhythms of life, death, and life again.
We celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, 
And recall that this story was once not ordinary. 
Stir us again with its weirdness– 
–As weird as a total eclipse of the sun– 
And give us faith that you can still cause amazing things to happen in your world, And in our lives, today. 

INVOCATION 

Emptier of Tombs, we worship and praise you. We no longer need to search the grave, for Christ is risen, risen indeed! As we grapple with what that good news means for our lives and our world today, and as some still struggle to believe it, breathe your Holy Spirit upon us. Grant us hearts generous enough to forgive. Fill us with your peace, and eclipse our doubt with your love. Amen. 

PRAYER FOR ILLUMINATION 

Creator God, who causes the sun to darken and to shine, and the Son to fall and to rise: We have always longed to see, hear, or even touch a message from you. Long before your Word came to us, we looked to the heavens for a sign: a flood or a rainbow, a sudden darkening of the sun. Then your Word came to us, through covenant and prophets, and in Jesus Christ, your Word became flesh who dwelt among us, in ways that we could touch and feel. Today, we ask that your Word touch our scars. Eclipse our doubt with your love; eclipse our fear with your peace. Amen. 

SOME READINGS FROM THE PROPHETS 

Isaiah 13:10

For the stars of the heavens and their constellations will not give their light; 
the sun will be dark at its rising, 
and the moon will not shed its light.

Amos 8:9

On that day, says the Lord GOD, 
I will make the sun go down at noon 
and darken the earth in broad daylight. 

Micah 3:5-6

Thus says the LORD concerning the prophets 
who lead my people astray, 
who cry “Peace” 
when they have something to eat 
but declare war against those 
who put nothing into their mouths. 
Therefore it shall be night to you, without vision, 
and darkness to you, without revelation. 
The sun shall go down upon the prophets, 
and the day shall be black over them; 

Joel 2:10, 2:32a

The earth quakes before them; 
the heavens tremble. 
The sun and the moon are darkened, 
and the stars withdraw their shining. 
The sun shall be turned to darkness
and the moon to blood, before the great
and awe-filled day of the LORD comes.
Then everyone who calls upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. 

A READING FROM THE POET #668 by Emily Dickinson 

‘Nature’ is what we see— 
The Hill—the Afternoon— 
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— 
Nay—Nature is Heaven— 
Nature is what we hear— 
The Bobolink—the Sea— 
Thunder—the Cricket— 
Nay—Nature is Harmony— 
Nature is what we know— 
Yet have no art to say— 
So impotent Our Wisdom is 
To her Simplicity.

SOME READINGS FROM THE GOSPELS 

Matthew 27:45-46 

From noon on, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. And about three o’clock Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” that is, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” 

John 20:19-31- Lectionary Text

Photo by Adam Krypel on Pexels.com

What might have happened in Hell

(Having been asked on Easter Sunday, ‘what does this all mean to someone I love?” I found myself tinkering wih an old poem idea from years ago)

God, I can just see them there
listening to Jesus preach
that mighty Saturday sermon –
Sarah and Hagar leaning into each other
on a dusty old pew.
Ruth is hand in hand with both
Boaz and Mahlon,
like children at a sunday school picnic,
but she has eyes only for Naomi.

Absalom with his amazing hair,
untangled from the oak tree,
desalinated Lot’s wife, Ham, Bilhah,
Rahab with her red cord,
Cyrus of Persia,
and a prostitute’s baby whose true home
was Solomon’s judgment call —

they are next to John the Baptist,
who hasn’t been gone that long.

We see David and Jonathan,
Elijah reunited with the widow
he liked so well,
Saul, Samuel and the witch,
an eternal triangle,
Miriam and Moses’ wife, not quite BFFs —
but no room for prejudice in hell.

Most of them have names
we do not know and never will –
but they were some daddy’s baby,
some grandma’s pride —
best at the hundred yard dash
through the Red Sea,
singing psalms, stamping grapes,
playing whales-and-jonahs
till they were called in
for a bedtime story of long ago.

They are all listening
like the people we love who have died,
hearts hanging on his every word,
like their death depends on it.

Prayer for the Heartbreak of Gun Violence

Photo by Vladimir Gladkov on Pexels.com

God, on this third weekend of violence,
we pray for Indianapolis,
in the toll of these times,
for those who grieve two who died
and those care for and worry about
many wounded,
including the seven children.

And we pray for Nashville,
for one killed there and
seven more wounded, at Easter brunch.

There is a Via Dolorosa
found along this nation’s streets,
in every city and town,
stations of a terrible cross,
and at the end a Pietà,

as parents and friends reach out
to hold in their arms and laps
those whom they have loved,

comforted, but not consoled,
by the promise that they are risen.

Easter International Transgender Day of Visibility, March 31, 2024

Photo by Julia Volk on Pexels.com

On Maundy Thursday afternoon
we followed a man with a water jar,
a transgender person
in the euphemism of the day,
to find the house with the upper room
and prepare the Passover Meal
that became a Last Supper.

Feet were washed,
bread was broken, wine poured.
There were bitter herbs,
a song on the way to garden,
prayer and sleep, disappointment
and so much danger
a legacy for us all.

Then an ear was restored,
and there was the very kiss
that brought a crown of thorns,
a brutal legacy of cross,
sometimes in a school bathroom.

And today, three days later,
we follow many people with water jars,
celebrating their gifts,
grateful for their direction
and the Risen One
into a morning of new life and hope.

Guest Post for Holy Saturday from Martk Saline

Passed on to me from a mutual friend is this reflection by Mark Saline, familiar to many of you here from his honest, edgy poetry of the past along with Mark’s request in the forward …

“double-dog dare for you to use it during Holy Week.”

MESSAGE at MASS

Not much truth in church …
but, ‘FUCK the POPULATION’ …
lettered on teen’s coat.   

Given the spiking rate of U.S. teen suicide & murder.  
‘You are a letter of Christ.’ – (2 Corinthians 3:3) 

The mutual friend later asked him,

“Just to clarify, in case Maren asks:
Did you see or imagine this message on a teenager’s coat at Mass?”

Mark responded:

I saw it yesterday at Mass.
I was behind him as the people processed with palms.
I was tempted to take a pic
of the large lettered phrase
on the back of his jacket, but refrained.

The kid brought ‘it’ to church.
Wrote C.S. Lewis
‘Bring to God what IS your life,
not what you think it should be.’

That is what Mark wrote and I reply,

For Holy Week consider this:

To Palms, bring what is your life and wave it.
To the temple, bring what is your life,
and think about what should be turned over.
To the Last Supper, bring what is your life,
make it a towel for someone else’s feet.
To Gethsemane, bring what is your life,
and do not kiss it away.

Write on a jacket, “I don’t know him,”
but still pick up a cross, lend a tomb,
go to hell,
double-dog dare the devil,
and help pry open the doors.

Photo – Nancy Donovan.