If I could write up something to sum up my thoughts about how to approach Lent, it would be this.
“If Lent is a battlefield, the goal is victory. If it is a self-improvement cycle, the goal is progress. But if the wilderness is courtship, the goal is intimacy. The stripping is not about proving discipline; it is about clearing space.”
Do read the whole piece by clicking on the image below.
We in the midwest—as well as other parts of the country—have weathered a pretty brutal winter this year. Consequently, many of us are affected by the lack of sun during these hard months. Hence, when I happened upon this sonnet by the venerable Malcolm Guite, I just knew that I had to share it this Sunday.
Because We Hunkered Down
These bleak and freezing seasons may mean grace
When they are memory. In time to come
When we speak truth, then they will have their place,
Telling the story of our journey home,
Through dark December and stark January
With all its disappointments, through the murk
And dreariness of frozen February,
When even breathing seemed unwelcome work.
Because through all of these we held together,
Because we shunned the impulse to let go,
Because we hunkered down through our dark weather,
And trusted to the soil beneath the snow,
Slowly, slowly, turning a cold key,
Spring will unlock our hearts and set us free.
I have been pondering the importance of living in the present moment, being attentive to where God is there. In this Sunday poem, James Crews explores the experience of a winter morning—which so many of us are facing this year—and being grateful for it.
Winter Morning
When I can no longer say thank you
for this new day and the waking into it,
for the cold scrape of the kitchen chair
and the ticking of the space heater blowing
orange as it warms the floor near m feet,
I know it is because I have been fooled again
by the selfish, unruly man that lives within me
and believe he only deserves safety
and comfort. But if I pause as I do now,
and watch the street lights outside winking
off one by one like old men closing their
cloudy eyes, if I listen to my tired neighbors
slamming car doors hard against the morning
an see the steaming coffee in their mugs
kissing their chapped lips as they sip and
exhale each of their worries white into
the icy air around their faces—then I can
remember this one life is a gift each of us
was handed and told to open: Untie the bow
and tear off the paper, look inside
and be grateful for whatever you find
even if it is only the scent of a tangerine
that lingers on the fingers long after
you’ve finished eating it.
James Crews
Instead of a Sunday poem, I thought I would reshare this from many years ago about the Presentation of the Lord.
If you would like a Sunday poem, you can visit my substack for today.
Love this poem by Jessica Powers. “That God made birds is surely in his favor.”
A few good words from Mary Oliver about prayer.
Praying
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
Mary Oliver
I have been a fan of Jan Richardson’s poetry ever since I discovered—somehow—her Book of Blessings for the Seasons, Circle of Grace, and I have indeed circled back to it over and over. And indeed beloved is where it all begins for Jesus, and consequently for us, and ends. We are in him the beloved of the Father. It really takes one’s breath away.
Beginning with Beloved
A Blessing
Begin here:
Beloved.
Is there any other word
needs saying,
any other blessing
could compare
with this name,
this knowing?
Beloved.
Comes like a mercy
to the ear that has never
heard it.
Comes like a river
to the body that has never
seen such grace.
Beloved.
Comes holy
to the heart
aching to be new.
Comes healing
to the soul
wanting to begin
again.
Beloved.
Keep saying it
and though it may
sound strange at first,
watch how it becomes
part of you,
how it becomes you,
as if you never
could have known yourself
anything else,
as if you could ever
have been other
than this:
Beloved.
–Jan Richardson
A bit of hope for these days.
We, as a religious community, celebrate Christmas for 40 days, so I will be sharing a few Sunday Christmas poems during this season. The first is by Sally Read from her collection, Dawn of this Hunger. A beautiful description of the unique bond between Mary and her Christ-child, but with a word for us as well.
Incarnation
From the remotest dawn, from a yellow eye,
sharper than the eagle’s, that sees each one of us
scuttling in the shadow of a protective wing,
he falls to Earth—blind. Those first nights
the short distance between her breast and face
is as far as he can see. She is his first sight
of the world as man—our one pure sign.
She only knows his Christ-eyes latching
onto hers as fiercely as his gums clamp down
for milk. The future scrabbles, gnaws like rats
through a barn’s corners and its eaves.
But she is transfixed by his skin and insistence
on her as the only visible, only beautiful thing—
the present moment; this is the first lesson of prayer.
We, as a religious community, celebrate Christmas for 40 days, so I will be sharing a few Sunday Christmas poems during this season. The first is by Sally Read from her collection, Dawn of this Hunger. A beautiful description of the unique bond between Mary and her Christ-child, but with a word for us as well.
Incarnation
From the remotest dawn, from a yellow eye,
sharper than the eagle’s, that sees each one of us
scuttling in the shadow of a protective wing,
he falls to Earth—blind. Those first nights
the short distance between her breast and face
is as far as he can see. She is his first sight
of the world as man—our one pure sign.
She only knows his Christ-eyes latching
onto hers as fiercely as his gums clamp down
for milk. The future scrabbles, gnaws like rats
through a barn’s corners and its eaves.
But she is transfixed by his skin and insistence
on her as the only visible, only beautiful thing—
the present moment; this is the first lesson of prayer.
Witnesses to Hope 