Still
For Good Friday
This day
let all stand still
in silence,
in sorrow.
Sun and moon
be still.
Earth
be still.
Still
the waters.
Still
the wind.
Let the ground
gape in stunned
lamentation.
Let it weep
as it receives
what it thinks
it will not
give up.
Let it groan
as it gathers
the One
who was thought
forever stilled.
Time
be still.
Watch
and wait.
Still.
—Jan Richardson
from Circle of Grace: A Book of Blessings for the Seasons
A friend of mine says that when you lean your head against God’s heart, you will hear his Heart beating: “Beloved, beloved, beloved.”
Today’s Sunday poem by Jan Richardson is over at my Substack.
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
This has to be one of my most favorite poems of Jan Richardson’s. We are always, always beloved to God.
Beloved Is Where We Begin
If you would enter
into the wilderness,
do not begin
without a blessing.
Do not leave
without hearing
who you are:
Beloved,
named by the One
who has traveled this path
before you.
Do not go
without letting it echo
in your ears,
and if you find
it is hard
to let it into your heart,
do not despair.
That is what
this journey is for.
I cannot promise
this blessing will free you
from danger,
from fear,
from hunger
or thirst,
from the scorching
of sun
or the fall
of the night.
But I can tell you
that on this path
there will be help.
I can tell you
that on this way
there will be rest.
I can tell you
that you will know
the strange graces
that come to our aid
only on a road
such as this,
that fly to meet us
bearing comfort
and strength,
that come alongside us
for no other cause
than to lean themselves
toward our ear
and with their
curious insistence
whisper our name:
Beloved.
Beloved.
Beloved.
—Jan Richardson
from Circle of Grace
I have shared Jan Richardson’s poems before. She’s perhaps on my mind because every Advent I pull out her book, Circle of Grace, to accompany me on my Advent journey. Here’s another of her poems that I love.
Go slow
If you can.
Slower.
More slowly still.
Friendly dark
or fearsome,
this is no place
to break your neck
by rushing,
by running,
by crashing into
what you cannot see.
Then again,
it is true:
different darks
have different tasks,
and if you
have arrived here unawares,
if you have come
in peril
or in pain,
this might be no place
you should dawdle.
I do not know
what these shadows
ask of you,
what they might hold
that means you good
or ill.
It is not for me
to reckon
whether you should linger
or you should leave.
But this is what
I can ask for you:
That in the darkness
there be a blessing.
That in the shadows
there be a welcome.
That in the night
you be encompassed
by the Love that knows
your name.
Jan’s book, Circle of Grace, must be one of my favorite books of poetry. This Sunday poem is from another of her books, The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for the Seasons.
Jan Richardson is a poet I discovered just a few years ago. My favorite book of hers is the one from which this poem is taken. She has a number of poems just for this day, Ash Wednesday.
Stumbled upon this beautiful Advent poem:
Blessing the Door
First let us say
a blessing
upon all who have
entered here before
us.
You can see the sign
of their passage
by the worn place
on the doorframe
as they walked through,
the smooth sill
of the threshold
where they crossed.
Press your ear
to the door
for a moment before
you enter
and you will hear
their voices murmuring
words you cannot
quite make out
but know
are full of welcome.
On the other side
these ones who wait –
for you,
if you do not
know by now –
understand what
a blessing can do
how it appears like
nothing you expected
how it arrives as
visitor,
outrageous invitation,
child;
how it takes the form
of angel
or dream;
how it comes
in words like
How can this be?
and
lifted up the lowly:
how it sounds like
in the wilderness
prepare the way.
Those who wait
for you know
how the mark of
a true blessing
is that it will take you
where you did not
think to go.
Once through this door
there will be more:
more doors
more blessings
more who watch and
wait for you
but here
at this door of
beginning
the blessings cannot
be said without you
So lay your palm
against the frame
that those before you
touched
place your feet
where others paused in this entryway.
Say the thing that
you most need
and the door will
open wide.
And by this word
the door is blessed
and by this word
the blessing is begun
from which
door by door
all the rest
will come.
– Jan Richardson, from Through the Advent Door: Entering a Contemplative Christmas.
Blessing for the Longest Night
All throughout these months
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.
It has practiced
walking in the dark,
traveling with
its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory
by touch
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.
So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you
even though you cannot
see it coming.
You will know
the moment of its
arriving
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.
This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.
So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.
Get up.
Set out on the road
you cannot see.
This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.
– Jan Richardson
Jan Richardson is an artist, writer, and ordained minister in the United Methodist Church. She serves as director of The Wellspring Studio, LLC, and travels widely as a retreat leader and conference speaker. Known for her distinctive intertwining of word and image, Jan’s work has attracted an international audience drawn to the welcoming and imaginative spaces that she creates in her books, online blogs, and public events. During Advent, Jan is leading Illuminated: An Online Journey into the Heart of Christmas.
Witnesses to Hope 