Yoke

Jesus said:
“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened,
and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you and learn from me,
for I am meek and humble of heart;
and you will find rest for yourselves.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden light.”
Matthew 11:28-30

How can the yoke be easy
that settles on our necks?
What burden except Jesus
is light upon our backs?

For he has borne our sorrows
as lambs within his arms.
His very self he offers,
our very selves transforms.

We bore the yoke of Pharaoh
and burden of the law
'til, crushed beneath the harrow,
we cried aloud to God.

He came and bore our weakness—
our death within his flesh.
His burden has relieved us
so that we may have rest.

We are the weight he carried
aloft to Calvary;
he is the weight we bear now,
the yoke that makes us free.

He lays his own divineness
upon our weary backs:
One day, we shall be like him
and rest in God at last!

A milkmaid walking with a shoulder yoke, shown with another female farmworker carrying a rake and a wicker backpack, painting by Gari Melchers – http://chetvergvecher.livejournal.com/932759.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=49225857

Each Stone

Jacob left Beer-sheba and went toward Haran. He came to a certain place and stayed there for the night, because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it. And the Lord stood beside him and said, “I am the Lord, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring; and your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it!” And he was afraid, and said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”
Genesis 28:10-19

Each stone beside the highway is your altar.
The drooping eaves where sparrows make their nests,
abandoned buildings sheltering the swallows:
Are these where we recline upon your breast?

For we have seen this world is not your kingdom,
yet you have raised your altars even here
to bear each sacrifice your people bring you
and draw each weary trav'ller ever near.

Your ladder's lowest rung is on a pebble,
a landing place for angels touching down,
transforming rocky soil into a temple,
and every yard of earth is holy ground.

This world is not our home: It is your dwelling
where you spread out the refuge of your wings,
and in their shadow you have made us welcome,
this nest where fledgling sparrows learn to sing.

Then may we be at home, Lord, in your shelter 
and every morning find here mercies new.
Spread out your shadow everywhere we venture:
Let wand'ring hearts at last find rest in you.

Jacob’s dream by Jusepe De Ribera (Lo Spagnoletto) – https://ES.ArtsDot.com/@@/8LHSSL-Jusepe-De-Ribera-(Lo-Spagnoletto)-Jakobs-Traum, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77003221

All Is Not Lost

The waters are rising,
the ship battered and tossed,
but a light is still shining,
and all is not lost.
The thunder that deafens
is the crack of our hearts
that cries out to heaven,
yet all is not lost.

Down on the horizon,
comes a glimmer of sparks:
The gleam of the lighthouse
says all is not lost.
There's light still to guide us,
steer us off of the rocks.
Even here, hope can find us,
and all is not lost.

You walked on the waters
while the little boat rocked.
If you don't calm the surges,
still all is not lost.
The sea is all yours, Lord,
like the rocks and our hearts.
Keep sailing us homeward,
so all is not lost.

Christ walking on the sea, by Amédée Varint – http://www.culture.gouv.fr/GOUPIL/IMAGES/101_Christ_sur_eau.jpg (Gravures et eaux fortes), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4780982

Dirt

“Hear then the parable of the sower.
The seed sown on the path is the one
who hears the word of the kingdom without understanding it,
and the evil one comes and steals away
what was sown in his heart.
The seed sown on rocky ground
is the one who hears the word and receives it at once with joy.
But he has no root and lasts only for a time.
When some tribulation or persecution comes because of the word,
he immediately falls away.
The seed sown among thorns is the one who hears the word,
but then worldly anxiety and the lure of riches choke the word
and it bears no fruit.
But the seed sown on rich soil
is the one who hears the word and understands it,
who indeed bears fruit and yields a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.”
Matthew 13:1-23

O God, who formed me from the dirt,
send heaven's showers down:
Transform my dry and barren earth
into your fertile ground.

Too long I have been rocky soil:
When you had taken root,
my shallow ground turned back your voice
and withered newborn shoots.

The busy pathways of my heart
lie open to the sky,
but never hold you long, O God,
when flocks are passing by.

The greatest harvest I have borne
has choked your fallen seed
with every bramble, every thorn
of my anxiety.

But you brought water from the rock
and mercy from the tomb,
then will you take this barren heart
and bring forth something good?

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Parable of the Sower, 1557. – The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. ISBN: 3936122202., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=148461

Atmosphere

For ‘In him we live and move and have our being,’^* as even some of your poets have said, ‘For we too are his offspring.’
Acts 17:28

In you we live and move and are,
but see you less than air.
We grope, although you are not far,
as wind that stirs our hair.

We move in you as you us,
the breath that fills our lungs
and stirs again this lifeless dust
'til we cry out in tongues.

And if you take that breath away,
then dust to dust returns
'til branches in your breezes sway
and embers once more burn.

O God, you are the atmosphere
that shapes and holds our lives.
We could not be, were you not here:
You are, and we survive.

Teach us the wonder of our breath;
suffuse into our blood
your being—oh, your very self—
Breathe life into our mud.

And hold our every panting gasp;
hold us when all breath fades.
Draw us into your winds that pass
beyond all hurricanes.

This wind turbine generates electricity from wind power. By Wagner Christian – Own work, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=958801

Burning

To burn but not to be consumed
would take a miracle;
or keep the dark at bay, entombed,
the lantern always full;

not to burn out or fade away,
but steady, still, and bright,
to hold unhurt the twisting flame
and not give way to night:

How could it be?  No human flesh
could bear the angry flame.
These mortal limbs, no burning bush,
cry out for mercy's rain.

Pour out, O heaven: Pour it out;
this conflagration still.
Pour rivers down into this drought;
these aching branches fill.

Drown me in mercy; let it run 
from reaching hands to roots,
then let me draw it up again,
alive with growing shoots.

Soften the hardness of my heart,
long purified in flame.
Wear down this stone to flesh, O God,
under the touch of rain.

Fire from loppings By Pavel Ševela, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1988522

A Gentle Lord

For the Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A:

The one who cast down chariots
and parted waters in the sea
comes to us riding on a colt
to set the bound and captive free.

He comes to us a gentle Lord
to bless the bread, the cup to fill.
He breaks the bow and bends the sword
and bids us know him and be still.

Not to the mighty but the weak,
not to the great but to the small
does Christ the tender shepherd speak,
does he reveal the Father's all.

Not to the wise and learnèd ones
but to the children and the lambs
does Jesus show what God has done
and leads them to the great I Am.

Lift up your heads, you mighty gates;
cast off the yoke of your success,
for patiently he stoops and waits
to lay on us his yoke of rest.

He hides his wisdom from the wise,
so let us lift our heads and see:
In wars unfought and burdens light
our shepherd leads us into peace.

Entry into Jerusalem, by Giotto, 14th century. By Giotto – Unknown source, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2941674

Cicadas

Cicadas shrieking in the heat
beneath a heavy sky,
yet thunderheads bring no relief:
The stormclouds slide on by.

The birds have all gone silent now,
and hidden in the trees;
as pentitents with bright heads bowed
they kneel behind the leaves.

Each breath is thick with undropped rain,
until we're drowning dry,
and still the thunder turns away,
the Levite passing by.

Where is the breaking of the storm,
the mercy from on high,
the tension snapping with the dawn
that ends the long-drawn night?

Where is the river heaven sends
to water all the earth?
Surely this desert never ends
and there is no rebirth!

Now that the locusts have their fill,
full silently they wait
'til heaven's chalice brims and spills—
Someday the storm will break.

Annual cicada. By Bruce Marlin – Own work http://www.cirrusimage.com/homoptera_cicada_T_linnei.htm, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=671173

Abraham

God put Abraham to the test.
He called to him, “Abraham!”
“Here I am,” he replied.
Then God said: “Take your son Isaac, your only one, whom you love,
and go to the land of Moriah.
There you shall offer him up as a burnt offering
on a height that I will point out to you.”
Early the next morning Abraham saddled his donkey,
took with him his son Isaac, and two of his servants as well,
and with the wood that he had cut for the burnt offering,
set out for the place of which God had told him.
Genesis 22:1b-19

“And will you take the righteous with the wicked?”
You had the courage, then, to question God.
Before you see the ram caught in the thicket,
you climb the mountain and you break your heart.

You lay your only son upon the altar
without a word of protest for his sake,
prepare yourself your very soul to offer,
and in your hand the sharpened knife you take.

Where is the courage that could fight for Sodom?
Where is the strength that dared a Pharaoh's wrath,
the tears that fell for Hagar and your lost son?
How has the hope within you turned to ash?

Is it the test itself that makes you falter,
to hear God ask you for the death of love?
Or do you lay your faith upon the altar,
let heaven witness as you call its bluff?

Does even God look down this day in horror
to see the rotten harvest of despair,
and does he give you back again your courage
to wrestle with him in the depths of prayer?

Then pray for me, O Abraham, in my doubt,
when I must bear the fire and the knife,
that I may cling, through all the waves I ride out,
to love as surely as I cling to life.

עקדת יצחק (1947) מאת משה קסטל. צבע על זכוכית, 46×45 ס”מ. מוזיאון קסטל. By Moshe Castel – Taken by Talmor Yair – שיחה), CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17939939

Come, Sojourners and Strangers

Mashing up Ephesians 2, Psalm 87, and a few other things:

Come, sojourners and strangers
who pass through Zion's gate,
and sit down at the table:
Our welcome here awaits.

For Christ has torn the heavens
to sink into our deaths;
he gives himself, unleavened,
to us as broken bread.

Sit down to all he gives you,
for he prepared this feast.
Sit down to him, he bids you,
and let him wash your feet.

Then, baptized in his dying,
we rise into his life
and he, the grace supplying,
takes us to be his bride.

And we who had been outcasts
are honored at this feast.
Christ lays himself in our hands
and tells us, Take and eat.

We are exiles no longer
but citizens in him
who makes our shelter stronger
and comes to dwell within.

Marriage at Cana, 1561, By Jacopo Tintoretto – Web Gallery of Art: Image Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15542127