Fig Leaves

Then the eyes of both of them were opened,
and they realized that they were naked;
so they sewed fig leaves together
and made loincloths for themselves.
Genesis 3: 1-8

Also inspired by this reflection: https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=114492308223659&set=a.112923281713895

What we covered up in fig leaves
you have plumbed in all its depth,
came as Adam to forgive Eve,
plunged into our dirt and death.
And you peel away the covers
as you tear the veil in two.
So you show us to the Father,
though we've hidden from his view.

Naked came we here a-borning;
naked only will we go.
Blessed be, at night and morning,
all the workings of the Lord!
Youa re working our salvation
in our termbling and our fear.
We're your working's incarnation,
and your own has brought us here.

Lay your hands upon us, healer;
spit into our crumbling dust.
Mudmaker, anoint and seal us
by the dirt you share with us.
Sweet the fruit that we had stolen;
sweeter still your flesh and blood.
Ephphatha! The tomb is opened!
We are as you made us: good.

A fig leaf cast in plaster used to cover the genitals of a copy of a statue of David in the Cast Courts of the Victoria and Albert Museum. By VAwebteam at the English Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=26076667

Scraps

Jesus went to the district of Tyre.
He entered a house and wanted no one to know about it,
but he could not escape notice.
Soon a woman whose daughter had an unclean spirit heard about him.
She came and fell at his feet.
The woman was a Greek, a Syrophoenician by birth,
and she begged him to drive the demon out of her daughter.
He said to her, “Let the children be fed first.
For it is not right to take the food of the children
and throw it to the dogs.”
She replied and said to him,
“Lord, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s scraps.”
Then he said to her, “For saying this, you may go.
The demon has gone out of your daughter.”
When the woman went home, she found the child lying in bed
and the demon gone.
Mark 7:24-30

Also inspired by this reflection on the above passage: https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=114492308223659&set=a.112923281713895

Filthy souls and all unfit,
mercy still we claim.
Begging, at your feet we sit,
weeping out your name.
At the table or under it,
the bread of life's the same.

What are scraps of heaven, Lord?
Heaven all the way.
Everything in just a word,
with nothing left to say.
Throw your scraps out to the world:
loaves and fishes, they.

Fragments of infinity,
infinite within.
Dogs beneath the table eat,
feasting like a king.
I will never worthy be:
Savior, enter in.

The Woman of Canaan by Michael Angelo Immenraet, 17th century – http://www.unionskirche-retten.de/seiten/bildpatenschaft/bild-18.php, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=37307817

I Shall Not Fear

Based on Psalm 46, to the tune FINLANDIA:

I shall not fear, though all the earth is shaken,
though mountains fall and seas in tempest rise,
though I am struck, the heart within me quaking,
and I will fall as strength within me dies.
In me there flows, while all my walls are breaking,
a living stream whose source will ne'er run dry.

Then I will trust the spring that rises in me,
though nations fall and kingdoms topple down.
And I will drink and let the waters fill me
with saving hope when deep despair abounds.
God is my rock, from him these waters streaming
are all my life, where only death was found.

Let mountains fall, and let my heart be shaken:
The waters flow, and deserts they will fill.
The sword is bent; the bow at last is breaking:
All wars must end and fade as all things will.
Yet God is here, unmoved when I am quaking;
I cling to him who bids my soul, “Be still.”

A natural spring on Mackinac Island in Michigan By DaemonDivinus, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=982411

New-Create Me

New-create me, God my Father;
heav'n with earth in my alloy.
Sweep your winds across my waters;
shape my formlessness and void.

Set the land and sea in order;
separate the dark and light.
Let each evening have its morning;
let my days lie down in night.

Stars like heartbeats mark the moments;
arcs of sunlight count the breath.
Part the waters with your doming:
blood and tears and gall and sweat.

Earth and ocean, set them teeming
with the life that you supply:
Creatures on your mercy leaning,
fruitful, may they multiply.

I am one, your own creation:
Plunge your hands into my earth.
Plant a garden in my chaos;
grow your plenty in my dearth.

Make me, God; remake me ever:
work and sabbath, drought and flood.
Shape your new earth and new heaven;
see your work and call it good.

The first day of creation, by Jean Colombe from the Heures de Louis de Laval [fr] – This file comes from Gallica Digital Library and is available under the digital ID btv1b52501620s/f12.item, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39323912

Make a Light

Thus says the LORD:
Share your bread with the hungry,
shelter the oppressed and the homeless;
clothe the naked when you see them,
and do not turn your back on your own.
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your wound shall quickly be healed;
your vindication shall go before you,
and the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer,
you shall cry for help, and he will say: Here I am!
If you remove from your midst
oppression, false accusation and malicious speech;
if you bestow your bread on the hungry
and satisfy the afflicted;
then light shall rise for you in the darkness,
and the gloom shall become for you like midday.
Isaiah 58:7-10

Make a light for us in darkness;
make a way when we are lost.
Bring us back, when we have wandered;
strike the debt, despite the cost.

You who shine as bright as noonday,
give us your unfailing light.
Let us echo all that you say,
Word who makes the darkness bright.

Fill us, Lord, when we are hungry;
shelter us beneath your cloak.
So, we learn to shelter others,
feeding them the bread you broke.

Free us from the years' oppression;
touch our eyes to see our chains.
Let us not make others wear them;
let us freely tend their pains.

Lift us from our dust and ashes,
we will fly as burning sparks.
Light our hearts with your compassion:
Make us beacons in the dark.

Not our light but yours, O Jesus;
not our love but your own heart
is the flame that lights and frees us,
shining ever in the dark.

Eerie Night By Ngphotography, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=53123868

Praise God, From the Dust

Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
says dust on currents of his love;
praise from the silt that sinks below,
though it may long to float above.

We who could never bear his weight—
holiness is a heavy thing—
we cannot climb to heaven's gates;
we can do naught but sink and sing.

Praise God, all creatures of the depths,
whose current bears us further down
where there is no more light or breath;
praise God in whom we dive and drown.

For there, beneath the universe,
when we have settled in the dark,
the love no holiness deserves
holds us upon its naked heart.

Praise God, who all things can and does,
made us and took the measure of 
and asks no heavy things of dust
but just to settle in his love.

And love, of all things else, endures,
like dust persisting after death.
This we were made for; this is ours,
there at the root of all to rest.

Dust dancing in the sunlight in an old riding hall By E.mil.mil – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36177299

The Years Stretch Out

For the feast of the Presentation, a song of Simeon:

The years stretch out in shadow;
the days drag on toward night.
O Father, do not let go
until I see your light.

For now I know but dimly—
what shade our life has cast!—
but keep your hand upon me
until the night is past.

The earth you made is turning,
though slow the age is takes,
so there must be a morning:
Keep me until it breaks.

And though my eyes are fading
and fail to pierce the dark,
yet keep me strongin waiting
with vision in my heart.

That what I cannot see here
I still may stumble toward.
I weaken more with each year,
but make me strong in hope.

And when I see your glory,
the light I long have known,
when mercy dawns before me,
O Father, take me home!

Simeon and the Child by Benjamin West, brown and gray washes and pencil on paper, Museum of the Shenandoah Valley, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=54050254

The Final Word

O first word from the only voice
before the founding of the world
when voice and word and breath rejoiced,
let mercy be the final word.

You echoed into light and shade,
reverberating in our earth.
We heard you then and disobeyed;
let mercy be the final word.

For our words, scattered and confused,
are sharp as knives and long as swords.
These bloodied weapons we have used—
let mercy be the final word.

All these swrodstrokes we fall beneath,
that lay us silent in the dirt,
let them fall silent in their sheaths.
Let mercy be the final word.

And when our wars at last are stilled,
O first and last song ever heard,
ring out, our silent graves to fill.
Let mercy be the final word.

The A and Z and all between,
the music of the universe,
put in our mouths your song to sing.
Let mercy be the final word!

The incipit of the Gregorian chant introit Misericordia Domini in the Liber Usualis. By Scan or digital reproduction of original work., PD-US, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31658645

Will You Bless Us?

For today’s Gospel reading of the Beatitudes:

Lord, we come to you confessing
all our struggle and our need,
and we ask you for your blessing.
Will you give us what we seek?

Will you make us poor in spirit,
like a king who left his crown
so that nobodies can wear it
when he comes into his own?

Will you give us tears for mourning?
There's so much we need to grieve;
drench our hearts, for they are burning!
Christ who wept, grant us relief!

Will you give us thirst and hunger
for the kingdom that you bring
and the justice that we long for,
and then fill us with good things?

Will you give us, Lord, your mercy?
Oh, then make us merciful!
We will bear each other's burdens
as you bear them for us all.

For you came to help and cure us
of the ills that we have made.
Make a blessing of our curses;
bring new life out of our graves.

The sermon on the mount By Harold Copping – https://www.meisterdrucke.de/künstler/Harold-Copping.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=84021899

The Conversion of St. Paul

Saul, still breathing murderous threats against the disciples of the Lord,
went to the high priest and asked him
for letters to the synagogues in Damascus, that,
if he should find any men or women who belonged to the Way,
he might bring them back to Jerusalem in chains.
On his journey, as he was nearing Damascus,
a light from the sky suddenly flashed around him.
He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him,
“Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?”
He said, “Who are you, sir?”
The reply came, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.
Now get up and go into the city and you will be told what you must do.”
Acts 9:1-22

When I am breathing murder
and fury fills my days,
shine out, O Christ, and curb me!
Disturb my vivid ways!

Let light form heaven blind me
where sight has led me wrong.
O, let my darkness guide me,
my weakness make me strong.

My vision gone, give insight:
Illuminate my heart.
Then I will sing at midnight
and praise you in the dark.

Let not the morning free me:
Delay the great sunrise
until I learn to see you
and scales fall from my eyes.

O Christ, whom I had hated,
you looked on me with love,
and I, when you've remade me,
will tell the world thereof.

For you have seen my blindness
and given me new sight,
repaid my hate with kindness,
and made my darkness bright.

Conversion on the Way to Damascus, Caravaggio (c.1600-1) – Self-scanned, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15219516