Troubled

Jesus said to his disciples:
“Whoever loves me will keep my word,
and my Father will love him,
and we will come to him and make our dwelling with him.
Whoever does not love me does not keep my words;
yet the word you hear is not mine
but that of the Father who sent me.
I have told you this while I am with you.
The Advocate, the Holy Spirit,
whom the Father will send in my name,
will teach you everything
and remind you of all that I told you.
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.
Not as the world gives do I give it to you.
Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid.
You heard me tell you,
‘I am going away and I will come back to you.’
If you loved me,
you would rejoice that I am going to the Father;
for the Father is greater than I.
And now I have told you this before it happens,
so that when it happens you may believe.”
—John 14:23-29

“Don't let your hearts be troubled,”
we hear the savior say;
in all our daily struggle
he says, “Be not afraid.”
But where shall we find courage
to do what must be done,
who see the way the world is
and feel that he is gone?

Yet peace he leaves behind him—
not as the world he gives—
and here and now we find him.
Yes, our redeemer lives,
and here he makes his dwelling:
Its doors are open wide.
Come, let us keep his telling!
He welcomes us inside.

The right hand of the Father
still stretches over us;
our savior and our brother
still walks with us in love.
His peace shall not diminish:
In triumph or defeat
his joy is yet within us
to make our joy complete.

Supper at Emmaus by Caravaggio, 1601 – National Gallery, London web site, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=270022

Blossomed

You speak a word that prunes us:
You love us, and we bleed.
The mercy that renews us
uproots us, thorn and weed.
You cut away these branches—
they're burned but not consumed.
We're only dust and ashes,
but you will make us bloom.

You take our cold convictions,
the vows we made and broke,
wrung through your crucifixion,
sung in the cockerel's crow,
and turn them into mercy.
Your alchemy redeems.
The empty nets are bursting;
the mortuary teems.

You harrowed earth and heaven
to draw us through the dark
where thirty silver pennies
shine out among the stars.
The sea gives up its flotsam,
and sweet now runs its brine.
The briar crown has blossomed—
dead branches drip with wine.

R. ellipticus var. obcordatus leaves and flowers By Franz Xaver – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15635394

Tornado Warning

From the sudden storm's tornadoes
and the sirens going off
and the radar still updating—
now deliver us, O God.
Yet for safety and for shelter
as the danger passes o'er
while the world outside's a welter—
for all this, we thank you, Lord.

From the asphalt shingles flying
or the buckling of the walls
that would leave us naked, lying—
now deliver us, O God.
For the tedium of waiting
huddled on the bathroom floor
'til the siren's slow abating—
for all this, we thank you, Lord.

From the slumber of complacence
under quiet skies and broad
that fill, in a blink, with hailstones—
now deliver us, O God.
For the turning of the weather
and the end of every storm—
May we come through all together—
for all this, we thank you, Lord.

A tornado near Anadarko, Oklahoma, 1999. The funnel is the thin tube reaching from the cloud to the ground. The lower part of this tornado is surrounded by a translucent dust cloud, kicked up by the tornado’s strong winds at the surface. The wind of the tornado has a much wider radius than the funnel itself. By Daphne Zaras – http://www.nssl.noaa.gov/headlines/dszpics.htmlOriginally uploaded at en.wikipedia; description page is/was here., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2130165

Make All Things New

Mashing up today’s readings:

To love as you have loved us, Lord:
You give a new command.
To love as you and be restored—
yet still our old ways stand.
Transform us: All creation waits
to see us made like you.
For us the task is far too great,
but you make all things new.

Give years of joy for those we mourned;
let feast redeem the fast.
The bride shall come in love adorned
to meet her groom at last.
Your foes lie prostrate, length and breadth,
when you make us like you:
The last to be destroyed is death
when you make all things new.

This turning earth shall slow and cease,
our moment pass away—
our bound and shackled hearts released
into eternal day.
And you o'er all things glorified,
God glorified in you,
will wipe the tears from every eye
when you make all things new.

John of Patmos watches the descent of New Jerusalem from God in a 14th-century tapestry, Photo By Octave 444 – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=86993899

Honey

My savior's breath is sweeter far than honey,
and when I drink of him I thirst for more.
I taste, and see his manna all around me;
his gifts fill all the world as sands the shore.

I drink of him, and I am filled with honey;
I am a lion sweetened by the bees,
a hive in highest summer, river running,
for I am his, and he—he is for me.

I eat of him, and all I taste is honey
though I know well the flesh that lies beneath,
and more than sweet, his love is all my comfort.
I will lose all, yet more will he bequeathe.

I hunger still: Give me more, sweet, more honey,
and all you give will never be enough
to quench the longing you have laid upon me
for all you are, my Lord, for love, for love.

drop of honey just waiting for someone to photograph it. By Dino Giordano – Honey, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=35024421

Daily

The day arrives like that before
to call me from my bed,
for there are needs I can't ignore
and people to be fed.

This repetition, Lord, and rhyme
mark out my works and days;
I wade through ordinary time
just numbering my days.

Yet sometimes in the haze of tasks,
some music trills and sings
beyond all blessings I could ask,
O love that moves all things.

A mundane moment you fill up,
and I at once am fed
by you, my portion and my cup;
by you, my daily bread.

And then my soul before you stands;
my senses wake to know
your grace is here beneath my hands
that knead and shape the dough.

The moment past, it echoes yet—
the day is left to fill.
I fill it, Lord, and I forget,
but you are with me still.

Woman baking bread (c. 2200 BC); Louvre, Photo By Rama, CC BY-SA 3.0 fr, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=69938567

Endless Praise

Jesus said:
“My sheep hear my voice;
I know them, and they follow me.
I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish.
No one can take them out of my hand.
My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all,
and no one can take them out of the Father’s hand.
The Father and I are one.”
—John 10:27-30

We long to stand where endless praise is sung,
where we are named and counted as the stars,
where each one sings to you in his own tongue—
O Shepherd, speak to each of us in ours!

For we are weary of our Babel here,
the endless bleak confusion of our days.
But if you speak, our senses may yet clear
and let us seek together for your ways.

Bring us where all distress is in the past:
The Lamb is in the center of the throne,
his court a refuge that will ever last.
We'll never be displaced, for we are home.

Oh, see: Our thirst and hunger are no more,
and you will wipe the tears from every eye.
Then speak to us, Good Shepherd!  Speak, O Lord!
That we may find the springs that ne'er run dry!

Speak, then, and let it be as you will say:
Make us your own, as you made sea and land,
that we may stand there in your endless day
where nothing takes us from the Father's hand.

Jesus, der gute Hirte im Tympanon der evangelischen Friedenskirche in Hanau-Kesselstadt, Photo By amras.wi – Own workOriginal text: eigenes Photo, Copyrighted free use, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=69223980

Eden

We have never looked on Eden—
it was gone before we woke,
but we'd swear that we have seen it
in the words our fathers spoke,
in the kindness of our mothers,
in the bread we daily break
or receive from one another:
Eden, every bite we take.

There are days when we remember
that our lives are built on sand,
walking always in the desert,
looking for the promised land.
In the daily thirst of dying
we recall those living springs;
hunger speaks of satisfying:
Eden touches everything.

Though we can't go back to Eden,
still it flavors all we do;
with the savor of your kingdom
where we find our life in you,
for the seeds in Eden planted
blossom out into a feast.
From the harvest you have granted
we will finally sit and eat.

Les très riches heures du duc de Berry, Folio 25v, By Limbourg brothers – IRHT-CNRS/Gilles Kagan – Bibliothèque du château, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=108858

Back To the Beginning

So the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord.”
When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord,
he tucked in his garment, for he was lightly clad,
and jumped into the sea.
—John 21:1-19

I went back to the beginning,
now that we had reached the end
and the sun kept right on spinning
over us bewildered men.
For we found the tomb was empty
that we'd laid his body in—
I went back to where he met me;
maybe there I could begin.

Without hope and without mooring
we caught nothing through the night,
but a voice came with the morning,
“Cast your nets upon the right.”
So, dawn-dazzled, we worked blindly
just to bring the nets on board.
John alone of us saw rightly:
“Peter, look: It is the Lord!”

Once, I thought it wouldn't faze me
just to walk upon the depths.
In the end, I begged him, “Save me!”
I was sinking to my death.
Now I see the friend who fed me,
and I plunge into the wave
sinking down without a tremor
like a body in a grave.

I am not afraid of dying,
now my death is bound with his.
In his mercy, I am rising
from the dark of my abyss.
Now his dawning fills my vision:
There is welcome in his eyes.
I have fallen; I am risen
in the morning light of Christ.

Christ Appears On the Shore of Lake Tiberias, By James Tissot, circa 1886/94 – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.343_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10904799

Empty Nets

Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.”
They said to him, “We also will come with you.”
So they went out and got into the boat,
but that night they caught nothing.
When it was already dawn, Jesus was standing on the shore;
but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus.
Jesus said to them, “Children, have you caught anything to eat?”
They answered him, “No.”
So he said to them, “Cast the net over the right side of the boat
and you will find something.”
So they cast it, and were not able to pull it in
because of the number of fish.
—John 21:1-19

When all we knew was lost and gone,
our world unsettled as the wave,
still, wonder met us with the dawn:
We looked into your empty grave.

We sail now as we've always sailed,
but all our nets come empty back—
yet we recall the baskets filled,
abundance you brought from our lack.

Our hunger you turned to a feast,
and even death you turned to life.
But we must go on restless seas:
Can you bring peace out of our strife?

A voice cries, “Cast your nets once more.”
We do, though we have fished all night—
and you are standing on the shore
and all the world is new and bright.

Now all that had been emptied out
is filled with more than it can hold.
The long night of our dread and doubt
pours forth the morning turning gold.

And there you stand, the Son of God,
inviting us to break our fast,
in restless seas our solid rock,
our certainty and home at last.

Painting by Henry Ossawa Tanner, circa 1913 – Google Arts & Culture — LAHsSESclImgWA, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=71770460