Mother Mary, Queen of Heaven

Just a Palestinian child
born into occupation.
A girl, who never learned
to read the ancient scrolls.
(Not for her the sacred places,
the space by the rabbis’ feet.)
It was for her brothers to question
in the synagogues, to wrestle
with the angels of meaning,
to love the word of God.

Her place,
to be silent and obey.

But someone forgot to inform
the angel when it came, journeying
from the right hand of the Almighty.
The rabbis assumed it already
knew — no girl-child was fit
company for the divine. It was for
the patriarchs to greet the holy
guests, while wives sheltered
in their tents, roasted lamb,
baked bread. What woman could
possibly understand the theological
mysteries of covenants and
prophecies? Better to leave them
to their cooking.

When her son was small, with a head
still nestled on her shoulder, and eyes
filled with the wonder of spiders and ants
and growing things, did she show him
the flowers growing in the fields, the birds
on the wing — did she say, be at peace
little one, for the Lord of Heaven
knows your name, be at peace,
for the seed is small, but it grows
mighty, be at peace, for the breath
of God is in the world, making
sense of things? Before her son was old enough
to question the rabbis, read the words
of the scroll, spark outrage with his healings,
would he sit at his mother’s feet,
card wool with clumsy fingers, watch her 
kneed yeast into bread, and listen to her sing of a God
who raised up the humble and set
the captives free?

The God of Abraham and Isaac —
and all her forefathers —
made a temple of her womb. And no one
but her cousin was present
when she broke generations of silence,
joining her namesake in praising
the redeemer of the weak.

And as she lay on the floor
of that shed (or was it the room
of a relative’s home? — the scholars
will argue, but it matters little
in the end), healing from a body
broken open, unclean from rumors
that followed her from Nazareth, clung
to a swollen belly, and unclean, too,
from the blood spilled out upon
the straw (as it would one day spill
from the body of this tiny, fragile son),
the child of God nuzzled at her breast
and suckled.

A woman’s son.

_____________________

For the first Sunday in Advent. I’m not actually sure when I wrote this poem, but it was a while ago (possibly several years). I rediscovered it recently in my drafts folder. 

A Plea for Gaza

“Jesus wept.” -John 11:35

I’ve been living with this ache since I was twelve. Which is less long than every Palestinian I know. They’ve been living with it since they drew their very first breath.

I’m sorry, but I can’t debate the politics. I can only say this: Jesus weeps with every single hurting child. Hurting mother. Hurting father. Hurting human.

He weeps with the hostages. With their families.

And he weeps with the citizens of Gaza. 1.7 million of whom are refugees. 1 million of whom are children. All of whom are human beings made in the image of God.

Have you ever wondered how you would respond if you were raised in a cage?

I don’t condone the violence. I don’t condone the violence.

But can we admit that these scales are not balanced? That one side holds all the power (the ability to turn off electricity and water — to deny access to food — to drop 6,000 bombs in six days), and the other holds, well, mostly desperation, anger, pain, and, yes, probably a good amount of hate.

Will that hate decrease, now that their children are dying by the thousands? Will that hate decrease, now that the world is applauding (now that our president is applauding) while a world power enacts collective punishment?

This is not the path to peace. This is not the path to security.

Desperation breeds violence. How could it not?

Wouldn’t it be better if every time genocide occurred we didn’t denounce it after the fact, but halted it in the here and now? If we didn’t pretend we were so incapable of that kind of violence that we didn’t need to guard our hearts against it?

Never again means never again. To anyone. Not to those who are white. Or our allies. Or our religious brothers and sisters. But anyone.

My heart is breaking. Jesus is weeping. And if you are a follower of the Christ who lay down his life for his enemies, then your calling is to stand in the gap of this war.

Let us represent a kingdom where a sacrificial lamb sits enthroned. A kingdom where forgiveness, reconciliation, and peace reign supreme.

And where swords are battered into plowshares.

This kingdom has never been one that made sense to a violent world. His own disciples wanted him to take up the sword, not lay himself down on one. But all of them died testifying to a different kind of kingdom — where strength and weakness go by different names and winning and losing don’t look anything like we’ve been led to believe.

Come, Lord Jesus. Bring sight to the blind. Let us see as you see.

Call for a ceasefire. Stand on the side of life.

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” -John 10:10

Footwashing

Dust clings to sweat,
accumulates on swollen feet.
The grit of the journey,
the evidence of miles walked.

He cradles the torn skin,
the blisters, the scars from too-tight sandals.

He begins to wash.

The journey leaves its mark –
it’s right that it should.
But lies can’t be allowed
to linger, and wounds are meant
to heal. The grime of refuse rinsed
as all is once again
made new.

And this, he said, do
for one another. This gentle
anointing of the journey’s pain.
This cradling of bruised flesh within
love’s palms.

Be clean. Be clean. Be clean.

___________________________

An attempt to wrestle through the dynamics in John 13. What exactly it is that Jesus is doing, his gift to us. What exactly it is that he’s asking us to do for one another.

This is what came out.

Not Half So Interesting | Words of Wednesday

“There’s such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I’m such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn’t be half so interesting.” –L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

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Anne of Green Gables is a book written almost entirely in dialogue — er, monologue. A book that is much less plot than it is character sketch — an extended, delightful glimpse into the mind and heart of its heroine.

I hadn’t read the book in years, and it was a delight to revisit Anne’s world this year (reading it aloud with my roommates) and be reminded (through Montgomery’s charming prose) just how full of color and life and wonder the world can be. Like A. A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh, there is much more wisdom here, much more depth, than one is, perhaps, expecting.

Identity: A Poem

Who am I?
Well, Lord, I’m a lover
of roses,
of the color purple
of wildflowers,
wild grasses,
open vistas,
rugged views.

I am, as you made me,
a climber,
a runner,
a dancer —
a girl with big toes
and flat feet.

And I’ve wandered
in countries
old and new —
a pilgrim
on oft trodden roads
and abandoned desert tracks;
a wanderer
in wilderness —
but you have an affinity
for those.

I am a scholar
when it suits me,
a daydreamer,
a passion-seeker.
I am no one
special, and yet —
and yet —

I am your beloved,
handiwork
of a master craftsman.
I was made of stardust
intermingled
with the breath
of God.

I am the product
of generations —
men and women who lived
their lives as faithfully
as they knew how
and gave their breath
back, in the end,
to the mystery
that held them.
My eyes, my laugh,
my too-large toes,
an inheritance
from forefathers,
foremothers,
I will never know.
They come to me
as gifts in an unbroken
chain of being.

I am your answer
to the void —
the echo of an eternal
Yes spoken
to the waters
at the dawn of time.
I am a created thing
and I am very, very
good.

---

Written during my last silent retreat, at Sacred Heart Jesuit Retreat House, this past August.

Homecoming

Jesus replied, “Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” (Luke 9:58)

Foxes have holes and birds
have nests, but you — Son of Man,
creator of galaxies — you
spent your nights on hilltops
and in gardens, beneath
strangers’ roofs, in unfamiliar
beds. You, who once made
a world from atoms, and handed
it over before the paint was dry —
said, all this, and more, is yours —
you never had a wife,
a child, a picket fence to call
your own

(even your grave was borrowed
property, a temporary loan).

Now you come, asking me
to make a pillow of my heart —
asking me to give you
rest, you who dwelled
in tents since the earliest
days — who wandered
with Cain in the wilderness,
who tabernacled in the desert —
who ate meals with Abraham
and brought water
to Hagar

(what is it with you
and thirsty women?) —

you have been a nomad
far longer than I,
yet here, you declare,
as you come through the door,
here at last is your temple —

here, with the bowls
in the sink, and the clothes
on the floor, here
the king of heaven
will choose to reside,

plant seeds, grow a garden,
exile no more.

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Partially written during my last silent retreat, at Sacred Heart Jesuit Retreat House, this past August. Adapted and reworked.

The Hide

If I were in Kenya,
this hide would be for watching
animals graze, approach the water,
drink — one would feel small in their presence
and amazed.

That was the kind of hide
I fought in with my brother —
ignoring the graceful movement
of gazelle, the slopping necks
of impossible giraffe. I heard
no birdsong that afternoon, my face
flushed in anger (at what exactly,
who remembers?). There were miracles
happening all around me, and I
as blind as any pharisee.

There are no wonders here
except the mountains — the
midday sun too hot for deer
(though they will come when
the dusk turns the world to purple-
twilight), the birdsong
soft and intermittent, drowned
out by flies and bees — yet
here, too, the wind is in the
branches, the spirit hovers over
the deep, and God cries
in that still, small
voice, Are you listening?

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Written during my last silent retreat, at Sacred Heart Jesuit Retreat House, this past August.

The Idea of God | QOTD

“Those who believe they believe in God, but without passion in their hearts,
without anguish of mind, without uncertainty, without doubt, and even at times without despair, believe only in the idea of God, not in God Himself.” –Miguel de Unamuno (1864–1936)

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As part of my freelancing, I write back-cover descriptions for Langham Publishing (an awesome organization dedicated to championing Majority World theologians), and while I was glancing through a text to get a sense of its content, I ran across the above quote from Unamuno’s essay “The Tragic Sense of Life” (1912). It gave me goosebumps.

The Water Lily

The water lily proves nothing —
has nothing to prove.

It floats, it rests, it drinks deep,
it grows, and beauty spills out in every petal.

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I wrote this poem during my last silent retreat, at Sacred Heart Jesuit Retreat House, this past August. But it seems particularly appropriate for meeting the newest member of my family, my new niece, who is two months old today.

Evening

Dusk, and nature has reclaimed
her canvas.

The sun sinks below the purple
mountains (velvet gossamer in twilight)
and the deer emerge, spotted and wary, ears
large and cautious, to frolic on the watered grass.

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Written during my last silent retreat, at Sacred Heart Jesuit Retreat House, this past August.