release
a lesson
not learned
experienced
touched
let go
exhale
breathe
groan
murmur
tighten
pressure
pain
still
scream
articulate
speak
listen
watch
receive
consider
and move
and move
and move
and move
and move and
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Center of the World
no more time for wasted time,
wasting away
with loved ones close by
forgotten friends nearer still
worried about impressions
as if I was the center of the world
wasting away
with loved ones close by
forgotten friends nearer still
worried about impressions
as if I was the center of the world
Language
“We, today, have a language to celebrate waywardness, but we do not have a cultural language to bring people back home.”
– Makoto Fujimura
– Makoto Fujimura
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Theanthropos
(Some context: this a short reflection on five commentary articles from "The Global Bible Commentary," edited by Daniel Patte, concerning the question, "Who is Jesus Christ?" from the perspectives of five scholars from Africa, Latin America, Asia, the Eastern Orthodox tradition, and the Western tradition.)
I never would have said this... say... 5 years ago...
After reading the five commentaries, I found myself most uncomfortable with the Orthodox contribution from Fr. Mihoc.
Why?
To be honest, it is because I am going through a phase in my faith journey where I have deep, difficult, and stormy questions about the very nature of Christ Fr. Mihoc so passionately defends. On top of that, he defends it with the cornerstone of tradition and historical narrative that I am beginning to doubt. Can Jesus be fully man and fully God? How? The Gospels only say so much (as I'm sure we will study in depth). How much can I trust the Councils, the Creeds?
Can I be a Christian and question the orthodoxy of Jesus Christ's "Theanthropos?"
Fr. Mihoc passionately says that I cannot. Specifically, "We know who we really are as Christians by correctly formulating who Jesus Christ is... Erroneous Christological formulations are directly related to concrete, existential distortions of Christians' self understanding and way of life."
And if he is right,
I am not in a safe place right now.
"...believing in the person of Jesus Christ also means living an intimate life of communion with him," Fr. Mihoc reminds me. And so even in my doubts, I still have a faith in my relationship with Christ, however he might be composed. It is the deep communion that manages to keep me more than afloat. It keeps me moving forward.
And that is why I resonate deeply with the Latin American and Asian commentaries offered by Dr. Richard and Dr. Abesamis. They speak of Jesus intimately, even in their doubts of what the West may have recast him to be. Even in sketchy "Historical Jesus" endeavors, there is an acknowledgement of the power of Christ for the lives lived today in the majority world which cannot find faith in creeds, but only in the true Church, a body of people incarnating the principles Christ left on his disciples.
"In Latin America, the quest for the historical Jesus is less Jesus-centered, because it is envisioned in the borad context of the Jesus Movement and from the perspective of a concern for the origins of Christianity as a global reality," Richard shares.
And I heartily agree, for that is where I am today.
As for the "Western" perspective offered by Dr. Duran that so many here have taken issue with. I found her writing creative and somewhat refreshing, but over all very, very, very dark. This was certainly the most "emotionally" challenging piece to read, if only because it paints a picture of Jesus, not as savior, but as a sort of ex-boyfriend who was abused and used. She writes of the messy relationship the West has had with its "Savior," literarily twisting the spear with her "what if," questions, waiting to see if there is water and blood. Indeed, Jesus and the West have many issues to work out, but she hammers on the point of that nail in a rather masochistic manner... as if crucifying the West will somehow bring redemption back to Jesus' name.
I never would have said this... say... 5 years ago...
After reading the five commentaries, I found myself most uncomfortable with the Orthodox contribution from Fr. Mihoc.
Why?
To be honest, it is because I am going through a phase in my faith journey where I have deep, difficult, and stormy questions about the very nature of Christ Fr. Mihoc so passionately defends. On top of that, he defends it with the cornerstone of tradition and historical narrative that I am beginning to doubt. Can Jesus be fully man and fully God? How? The Gospels only say so much (as I'm sure we will study in depth). How much can I trust the Councils, the Creeds?
Can I be a Christian and question the orthodoxy of Jesus Christ's "Theanthropos?"
Fr. Mihoc passionately says that I cannot. Specifically, "We know who we really are as Christians by correctly formulating who Jesus Christ is... Erroneous Christological formulations are directly related to concrete, existential distortions of Christians' self understanding and way of life."
And if he is right,
I am not in a safe place right now.
"...believing in the person of Jesus Christ also means living an intimate life of communion with him," Fr. Mihoc reminds me. And so even in my doubts, I still have a faith in my relationship with Christ, however he might be composed. It is the deep communion that manages to keep me more than afloat. It keeps me moving forward.
And that is why I resonate deeply with the Latin American and Asian commentaries offered by Dr. Richard and Dr. Abesamis. They speak of Jesus intimately, even in their doubts of what the West may have recast him to be. Even in sketchy "Historical Jesus" endeavors, there is an acknowledgement of the power of Christ for the lives lived today in the majority world which cannot find faith in creeds, but only in the true Church, a body of people incarnating the principles Christ left on his disciples.
"In Latin America, the quest for the historical Jesus is less Jesus-centered, because it is envisioned in the borad context of the Jesus Movement and from the perspective of a concern for the origins of Christianity as a global reality," Richard shares.
And I heartily agree, for that is where I am today.
As for the "Western" perspective offered by Dr. Duran that so many here have taken issue with. I found her writing creative and somewhat refreshing, but over all very, very, very dark. This was certainly the most "emotionally" challenging piece to read, if only because it paints a picture of Jesus, not as savior, but as a sort of ex-boyfriend who was abused and used. She writes of the messy relationship the West has had with its "Savior," literarily twisting the spear with her "what if," questions, waiting to see if there is water and blood. Indeed, Jesus and the West have many issues to work out, but she hammers on the point of that nail in a rather masochistic manner... as if crucifying the West will somehow bring redemption back to Jesus' name.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
How did I forget how to pray?
How did I forget how to pray?
There was a time when such words flowed honestly and easily from my lips the way a baby so naturally might suckle their mother's breast. Just as young buds bloom toward the sun, so did my youthful soul blossom to the light above me.
Breathing in, deep groans in my gut would swirl with the fresh air from my lungs. My heart would empty its deepest concerns and joys into this steady river of questions and wonder. The Spirit of God hovered within me, forming words from dirt, blood, tears, laughter, more dirt, more worry, more joy. They culminated at the tips of my lips, jumping off to catch the holy winds that carried them to heaven.
It had all come so naturally.
Where the words went for sure, I did not know, but I knew they were heard. I never doubted these soulful pieces of my being could touch the ears of God.
Occasionally, the Lord was even gracious enough to audibly whisper in my own ear.
I was so assured, secure, and engaged.
Jesus Christ,
He is still so good to me.
I know He loves me so.
But I no longer am so clear
of "who" He is.. .
He is love, the way, the truth, the light. So much light, it blinds us. He is real, can be felt but not touched. He is present, hiding between atoms, electrons, and quarks. He is always. Look carefully. He is... she... it... is somehow near, above me, below me. Woven through the fabric of reality. Ordered by the words He laid upon the mind of His servants. So many servants, with endless imaginations. Limited by no one and everyone. Sought after, found, lost, like a small fish forever slipping through my fingers.
.. ?
The levees have broken, the rivers have flooded, and the possibilities of God are so much greater than I had ever imagined them to be.
I am drowning.
The holy winds no longer blow with the same direction and purpose they once did. Instead, they rage over the waters, fiercely carrying my broken thoughts and unsaid emotion to what appears to be no particular destination. Like ocean waves crashing against jagged rocks, sending up splashes and foam, so do my thoughts, emotions, and wonder scatter when thrust upon the walls of heaven.
Though I cannot control or comprehend,
I still feel.. .
heard
.. .
carrying me,
somewhere.
I shall never know the whole truth. I shall never find every word for every piece of this mighty mystery. Some things will be forever left unsaid.
I have been humbled
I am uncertain
I am ready to receive again
If only I could pray again...
There was a time when such words flowed honestly and easily from my lips the way a baby so naturally might suckle their mother's breast. Just as young buds bloom toward the sun, so did my youthful soul blossom to the light above me.
Breathing in, deep groans in my gut would swirl with the fresh air from my lungs. My heart would empty its deepest concerns and joys into this steady river of questions and wonder. The Spirit of God hovered within me, forming words from dirt, blood, tears, laughter, more dirt, more worry, more joy. They culminated at the tips of my lips, jumping off to catch the holy winds that carried them to heaven.
It had all come so naturally.
Where the words went for sure, I did not know, but I knew they were heard. I never doubted these soulful pieces of my being could touch the ears of God.
Occasionally, the Lord was even gracious enough to audibly whisper in my own ear.
I was so assured, secure, and engaged.
Jesus Christ,
He is still so good to me.
I know He loves me so.
But I no longer am so clear
of "who" He is.. .
He is love, the way, the truth, the light. So much light, it blinds us. He is real, can be felt but not touched. He is present, hiding between atoms, electrons, and quarks. He is always. Look carefully. He is... she... it... is somehow near, above me, below me. Woven through the fabric of reality. Ordered by the words He laid upon the mind of His servants. So many servants, with endless imaginations. Limited by no one and everyone. Sought after, found, lost, like a small fish forever slipping through my fingers.
.. ?
The levees have broken, the rivers have flooded, and the possibilities of God are so much greater than I had ever imagined them to be.
I am drowning.
The holy winds no longer blow with the same direction and purpose they once did. Instead, they rage over the waters, fiercely carrying my broken thoughts and unsaid emotion to what appears to be no particular destination. Like ocean waves crashing against jagged rocks, sending up splashes and foam, so do my thoughts, emotions, and wonder scatter when thrust upon the walls of heaven.
Though I cannot control or comprehend,
I still feel.. .
heard
.. .
carrying me,
somewhere.
I shall never know the whole truth. I shall never find every word for every piece of this mighty mystery. Some things will be forever left unsaid.
I have been humbled
I am uncertain
I am ready to receive again
If only I could pray again...
Friday, August 20, 2010
Everyday.. .
Lord, grant that I may always allow myself to be guided by you, always follow your plans, and perfectly accomplish your holy will. Grant that in all things, great and small, today and all the days of my life, I may do whatever you require of me. Help me respond to the slightest prompting of your grace, so that I may be your trustworthy instrument for your honor. May your will be done in time and in eternity by me, in me, and through me. Amen.
A prayer of St. Teresa de Avila (1515-1582)
A prayer of St. Teresa de Avila (1515-1582)
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Summer Moving
Boxes and bags scattered about a few tiny rooms.. .
A brilliant wife dwells upon the communities about her,
considering how far hands will reach to take hold of the other,
to protect, care, and love the lepers of our time,
with fuzzy memories of southern clouds,
and a list of quick, vague, and shaky numbers.
Set about farm animals, clicking wheels, and a frogadile,
a young son learns to sit, screaming to fight off the sleep,
bathed in his own saliva, he giggles and stares,
his eyes dart left and right, his ears tuned to new melodies and beats,
so excited he forgets to eat.
Invisible lead holds hostage a new home
with endless potentials scattered about the old factory workers,
the new wanderers, hopeful refugees, young families.
Arts at the theatre, walks in the park, and rumors of zumba
in the dusty band room of the age old school
Learning to be a neighbor, dreaming of community,
and grasping for old friends at the edge of emerging visions,
while trying to dance upon hot, cracked, uneven sidewalks.
Locking our doors while extending our hands,
imagining what it would mean if everyone mattered.
Waking before the sun to ride rickety tracks of hellish repute,
to the center of the powers, a brightly lit ivory tower
with young princes and princesses vying to be absorbed into networks of influence
with me as their uncertain, wide-eyed, guide,
different than the village classrooms full of the humbled sons and daughters of the fields.
The clocks frantically swing their arms side to side,
new paint is splashed upon old canvasses full of fuzzy sketches,
the times run amuck, the colors vibrantly uncertain,
and nothings as it seemed before.
New home, new work, new studies, a new year.. .
fearfully and wonderfully set before us.
A brilliant wife dwells upon the communities about her,
considering how far hands will reach to take hold of the other,
to protect, care, and love the lepers of our time,
with fuzzy memories of southern clouds,
and a list of quick, vague, and shaky numbers.
Set about farm animals, clicking wheels, and a frogadile,
a young son learns to sit, screaming to fight off the sleep,
bathed in his own saliva, he giggles and stares,
his eyes dart left and right, his ears tuned to new melodies and beats,
so excited he forgets to eat.
Invisible lead holds hostage a new home
with endless potentials scattered about the old factory workers,
the new wanderers, hopeful refugees, young families.
Arts at the theatre, walks in the park, and rumors of zumba
in the dusty band room of the age old school
Learning to be a neighbor, dreaming of community,
and grasping for old friends at the edge of emerging visions,
while trying to dance upon hot, cracked, uneven sidewalks.
Locking our doors while extending our hands,
imagining what it would mean if everyone mattered.
Waking before the sun to ride rickety tracks of hellish repute,
to the center of the powers, a brightly lit ivory tower
with young princes and princesses vying to be absorbed into networks of influence
with me as their uncertain, wide-eyed, guide,
different than the village classrooms full of the humbled sons and daughters of the fields.
The clocks frantically swing their arms side to side,
new paint is splashed upon old canvasses full of fuzzy sketches,
the times run amuck, the colors vibrantly uncertain,
and nothings as it seemed before.
New home, new work, new studies, a new year.. .
fearfully and wonderfully set before us.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Friends
"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
- Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry in The Diary of Anaïs Nin
- Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry in The Diary of Anaïs Nin
The Peacemaker's Apology
Peacemakers
are not peacemakers
when their desire for peace
overwhelms the harsh reality of hurt
deeply inflicted over years
one layer upon the other
I'm sorry
for words spoken
in search of harmony
when dissonance is real
adding notes will not remove
the chaos will only become deeper, wider, and
while trying to build a common ground
I heap extra dirt and debris over bleeding cuts
covered up does not mean faster relief
i'm just hiding
myself from you
closing my ears from the grinding sounds
of frustration
stuck between the gears of our love and friendship
are not peacemakers
when their desire for peace
overwhelms the harsh reality of hurt
deeply inflicted over years
one layer upon the other
I'm sorry
for words spoken
in search of harmony
when dissonance is real
adding notes will not remove
the chaos will only become deeper, wider, and
while trying to build a common ground
I heap extra dirt and debris over bleeding cuts
covered up does not mean faster relief
i'm just hiding
myself from you
closing my ears from the grinding sounds
of frustration
stuck between the gears of our love and friendship
Friday, May 28, 2010
And When You Leave, Take Your Pictures With You
By Jo Corillo
Our white sisters
radical friends
love to own pictures of us
sitting at a factory machine
wielding a machete
in our bright bandanas
holding brown yellow black red children
reading books from literacy campaigns
holding machine guns bayonets bombs knives
Our White sisters
radical friends
should think
again.
Our white sisters
radical friends
love to own pictures of us
walking to the fields in hot sun
with straw hat on head if brown
bandana if black
in bright embroidered shirts
holding brown yellow black red children
reading books from literacy campaigns
smiling.
Our white sisters radical friends
should think again.
No one smiles
at the beginning of a day spent
digging for souvenir chunks of uranium
or cleaning up after
our white sisters
radical friends
And when our white sisters
radical friends see us
in the flesh
not as a picture they own,
they are not quite sure
if
they like us much.
We're not as happy as we look
on
their
wall
Our white sisters
radical friends
love to own pictures of us
sitting at a factory machine
wielding a machete
in our bright bandanas
holding brown yellow black red children
reading books from literacy campaigns
holding machine guns bayonets bombs knives
Our White sisters
radical friends
should think
again.
Our white sisters
radical friends
love to own pictures of us
walking to the fields in hot sun
with straw hat on head if brown
bandana if black
in bright embroidered shirts
holding brown yellow black red children
reading books from literacy campaigns
smiling.
Our white sisters radical friends
should think again.
No one smiles
at the beginning of a day spent
digging for souvenir chunks of uranium
or cleaning up after
our white sisters
radical friends
And when our white sisters
radical friends see us
in the flesh
not as a picture they own,
they are not quite sure
if
they like us much.
We're not as happy as we look
on
their
wall
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Buying a New Dryer
I relish sharing time spent with her.
I'll take whatever chances I can get.
The eggs taste a bit like soft, salty rubber
But the pancakes are filled with cheesecake crust
and smothered in bright red syrupy strawberries
These portions are too large
and she doesn't eat leftovers
but, luckily, I live off of them
"You should start charging for your services,
All you need is a business card."
I show her mine, telling her she can keep it.
She hands it back.
"Meet anyone interesting lately?"
Somebody from Finland they share no mutual friends with.
I ask the questions,
she answers them,
as we pace through the rows of giant home appliances.
Who knew how far technology had come?
These dryers with moisture sensors that automatically turn off when the clothes are dry
All kinds of speeds with all kinds of temperatures for all kinds of fabrics
All on one large, shiny knob
After two hours, the old dryer still left the clothes damp and moist
We had put up with it for years.
What took so long?
How far have we come?
Since those quiet afternoons following the busy days of school,
when I played my video games while she collected her stickers and crafts.
This is a rare moment
to spend a little more time together
over this holiday errand,
purchasing a new dryer for the home we are leaving behind,
this home that raised us.
I'll take whatever chances I can get.
The eggs taste a bit like soft, salty rubber
But the pancakes are filled with cheesecake crust
and smothered in bright red syrupy strawberries
These portions are too large
and she doesn't eat leftovers
but, luckily, I live off of them
"You should start charging for your services,
All you need is a business card."
I show her mine, telling her she can keep it.
She hands it back.
"Meet anyone interesting lately?"
Somebody from Finland they share no mutual friends with.
I ask the questions,
she answers them,
as we pace through the rows of giant home appliances.
Who knew how far technology had come?
These dryers with moisture sensors that automatically turn off when the clothes are dry
All kinds of speeds with all kinds of temperatures for all kinds of fabrics
All on one large, shiny knob
After two hours, the old dryer still left the clothes damp and moist
We had put up with it for years.
What took so long?
How far have we come?
Since those quiet afternoons following the busy days of school,
when I played my video games while she collected her stickers and crafts.
This is a rare moment
to spend a little more time together
over this holiday errand,
purchasing a new dryer for the home we are leaving behind,
this home that raised us.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Wild Honey Smells of Freedom
"Wild honey smells of freedom
The dust — of sunlight
The mouth of a young girl,
like a violet
But gold — smells of nothing."
- Anna Akhmatova
Russian poet, from her poem "Wild Honey Smells of Freedom"
The dust — of sunlight
The mouth of a young girl,
like a violet
But gold — smells of nothing."
- Anna Akhmatova
Russian poet, from her poem "Wild Honey Smells of Freedom"
Do it anyway.. .
People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered. Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies. Succeed anyway.
If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you. Be honest and sincere anyway.
What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight. Create anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous. Be happy anyway.
The good you do today, will often be forgotten. Do good anyway.
Give the best you have, and it will never be enough. Give your best anyway.
In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.
-credited to Mother Teresa
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies. Succeed anyway.
If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you. Be honest and sincere anyway.
What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight. Create anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous. Be happy anyway.
The good you do today, will often be forgotten. Do good anyway.
Give the best you have, and it will never be enough. Give your best anyway.
In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.
-credited to Mother Teresa
Monday, April 5, 2010
Call to Engagement
"The convergence of movements in the information age is driven most powerfully by the nature of the problems themselves. When you look deeply and honestly at a real problem today, you see that i is part of a web work of unsolved problems reaching far and wide into a massive system... At this point in history, that system is the whole planet."
-Paul Ray and Sherry Ruth Anderson, The Cultural Creatives
-Paul Ray and Sherry Ruth Anderson, The Cultural Creatives
Thursday, March 4, 2010
New Life
new life
is rare, but blossoms everyday
I often ignore it, like the old lover dancing slowly in the dimly lit corners of the ballroom
pretending she does not notice me noticing her
evil, pain, and worry cannot be ignored
without the heart's slow and torturous atrophy
one can try, but it will find its way to burrow under our skin
like a leech drawn to the pulsing of our blood
but life can be ignored everyday
without a second thought
we are buried in routines, rush hour, paperwork, lectures, networking, dreams and ideals
we run circles in our brains, drill holes into our hearts
all in the name of progress and sufficiency.
Yet new life makes no epic demands for attention.
It is not in the earthquakes, tsunamis, the fires or the winds.
there is no breaking news or grand headline to announce its arrival or sustain our attention.
like the sparrows that dance around our feet on a sunny day,
like dandelion seeds floating high above the city towers,
like the first dance of a newly wed couple holding their breath in anticipation,
new life goes forth each day.
.. .
he cannot be ignored.
I notice every detail.
he swings his head, puckers his lips, rolls his eyes blindly.
he is everything I had never thought of.
small enough to hold with one arm,
yet heavy enough to demolish entire lives.
he suckles on his mother's breast in quiet peace,
he rests wrapped in animals and flora,
he discards what he does not need with tiny grunts,
he fears cold, nakedness, loneliness, and gasps in high pitched shrills,
he makes me want to sing, joyful nonsense pouring from my lips day and night.
the thousands of doubts and fears that stormed like a blizzard
burying my streets and windows under masses of frozen fear
melt, and I feel something soft, something warm.
it dyes the light like stained glass, adjusting the eyes to a new visual rhythm.
a faint and sleepy shimmer appears on the old, the unsaid, the forgotten.
it beckons me to polish and rediscover the beauty beneath the dust and ashes.
"what is this new place I am in?" he asks by way of a long and vocal sigh,
as he rests in my arms, cooing like a young dove.
a new spirit rests upon me.
here is my son, in whom I delight.
I try and decipher the grammar of creation once more.
I consider making things new again.
is rare, but blossoms everyday
I often ignore it, like the old lover dancing slowly in the dimly lit corners of the ballroom
pretending she does not notice me noticing her
evil, pain, and worry cannot be ignored
without the heart's slow and torturous atrophy
one can try, but it will find its way to burrow under our skin
like a leech drawn to the pulsing of our blood
but life can be ignored everyday
without a second thought
we are buried in routines, rush hour, paperwork, lectures, networking, dreams and ideals
we run circles in our brains, drill holes into our hearts
all in the name of progress and sufficiency.
Yet new life makes no epic demands for attention.
It is not in the earthquakes, tsunamis, the fires or the winds.
there is no breaking news or grand headline to announce its arrival or sustain our attention.
like the sparrows that dance around our feet on a sunny day,
like dandelion seeds floating high above the city towers,
like the first dance of a newly wed couple holding their breath in anticipation,
new life goes forth each day.
.. .
he cannot be ignored.
I notice every detail.
he swings his head, puckers his lips, rolls his eyes blindly.
he is everything I had never thought of.
small enough to hold with one arm,
yet heavy enough to demolish entire lives.
he suckles on his mother's breast in quiet peace,
he rests wrapped in animals and flora,
he discards what he does not need with tiny grunts,
he fears cold, nakedness, loneliness, and gasps in high pitched shrills,
he makes me want to sing, joyful nonsense pouring from my lips day and night.
the thousands of doubts and fears that stormed like a blizzard
burying my streets and windows under masses of frozen fear
melt, and I feel something soft, something warm.
it dyes the light like stained glass, adjusting the eyes to a new visual rhythm.
a faint and sleepy shimmer appears on the old, the unsaid, the forgotten.
it beckons me to polish and rediscover the beauty beneath the dust and ashes.
"what is this new place I am in?" he asks by way of a long and vocal sigh,
as he rests in my arms, cooing like a young dove.
a new spirit rests upon me.
here is my son, in whom I delight.
I try and decipher the grammar of creation once more.
I consider making things new again.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Awful Rowing Toward God (by Anne Sexton)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world...
but I grew, I grew,
and Go was there like an island I had not rowed to...
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyeball
but I am rowing, I am rowing
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat inside me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
into this world...
but I grew, I grew,
and Go was there like an island I had not rowed to...
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyeball
but I am rowing, I am rowing
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat inside me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Thesus' Poetic Perspective
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The form of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them into shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name
-William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The form of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them into shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name
-William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Nothingness
"The temptation of Nothingness is enormous and omnipresent, and it has more and more to rest its case on, more to appeal to. Against it, man stands alone, weak and poorly armed, his position worse than ever before in history... The tragedy of modern man is not that he knows less and less about the meaning of his own life, but that it bothers him less and less..."
-Vaclav Havel
-Vaclav Havel
Saturday, February 6, 2010
My first prayer for him
Little baby boy,
be at rest, peace, and comfort.
rest your body against mine, feel the safety of home.
breath deep and make a joyful noise, loud enough to shake the city's streets
Dearest child,
play with curiosity and wonder
let beauty of mountains and towers spark the riches of your imagination
discover the rights and wrongs that make our world shimmer in light and shudder at night.
Young man,
work with purpose, hope, and love
consider the pain and questions of your time,
imagine the best image of yourself, in the fuzzy reflections of God upon the waters
My son,
you will be our most precious work of beauty and art
you will be our resistance against chaos and death
you will be our blessing of life for generations, a renewing flame to melt away the ice
be at rest, peace, and comfort.
rest your body against mine, feel the safety of home.
breath deep and make a joyful noise, loud enough to shake the city's streets
Dearest child,
play with curiosity and wonder
let beauty of mountains and towers spark the riches of your imagination
discover the rights and wrongs that make our world shimmer in light and shudder at night.
Young man,
work with purpose, hope, and love
consider the pain and questions of your time,
imagine the best image of yourself, in the fuzzy reflections of God upon the waters
My son,
you will be our most precious work of beauty and art
you will be our resistance against chaos and death
you will be our blessing of life for generations, a renewing flame to melt away the ice
Thursday, February 4, 2010
My Resistance...
"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given..." - Isaiah 9:6a
My wife and I are expecting our firstborn child, a son, in early March. We just bought ourselves a crib and stroller earlier today. As the house fills up with baby things, new feelings fear and excitement abounds.
This week's study of Isaiah has put a new praise in my heart. If, in fact, Isaiah literally beheld a young pregnant woman as a sign to the King that "God is with us," then it was the everyday being revealed as holy and full of hope, even in the darkest times. It would seem the king refused to take in the beauty of the sign. After all, are not women bearing children all the time? (Perhaps only a virgin birth is worth the praise of the world, a supernatural miracle).
No... every child is a miracle.
In another class, there was a discussion about whether it was worth having children in such an age of pain, chaos, and war. In the end, another classmate declared that, by having children, we declare hope for the future. We believe that our child will be part of a world worth living in.
Why have children?
To birth, raise, and send off a child into this world is humanity and nature's greatest shared form of resistance against the ever growing chaos of our expanding civilization. Children, cared for and empowered, are the loudest statement of faith and hope that can possibly be expressed by love incarnate.
I understand, Isaiah, I understand perfectly well what you mean. You showed the King the greatest image of hope one could hope to have. God is with us so long as we continue our hope in life.
In a month, I will have a son, and he shall be my resistance against the chaos.
A few verses later, the new crown prince of Judah is blessed with a hymn of thanksgiving, one meant for a king. Exactly how much time took place between the sign and this hymn, I wonder. In any case, the child prince was infused with the hope of the nation.
If only we would care for each of our children with the same hope and expectation. Perhaps they shall not be Jesus Christ, savior of all, but we are all called to be "little Christs" after all, reflecting his image.
From this day forward, the reading of Isaiah 9 shall not only be read a praise for Jesus, but a hopeful prayer for my son as well.
My wife and I are expecting our firstborn child, a son, in early March. We just bought ourselves a crib and stroller earlier today. As the house fills up with baby things, new feelings fear and excitement abounds.
This week's study of Isaiah has put a new praise in my heart. If, in fact, Isaiah literally beheld a young pregnant woman as a sign to the King that "God is with us," then it was the everyday being revealed as holy and full of hope, even in the darkest times. It would seem the king refused to take in the beauty of the sign. After all, are not women bearing children all the time? (Perhaps only a virgin birth is worth the praise of the world, a supernatural miracle).
No... every child is a miracle.
In another class, there was a discussion about whether it was worth having children in such an age of pain, chaos, and war. In the end, another classmate declared that, by having children, we declare hope for the future. We believe that our child will be part of a world worth living in.
Why have children?
To birth, raise, and send off a child into this world is humanity and nature's greatest shared form of resistance against the ever growing chaos of our expanding civilization. Children, cared for and empowered, are the loudest statement of faith and hope that can possibly be expressed by love incarnate.
I understand, Isaiah, I understand perfectly well what you mean. You showed the King the greatest image of hope one could hope to have. God is with us so long as we continue our hope in life.
In a month, I will have a son, and he shall be my resistance against the chaos.
A few verses later, the new crown prince of Judah is blessed with a hymn of thanksgiving, one meant for a king. Exactly how much time took place between the sign and this hymn, I wonder. In any case, the child prince was infused with the hope of the nation.
If only we would care for each of our children with the same hope and expectation. Perhaps they shall not be Jesus Christ, savior of all, but we are all called to be "little Christs" after all, reflecting his image.
From this day forward, the reading of Isaiah 9 shall not only be read a praise for Jesus, but a hopeful prayer for my son as well.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Hidden
"Jesus told the crowds all things in parables; without a parable he told them nothing. This was to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet: "I will open my mouth to speak in parables; I will proclaim what has been hidden from the foundation of the world."
- Matthew 13:34-35
people are not an inherently thoughtful creatures
The majority of us are no different than ants
no, we are worse than ants
ants know their role and purpose.
they collaborate and triumph
somehow, humanity can't even manage this
we are too busy striking fear into one each others' hearts
in hopes that our domination will provide security
we have no time for parables
we shall hear without ever listening
just bells and whistles
we shall see without ever understanding
just colors and shapes
Lord
you've wasted your time with your stories
you've doomed us with your hidden truths
they shall be ignored for the eternal circus of amusement
they shall be deconstructed with no moments for pondering
we shall be trapped by our mass momentum,
isolated in our insecure souls
and buried by the rubble we have heaped upon one another
- Matthew 13:34-35
people are not an inherently thoughtful creatures
The majority of us are no different than ants
no, we are worse than ants
ants know their role and purpose.
they collaborate and triumph
somehow, humanity can't even manage this
we are too busy striking fear into one each others' hearts
in hopes that our domination will provide security
we have no time for parables
we shall hear without ever listening
just bells and whistles
we shall see without ever understanding
just colors and shapes
Lord
you've wasted your time with your stories
you've doomed us with your hidden truths
they shall be ignored for the eternal circus of amusement
they shall be deconstructed with no moments for pondering
we shall be trapped by our mass momentum,
isolated in our insecure souls
and buried by the rubble we have heaped upon one another
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
婆婆，家在那裡？
4.1.09 (when grandma almost left)
1.14.10 (while grandma is still here)
"Grandma, where is home?" （婆婆，家在那裡？）
i’ve been so many places
been moved so many times
it doesn’t really matter anymore
what matters
is who I have been
to whom have I given
and how I have served
I haven't any jewels or diamonds
what I have to show, is you.
God took my father away
so I was raised a daughter of God
I’ve drank the waters of the long river
rested in it’s peace, fought against it’s rage
as the waves swallowed my earliest love
as Gospel formed my heart
as fortune tellers whispered my future
as children giggled and recited my verses
I gathered each day simply as it was
i’ve marched west in single file
young boys carried my few belongings
climbed mountains along the basin’s edge
the beginnings of my refuge sojourn
as bombs went off in the distance
as daughters and sisters were lost along the trail
while uncertainties crept along each border and turn
strong melodies of opera filled my weariness
bringing mercy, anger, and strength
i’ve wandered the deserts of ancient cities
swam the great oceans along islands of green
until fortune called me across a narrow strait
to a treasure island of heroes and fiends
another new beginning set in calmer times
with each step, the melodies grew stronger, sweeter
I learned to dance with the rhythm, step with the beats
learned to love and to honor, to nurture and raise
under the shade of peach blossoms and papaya trees
a newly woven set of clothes each year
for newly beloved to keep warm and grow strong
to drown out the rumors of terror and security
to make a safe place amongst the tragedies
I tap the keys of a hundred pianos
a thousand hymns with memories hung on every note
praises for the safe journey thus far
prayers for the long road still ahead
hopes for a greater peace over our harbor-factory town
I’ve watched my children dream their dreams
survive nightmares of broken hearts and promises
chase after riches, chase after God
settle oceans away, in beautiful new lands
each home becomes more foreign than the last
I grew numb, deaf, and mute
but there was always new life set before me
a chance to pour a worn life into a fresh one
blessed opportunities to sow new soil, bear new fruit
I've carried you in my arms
the safest place you had ever known
where tears would cease, wonder re-lit in your eyes
Though I carry no deep wisdom, I seek to simply bless with life
I feed you the heads of lions for strength and the choicest pearls for beauty
I ignore the world's routine chaos, anchor my soul in the ones i love
In those fragile and needy, strong and faithful, distant and young
You are all my children, and I am a child of God
and so are you.
I let go, I'm ready to make my final trip
past the pains and failures of my body and mind
when I go, there will be peace in my heart
with joys of father, mother, sisters that history stole from me
again i shall hear beautiful opera with the faint smell of tobacco
and so I ask only peace, peace, peace
upon the ones I have poured myself out on
Though I can no longer remember these days or months
I shall always remember you
I’ve been so many places
been moved so many times
it doesn’t really matter anymore
what matters
is who I have been
to whom have I given
and how I have served
I haven't any jewels or diamonds
what I have to show, is you.
1.14.10 (while grandma is still here)
"Grandma, where is home?" （婆婆，家在那裡？）
i’ve been so many places
been moved so many times
it doesn’t really matter anymore
what matters
is who I have been
to whom have I given
and how I have served
I haven't any jewels or diamonds
what I have to show, is you.
God took my father away
so I was raised a daughter of God
I’ve drank the waters of the long river
rested in it’s peace, fought against it’s rage
as the waves swallowed my earliest love
as Gospel formed my heart
as fortune tellers whispered my future
as children giggled and recited my verses
I gathered each day simply as it was
i’ve marched west in single file
young boys carried my few belongings
climbed mountains along the basin’s edge
the beginnings of my refuge sojourn
as bombs went off in the distance
as daughters and sisters were lost along the trail
while uncertainties crept along each border and turn
strong melodies of opera filled my weariness
bringing mercy, anger, and strength
i’ve wandered the deserts of ancient cities
swam the great oceans along islands of green
until fortune called me across a narrow strait
to a treasure island of heroes and fiends
another new beginning set in calmer times
with each step, the melodies grew stronger, sweeter
I learned to dance with the rhythm, step with the beats
learned to love and to honor, to nurture and raise
under the shade of peach blossoms and papaya trees
a newly woven set of clothes each year
for newly beloved to keep warm and grow strong
to drown out the rumors of terror and security
to make a safe place amongst the tragedies
I tap the keys of a hundred pianos
a thousand hymns with memories hung on every note
praises for the safe journey thus far
prayers for the long road still ahead
hopes for a greater peace over our harbor-factory town
I’ve watched my children dream their dreams
survive nightmares of broken hearts and promises
chase after riches, chase after God
settle oceans away, in beautiful new lands
each home becomes more foreign than the last
I grew numb, deaf, and mute
but there was always new life set before me
a chance to pour a worn life into a fresh one
blessed opportunities to sow new soil, bear new fruit
I've carried you in my arms
the safest place you had ever known
where tears would cease, wonder re-lit in your eyes
Though I carry no deep wisdom, I seek to simply bless with life
I feed you the heads of lions for strength and the choicest pearls for beauty
I ignore the world's routine chaos, anchor my soul in the ones i love
In those fragile and needy, strong and faithful, distant and young
You are all my children, and I am a child of God
and so are you.
I let go, I'm ready to make my final trip
past the pains and failures of my body and mind
when I go, there will be peace in my heart
with joys of father, mother, sisters that history stole from me
again i shall hear beautiful opera with the faint smell of tobacco
and so I ask only peace, peace, peace
upon the ones I have poured myself out on
Though I can no longer remember these days or months
I shall always remember you
I’ve been so many places
been moved so many times
it doesn’t really matter anymore
what matters
is who I have been
to whom have I given
and how I have served
I haven't any jewels or diamonds
what I have to show, is you.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Baltimore feels like...
row homes stacked
one atop another
boarded, renovated, boarded, new, almost
ghosts sit atop our stoops
spirits hover above our decks
thousands stomping about the town
each with a hundred stories to tell
each feeling unheard
because we think we've heard it all
these streets are haunted
by children gunned down on corners
by philanthropists wandering their mansions
by shipyard workers, forever hauling crates
by doctors experimenting with fortune
her past is mixed with her present
while her future tries to ignore her own doings
hidden behind the big hair no one wears
distracted by pretty things reflected off harbor waters
lights twinkle atop monuments and steeples
warm fires burn under highways and bridges
fragrant steam floats up from the wounded roads
blue lights swirl about the darkest cross streets
surrounded.. .
the neighborhoods wonder
what lies beyond their routines?
a thousand glasses clink in a hundred pubs
celebrating life
simply
one atop another
boarded, renovated, boarded, new, almost
ghosts sit atop our stoops
spirits hover above our decks
thousands stomping about the town
each with a hundred stories to tell
each feeling unheard
because we think we've heard it all
these streets are haunted
by children gunned down on corners
by philanthropists wandering their mansions
by shipyard workers, forever hauling crates
by doctors experimenting with fortune
her past is mixed with her present
while her future tries to ignore her own doings
hidden behind the big hair no one wears
distracted by pretty things reflected off harbor waters
lights twinkle atop monuments and steeples
warm fires burn under highways and bridges
fragrant steam floats up from the wounded roads
blue lights swirl about the darkest cross streets
surrounded.. .
the neighborhoods wonder
what lies beyond their routines?
a thousand glasses clink in a hundred pubs
celebrating life
simply
happy frogs
(Photo by James Snyder)
consider.. .
a little tree frog
stuck on holiday lights
warmed by their heat,
entranced by their colors,
when was the last time
i felt so comfortable
or alive?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)