In the worst and the best

After Luke 2:10-14 

In the worst of times,

as in the best of times,

we have hope, always

we have hope. We can

bring to mind the reason:

the love of God is steadfast;

the love of Gid never ceases.

The mercies of God persist;

his mercies never come to an end.

The love of God,

the mercies of God,

are new every morning,

no matter what we’ve done

the night before.

Our sinfulness is leas

than God’s faithfulness.

 

Photograph by Faris Mohammed via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Some Friday Readings

 

3 Things You Should Expect if God is Your Father – Michael Kelley at Forward Progress.

 

I Sought the Lord – Anthoy Esolen at Word & Song.

 

Afternoon – poem by Seth Lewis.

 

The Scandal of Empathy – Jen Oshman.

 

Morning Song – Brian Miller at Notes from an East Tennessee Farmer.

Managing expectations

After I Peter 4:12-19 

On the horizon

and in your face,

the trials will come,

so bear with grace.

 

The fires will test,

the trials will harm;

no need to fight,

no need to arm.

 

Reviled for his name,

suffering for belief,

the fire brings joy,

set aside your grief.

 

The judge is coming,

judgment draws near;

you’re godly, not godless,

with nothing to fear.

 

Photograph by Jan Tinneberg via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Some Friday Readings

Photo with Bald Heads – poem by Marjorie Maddox at Kingdom Poets (D.S. Martin). 

Why I Complain – Samuel D. James at Digital Liturgies.

The Indispensable Inefficiency of Prayer – Seth Lewis.

A Sonnet for George Herbert – Malcolm Guite.

10 Things (about grief) That Are Different Than What I Expected – Kirsten at Faithful Paradox.

Spires of City Churches – Spitalfields Life.

Finding Hope in a Cemetery

I walked into a John Constable landscape and found hope – in a cemetery.

 

A bit tired of seeing tourist sights on a recent vacation, my wife and I took a Saturday to explore Hampstead in north London. We’d been here in 2015 for a guided walk about the poet John Keats. Walk, perhaps, isn’t the right word. It was more of a brisk run up and down the hills of Hampstead.

 

One place I wanted to see during this visit was where our Keats Walk had started – St. John-at-Hampstead Church, also known as the “Keats Church,” even though it was the family of his love interest, Fannie Brawn, who were members. Keats himself never attended. The church does have, however, a bust of the poet. 

Unfortunately, the church was closed and locked for the day. A few people were walking by; a couple sat talking on a bench. Instead of leaving, we wandered around the churchyard and its cemetery. The original cemetery is adjacent to the church; a larger and newer extension is across the street.  

To continue reading, please see my post at Cultivating Oaks.

Poets and Poems: Jeremiah Webster and “After So Many Fires”

From the first poem in the collection After So Many Fires by Jeremiah Webster, you know you’ve entered a landscape different from so many contemporary collections. There is no irony, no cast of a jaundiced eye or air of boredom and disillusionment, no personal angst or confession.

Instead, in the poem “Credo,” we discover the immense discomfort of attempting to live a structured life in a world gone mad: “There is the torching: / novels, martyrs, torching / of twenty-one centuries as the world falls apart. / I study my books / as the world falls apart.”

To continue reading, please see my post today at Tweetspeak Poetry.

Time machine

It’s simple, really:

open the door of the booth,

sit, strap myself in,

set the dial to whatever

year I wish, and travel,

backward or forward,

or backward and forward,

a real Dr. Who,

or a Dr. Whatever.

I consider.

For now,
the only time machine

I have going backward

is memory;

the only time machine

I have going forward

is hope.

It’s likely, I think,

that my memory surpasses

reality, a rose-colored

filter simultaneously

enhancing and obscuring.

And do I replace hope

with reality or its shadow,

like Scrooge who saw

the reality and choose

hope.

I consider the door

once again, the temptation

of the tree, and before

I walk away I padlock it

with a lock I cannot open.

Memory and hope will suffice.

Tweetspeak Poetry has a poetry prompt this week about time machines. Consider your own personal Tardis – or note – and visit the site to see what others are thinking.

Photography by Rostislav Kralik via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Step inside, trembling

Step inside, trembling

not from cold although

it was cold. The church

is larger than it looks

from the outside, the altar

bathed in light at the far end

of the dark nave seems

too far to walk.

Sit, halfway down, pulling

the prayer rail down to kneel,

saw how to do it in a movie

once, Bells of St. Mary’s?

Did Sister Ingrid do that?

Kneel, clasp my hands

like I’d been taught to do,

couldn’t pray,

couldn’t hear for the silence.

Empty church, beautiful

in white and dark, stained

glass around and behind me.

Face forward as the wind

touches my face; close

my eyes against the wind,

not to see it, not ready

to see it, not yet, please,

not yet.

The silence roars, flames

throw themselves, silhouetting

shadows on the wall, flames

bright orange-red, wind stops

as quickly as it started, begin

to pray again, or try, eyes

closed, hands clasped, listen

for an answer, hear the sound

of candles burning instead

of tongues.

Do I love

do I hope, I don’t know,

I love

I hope but

I cannot do both

at the same time

Photograph by Maliz Ong via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.