Benedictions To Go: Inspirations and Poems

In yesterday's post, I wrote:  "Some weeks, I have a vision of a church with a drive-through window, where I could get an emergency Eucharist, some strength for the journey, and maybe a blessing."

I didn't dream up that vision yesterday.  No, it stems from a time when I was helping my former student who had become a friend.  Her mother's cancer had moved to her brain, and she found herself her mother's caretaker.  My friend was in her mid-20's, and she'd already lost her father--and then, bam, her mother's cancer reappears.

That summer, I drove them to some of their appointments, the ones that required driving through Miami morning rush hour.  I stayed and then we drove back through the afternoon rush hour.  I watched my young friend trying to navigate her way through the medical mazes.  My heart broke so many times.

I remember one time looking at a wall and realizing that I was looking at a crucifix.  As they day progressed, I realized that every room had one, which made sense, once I figured out that we were at a Catholic hospital and medical complex.  At first, I recoiled.  As the day progressed, I found the constant crucifixes to be a comfort.  The crucifix, with its constant reminder of Christ's agony, reassured me of the promise of Easter:  death seems to win, but Christ's resurrection assures us that death doesn't have the final answer.

I wrote several poems out of that experience.  Here's one that appeared in Referential: 


Benediction



After a long day at the hospital--
tests performed on her mother, tests that leave
her mother radioactive--the woman heads
towards school and spends
her evening with her English impaired
students. She struggles
to help them learn the rules
of grammar that they should have learned
years ago. The more advanced students wrestle
their sentences into paragraphs and shape
essays out of chaos.

She drives home late, stinking
of stale hospital air and close
classrooms. She notices the dark
spire of a neighborhood church, the garish
neon of surrounding fast
food dives and a strip joint.

She wishes the church
had a drive through. Short
of time and shorn of sleep,
she could use a benediction
to go. She longs for the celestial
bath that could strip
away her earthly grime, leave
her pure and prepared
for the next day's struggles.

Instead she returns to her snug
cottage of a condo. She submits
to a quick shower while tea steeps
in the pot that she crafted in a different life.
She cuts some coconut bread
left by a concerned friend. With tea
and bread, ensconced in a comforter,
she reads the Psalms and waits
the night watch, willing sleep to come.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, August 12, 2012:

1 Kings 19:4-8

Psalm 34:1-8

Taste and see that the LORD is good. (Ps. 34:8)

Ephesians 4:25—5:2

John 6:35, 41-51


There are times when I consider a career change; a career in college teaching no longer seems as secure as it once did.

But what to do next? I’ve thought of a variety of career paths, including hospice chaplain. That choice surprises those who know me best, since I have a fierce phobia of hospitals.

Lately, though, I feel like the Holy Spirit has been saying, “Yes, a hospice chaplain. I need you to do that right where you are.”

It’s been a tough few years for the people around me. Our school has had a series of lay-offs, which are tough even when our own jobs have been spared. I’ve had a friend lose her house to fire, and many friends who are facing health challenges of their own or of their family members. Hardly a week goes by without significant opportunities to minister.

Of course, living in this state of constant siege leaves me feeling a bit depleted and exhausted. There are weeks that I wish our church offered daily services. Some weeks, it seems like a small eternity until Sunday. Some weeks, I have a vision of a church with a drive-through window, where I could get an emergency Eucharist, some strength for the journey, and maybe a blessing.

Henri Nouwen spent much of his writing talking about Communion, trying to impress upon his readers how important it is. In Bread for the Journey: A Daybook of Wisdom and Faith, he says, "The Eucharist is the sacrament by which we become one body. . . . It is becoming the living Lord, visibly present in the world" (reading for Oct. 13). In the reading for the next day, he says, "We who receive the Body of Christ become the living Christ." Nouwen argues for a mystical--yet very real--transformation: the wine and bread transform themselves into blood and body which then transforms us from ordinary sinful human into Christ.

We are hungry for that transformation, but like those people who followed Christ from shore to shore, hoping for a free meal, we often don't know what we hunger for. We want to do God's work in the world, but there's so much work to do, and we're so tired before we even get started.

Our Scriptures remind us in both the Old and New Testaments that God provides. God gives us both physical food and spiritual food. But we must be receptive. We must open our mouths. God won't chew for us.

There are days and weeks when what I do seems so insignificant. What are my words of comfort when a friend’s mother lies dying in the hospital? I solve one student’s problems, only to discover that 10 more have sprouted in its place. I can’t promise that members of my department won’t be laid off.

It’s good to return to the metaphor of bread. It’s good to think about small granules of yeast and to remember that without their activation, our dough would not be worth baking. It’s good to know that small acts can lead to great transformation further on.

It’s essential to remember that we are the leaven in this loaf that is the world. In the words of N. T. Wright: "But what we can and must do in the present, if we are obedient to the gospel, if we are following Jesus, and if we are indwelt, energized, and directed by the Spirit, is to build for the kingdom. This brings us back to 1 Corinthians 15:58 once more: what you do in the Lord is not in vain. You are not oiling the wheels of a machine that's about to roll over a cliff. Your are not restoring a great painting that's shortly going to be thrown on the fire" (Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church, page 208).

Yet Another Shooting

I have been away, at Lutherock, a Lutheran church camp in the high mountains of North Carolina.  I had thought I would be writing about that experience this morning.  But that subject can wait.

While I was driving back, I heard news of the shooting at the Sikh temple.  I feel sick whenever there's a shooting, but especially when it occurs at a place where people should feel safe:  schools, movie theatres, places of worship.  And then I feel a bit of anger:  we should feel safe every place!  But that is not the world we live in.

My local Lutheran church takes precautions.  We keep the office door locked during Sunday services, even while the doors to the sanctuary and fellowship halls are open.  There are Sundays when I wonder if we're foolish to trust that much.  Once I went over to the fellowship hall to get the coffee started, and a down-on-his-luck person asked if he could use the phone.  I said yes.  He used the phone, and I offered him the food I was setting out for coffee hour.  He took a bagel and headed out.

I am aware that it could have all gone horribly wrong.  I was aware from the moment I saw the man in the distance and made the decision not to turn around, to continue on to the fellowship hall that was both empty and too far away from the sanctuary for anyone to hear me. 

I was lucky.

Hospitality does not protect one from violence.  Being in a place of worship does not protect one from violence.  Righteous behavior does not protect one from violence.

We are not promised that.  But we are required to work towards making that vision a reality.

I pray for all of those minorities who now feel a bit more targeted because of the shootings.  I pray for the rest of us too, because these acts of violence make us all feel less safe.  I pray for all the tortured souls who pick up weapons to deal with whatever consumes them. 

But above all, I pray with yearning for the day when the promise is fulfilled, when Creation is fully redeemed, when we no longer fear this kind of horror.

Yearning for Transfiguration

Today, Orthodox churches celebrate the Feast of the Transfiguration, the day when Jesus went up the mountain with several disciples and becomes transfigured into a radiant being. Those of you who worship in Protestant churches may have celebrated this event just before Lent began, so you may not think of it as a summer kind of celebration. Pre-Reformation traditions often celebrated this day in conjunction with blessing the first harvest.


Those of us with any sense of history are likely also remembering today as the day when the first atomic bomb used in warfare was detonated at Hiroshima, thus launching us into this brave new world where we find ourselves.

I find it an interesting conjunction, and of course, I've written a poem about it. But since it hasn't been published, I hesitate to put the whole thing here; I'll put some of my favorite bits here. It begins with these 2 lines:

"We long to be transfigured in the Holy Flame,
to harness atoms to do our will."

and later in the poem:

"Like Peter, we long to harness Holiness,
to build booths, to charge admission.
Christ turned into Carnival."


And of course, with a story like that of the Transfiguration, I can't help but think about my own life. How would I like to be transfigured? Some days, the question is really, in what ways wouldn't I like to be transfigured?

But that question is really too me-focused, as the readings for today show us. The question is really how do each of us respond to the Transfigured Lord?

Today is a good time to spend with the texts for the day, to carve out some time for quiet contemplation. Go here for readings, complete with links, so that you can read online, if that's easier.

A Writing Process for Writing Prayers

Yesterday, I wrote about writing prayers for Bread for the Day.  From the editor, I got the Bible reading that appears in the book, one for each day excluding Sundays (unless there was a special day).  I was to write a prayer based on the Bible passage given.

Here's what made the assignment interesting: I was limited to 35-40 words. It sounds easier than it is. Some of my prayers were too short. More of them were too long.


But I think that my poetry training served me well. I'm used to examining words and making sure that every word counts. I don't always do it well, but I'm convinced of the importance.

Likewise, the teaching of countless sections of Composition served me well. Year after year of talking about the best verbs (and as much as possible avoiding the verb to be) meant that I was five steps ahead.

I felt a bit of trepidation as I started, although I'm not sure why. I'm not unfamiliar with the genre of prayer, after all. I've been praying all my life. I've been part of groups (primarily Lutheran) who use prayers of all sorts. But I haven't written down my prayers, at least not very often (this theology blog contains a few, but that process didn't really prepare me much for this assignment).

And I'm familiar with this devotional resource, and that spooked me a bit at first. I thought about people like my grandmother, who would pick up this book every morning after breakfast. I didn't want to let those readers down.

The additional challenge was to avoid being repetitive. August is one of the tougher months: reading after reading about bread, for example.

In the end, I decided to follow the best writing advice of all: just get something down on paper. Anne Lamott more famously advised us to write shitty first drafts.

Once I did one or two prayers, I got into a rhythm, and it wasn't really hard. I felt like I almost entered a meditative state. Some of my more religious compatriots might say that was God taking hold. But it felt more like that state of flow, where time suspends and my writing ligaments are warm and flexible. Before I had such a digital life, I entered into that state more frequently--but that's a topic for a different blog post, once I get through reading Nicholas Carr's The Shallows.

In the end, I enjoyed the whole process very much. It's too early to tell whether or not my poetry (or other writing) has improved because of it. But that wasn't really the point. I'm looking forward to seeing the prayers in book form, when I get my contributor copies. Another bonus: I got paid in real dollars. As a poet, that doesn't happen often (as an essayist and blogger, more so).

It would be great to have more of these opportunities. And I'd like to see more poets writing prayers. It's tough being a teacher/writer in the world, because I'm keenly aware of how much bad writing surrounds us. It's especially painful to find poorly written prayers, which should be simple and beautiful and economical in word use. I'm happy to have tried my hand at it, and my hope is that I've launched some elegant prayers into the world.

May We Feast on Milk and Honey

I've been privilaged to be one of the writers for Augsburg Fortress' Bread for the Day, a daily devotional book.  I first started with the 2012 edition.

The editor sent me the material for each day, what would appear in the book, and I wrote a prayer for each day.  I particularly like the prayer I wrote for this day's reading.

Here's what I was sent:

Exodus 13:3-10


The festival of unleavened bread

Moses said to the people, “Remember this day on which you came out of Egypt, out of the house of slavery, because the LORD brought you out from there by strength of hand; no leavened bread shall be eaten. Today, in the month of Abib, you are going out. When the LORD brings you into the land of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites, which he swore to your ancestors to give you, a land flowing with milk and honey, you shall keep this observance in this month. Seven days you shall eat unleavened bread, and on the seventh day there shall be a festival to the LORD.” (Exodus 13:3-6)

Matthew 16:5-12

Bread as a sign of other things

Psalm 78:23-29

Manna rains down

Hymn: Bless Now, O God, the Journey, ELW 326

Here is the prayer I wrote:

Oh God, you brought your people out of Egypt and rescued them from slavery.  Throughout history, you have liberated the oppressed by the strength of your hand.  Remind us of our enslavements and unlock our shackles, so that we, too, may dine on milk and honey.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, August 5, 2012:



Exodus 16:2-4, 9-15

Psalm 78:23-29

The LORD rained down manna upon them to eat. (Ps. 78:24)

Ephesians 4:1-16

John 6:24-35


In this Gospel, we continue to see Jesus hounded by the crowds. They understand what Jesus offers: the miracle of food in an uncertain time. Jesus knows what they're up to. Jesus understands what they seek. But Jesus also knows that they need more than just a meal's worth of food.

At one point, the crowds ask him for a sign. I have a vision of Jesus sighing and wondering what more he can do. He’s multiplied food. He’s offered them parables and teachings. He’s healed the sick. What more do they want?

He also understands their deep hunger and yearning. They mention Moses, which leads me to believe that some of them miss the deep connection their ancestors had with God. Perhaps they thought it was easier in the desert, where they just went where God led them and ate the food God gave them. Perhaps they grow weary of the distractions of modern life, the diversions offered by Greek and Roman culture. They want to know where they can get some modern-day manna.

We might feel the same way.

Some of us might be willing to do rigorous tasks to get this spiritual nourishment, but Jesus reminds us that we simply need to turn to the bread that sustains us, rather than chasing after bread that cannot nourish. He says, "Do not labor for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life, which the Son of man will give to you; for on him has God the Father set his seal" (John 6:27).

We might sigh heavily, thinking of our ever-multiplying to-do lists, the increasing tasks we must do simply to keep body and soul together. We might wonder how we can find time for one more obligation.

Again and again in the Bible, we see God, who simply wants to be with us. We don’t have to transform ourselves into spiritual superheroes. God will be content to watch the Olympics with us, to have fun with whatever creative play dates we’ve arranged with our children or our friends, to eat watermelon at picnics with us.

The Bible reminds us that God even wants to be with us during the not-so-fun times. When we’re stuck at work, eating microwave popcorn instead of dinner again, God wants to be there. When we’re trapped in traffic, God doesn’t mind commuting with us. When we’re so immersed in child rearing that we wonder if we’ll ever get to talk about adult topics again, God wants that experience too. When we’re feeling lost and lonely, God is willing to endure that too. When we don’t know how we’re going to put food on the table, God will help us sort that out.

The sustaining bread of life is right there, always ready, always fragrant and nourishing. The enduring food is ready to be shared, ready to be multiplied. The table is ready; come and eat.