Tag Archives: Gospel of John

Doubt

by

 Day One
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DoubtRiparian

I stand on riparian ground
that place between
two more certain realities,
liminal,
solitary but exhaling
into One, the way of being.

When I look for you,
feel where you should be,
listen for your words
that have faded from my space,
I cry out so you will hear me,
come back to take my hand
and dance again.

Remembering you are Source.
I still myself, rest assured
that you are Always.

Renegade partners, we
One ourselves,
a geography of
trust and transformation,
an ocean of fidelity where
there is no room for doubt.

.
.

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Author’s Note:

Singularity. Alone. Renegade.

It is important to remember I am not the same person I was.

As I stand in that place within what was and what is and will be, a liminal time and space, I must remember I am never alone.

I am looping over and over again who I was, with who I am creating, and who I will become.

All of me is where everything exists at once, but not yet fully understood.

Take my hand, we are renegades, all of us One and Beloved, in this great dance.

There is no room for doubt.

Lexanne

 

Once more I must credit Grounded by Diana Butler Bass for the inspiration. I’ve borrowed some words and, most definitely, ideas. Her book is transforming my life. Much, much gratitude.

 

 

Jesus said, “So, you believe because you’ve seen with your own eyes. Even better blessings are in store for those who believe without seeing.” John 20:29, The Message

 

My place is the Placeless, my trace is the Traceless ;
‘Tis neither body nor soul, for I belong to the soul of the Beloved.
I have put duality away, I have seen that the two worlds are one;
One I seek, One I know, One I see, One I call
~ Rumi

 

 

 

Welcome!

Happy first day of National Poetry Month!!!!!

Today I celebrate by sharing the full reflection from my weekly newsletter – Journey/lex.

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Tomorrow I will post more information how, if you are in the continental U.S., you can win a free copy of my book of poetry, Filters.

Hope to see you tomorrow!

Mother Tree

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Mother tree sings, not in Indigo Girls’ descant,
but Her hymn beneath rich loam reaches out
through roots, searches for fungi,
a give and take of carbon and nitrogen,
back and forth, fuels a network to ease one
another’s survival, feeds a diverse union so some
will be left standing when others cease.
A complex union of tree and decay, fertile
earth and music, this is Her root command.

He commanded us to love, not in law above,
commandments to bow down to,
but twined roots holding one another so close
breath unites us into Being, so close
we cannot be parted. And yet, if we
release, push through deep moist earth,
ken to others, share inspiration, reveal
our true selves, we become One.
Love is the root command.

My Child, A Lament for Peace

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My child,
Never forget you are
a child of the Beloved,
rocked in her gracious arms,
held safe under his gaze.
You are a child of the Beloved.
Not one of you turned away.
Not one of you held closer
than the other.

My child,
You are sisters and brothers of
one another, one family in the Beloved.
The earth does not belong to you,
its land and fruits, all gifts to be shared,
gifts to be tended,
just as the Beloved nurses you.

My child,
you are a child of the Beloved.
Not one of you more precious,
not one of you more cherished
than the other.
Mother and terrorist,
teacher and gunman,
oppressed and the oppressor,
rest in the lap of the Beloved
swathed in forgiveness,
all made whole.

My child,
do not forget you are a child
of the Beloved, compassion
and grace rain down upon you
with boundless, unselfish passion.

My child,
Child of the Beloved,
in gratitude,
be a mirror of your Beloved.

.

.

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Author’s Note:

I struggled for a long time with how to write this poem. What form it should take? What exactly did I want to say?

I am a first grade teacher. Sandy Hook.

I live in Aurora. The Aurora Movie Theatre Shooting.

I live in Colorado. Columbine.

I am a United States citizen. 911.

The rest of the world has experienced terrorism for millennia, much longer and more intimately than I have. These current killings – Gaza and Ukraine – brought me back to the empty page.

I don’t know if it is due to my recent study of the Gospel of John with Fr. Scott Jenkins at my church. If it is the Celtic kirtan chant project I am involved in, with Macushla introducing me to the Irish lament. My recent immersion into Mary Magadlene, giving voice to her story in a monologue I wrote and will be performing later this year. Or my satsang friend, a mother, with a daughter in Israel and another friend, a mother, whose mother and father live in Palestine. It must be combination of all of these events and people that kept me from sleep this evening, muses that finally led me to this poem.

The insanity of killing one another must stop. I don’t know how, but I think it is summed up in a quote I read earlier this night from an Israeli. In response to a call for prayer from the Book of Isaiah, he said rather eloquently and simply:

“AMEN to Shalom over ego.”

I wish you peace this night and a blessing of surrender of ego.

 

 

Here is one of Macushla’s songs, “We Are Beloved of God.”

 

Today

by

I feel the need today to open our hearts.

Yes, that means sacrifice. But understanding we are all in this together, that we are all created by One, makes me think that the way we have handled things isn’t working. The more we think we are “right” and fight to be “right” and to keep the stuff we’ve sold our souls to prove we are “right”, we strangle our ability to see each other as sisters and brothers.

I have a dear friend whose daughter lives in Israel and is running to bomb shelters at least twice a day. I have Palestinian friends with family also seeking shelter daily. All the while both sides are fighting because each side thinks they are “right.”

I’ve had children in my school who came to this country with their families seeking refuge from the horrors of their homeland. I think of my grandparents, one set from Poland, the other Yugoslavia, coming to America to escape war, hunger, and fear. Today, these children crossing our borders don’t care about being “right,” they want to be safe.

What is the poem on the base of our Statue of Liberty? The New Colossus is a sonnet by American poet Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

I read a quote recently reminding me that Jesus started out as a child in exile. He asked of us one thing.

          But remember the root command: Love one another.”
                                                                      (John 15:9-16)

Love one another. Three simple words, but, oh, so hard to do. That means not to judge or condemn, explaining in case we needed the explanation. Just love one another. Period.

I wonder about why we always turn to war as the answer. Wasn’t it Einstein who said the definition of insanity is always doing what you’ve always done and expect something to change?

Maybe I’m naive and simple minded. Yes, it means letting go of ego and the physical stuff that the ego gorges on. But maybe, just maybe, if we stop focusing on that ego, we could see more clearly what we are doing not only to the souls who walk this earth, but Mother Earth herself.

Love one another. I wish we could just try it for a day and see what happens.

We can start. That’s how change happens. One person at a time, and that person is our self. Start there. Just one day? Not loving the “stuff” that defines us, but the Spirit that resides in each of us, no matter what we name the Spirit, it’s One and the Same.

At our end that’s all that will matter – our self. Not the stuff. So let’s one day take care of that beautiful soul that is us and recognize and uplift and care for It in others, too. Maybe, just maybe it will catch on.

Precious Asylum

by

Balanced in your open palms
my light burns.
You hold me in precious asylum
for the world to see, not me
but the light, your light.
Infused in me, we are one.

In the gentle curve of my two hands
pressed tightly together,
I hold you in resolute sanctuary.
My paradigm enfolding us
one into the other, we are ablaze.

This path we illuminate, intertwined,
unable to be sieved apart,
we travel as lovers impassioned.
An offering of one soul kindled
enflaming the world.

They Would Think Me Crazy

by

I forgot my age the other day as I
crossed the playground on my way
to class. No one was looking. The wooden
frame edging around, gravel filled, called
out to me as it had long ago.

I stepped onto its narrow ledge
one foot in front of the other.
I traced its trail around to the end,
back to the very beginning.

I didn’t fall, although my arms
shot out in preparation for flight
when my confidence waned for
a moment or two. No one was watching
under the grey day sky. Good thing,
I thought. They would think me crazy.

There was enough newly formed spirit
in me to give a little leap as I left the
timeworn timber. I was pleased no twists or
breaks occurred . Why did I ever worry?

I spent my youth meticulously walking
around and round on a splintery ledge
afraid of a plunge onto the rough blacktop,
scrapping my knee at the very least,
being broken to pieces at the worst.
I stayed the course much to long
unable to discern a safe way away.

In all those years, I never fell. I held on
tight. Refused to change. Resolute not to
let go. But as I grew old the game lost its
fancy. Rigid rule could no longer contain me.

Green verdant grass, sweet scented
breath, pure cool water invited me near.
I simply stepped off the black-and-white
merry-go-round, leaving behind counterfeit
passion.  I didn’t break. Only the bind of
false words, misleading tongues, spilt
onto the viscous hot tar.

I trusted the light down deep inside,
an infinitesimal whisper, just go.
I honored myself and the voice I knew not
and left without a blueprint in hand.

I walk a new path, one not yet forged. I
make a new way with Him. You walk along side
me, not above or below, but as one and
His beloved. Why did I ever worry?

.

.

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Author’s Note:

A new blueprint in hand.

Only one rule: Love.

 

 

John 14:15-20

The Message (MSG)

The Spirit of Truth

15-17 “If you love me, show it by doing what I’ve told you. I will talk to the Father, and he’ll provide you another Friend so that you will always have someone with you. This Friend is the Spirit of Truth. The godless world can’t take him in because it doesn’t have eyes to see him, doesn’t know what to look for. But you know him already because he has been staying with you, and will even be in you!

18-20 “I will not leave you orphaned. I’m coming back. In just a little while the world will no longer see me, but you’re going to see me because I am alive and you’re about to come alive. At that moment you will know absolutely that I’m in my Father, and you’re in me, and I’m in you.

Rare Offering

by

On the table sits a weathered bowl,
chipped with cracks not so deep it shatters
but lets one know of its fragility,
and, yet, a reminder of eternal refuge

Colors composed with discerning eye,
correct dimensions shaped by a perfect hand
sized to hold the right amount,
a comfortable fit

Inside, cupped in this gentle round,
royal grapes, sensuous pears,
tart apples, honeyed sweet peaches,
a legacy of spirit endowed

Present.
Ripe and luscious, each a rare offering
and inside a seed lingers, silent
waiting for the light

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Author’s Note:

What continues to amaze me about all traditions of faith is what we have in common.

In my journey these past two years, shedding the shackles of the Roman Catholic Church, being given the freedom to embrace what has always been inside of me but afraid to acknowledge in fear of…well, I don’t know what, looking to other faith traditions and embracing what they have to offer, I feel a grand freedom and rollick in the wonder of the beauty of our souls, the gift we have been given. (How’s that for a run-on sentence?)

Thank you to those who are walking with me. I am so very grateful.

For today’s light, I honor Fr. Scott Jenkins at A Church of the Holy Family, ECC in Aurora, CO for his guidance and wisdom as we study the Gospel of John.  It continues to present itself to me at every turn, every day.

John 1:9
The Message (MSG)

9 The Life-Light was the real thing:
Every person entering Life
he brings into Light.

Also, Mother Kedda Keough from Emmaus Catholic Community in Olympia, WA for sharing this video, Quakers and the Light, on her Facebook Page.

Art thou in darkness? Mind it not, for if thou dost it will feed thee more. But stand still, and act not, and wait in patience, till Light arises out of Darkness and leads thee.

– James Naylor (1659)

And, of course, to Reverend Kathleen Gorman and the Blue Mountain Center for Meditation and my weekly satsang as follow Eknath Easwaran and Passage Mediation.

If you go on working with the light available, you will meet your Master, as he himself will be seeking you.

– Ramana Maharshi

 

Listen

by

If you listen closely, in
dark star flecked night, in
stillness that only the slowing down of day
past bedtime almost to dawn can bring.

If you listen, there
the wisp of wisdom resides
without borders of brazen light to illuminate,
fill with words, confuse with noise,
clutter with icons.

A gentle voice, strong enough to bear
your sorrow, hold you near.

A lydian stone that calls your name
amidst the storm, hears  your cry
in deep running waters,
waits the turn
through teeming torrents.

Your champion
pulling you into the wormhole,
the passageway between night and day.
Listen.

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Author’s Note:

I am taking a class on the New Testament. We are studying the Gospel of John. This is not one of my favorite gospels at the moment. Maybe it rings too much of Roman rules and creeds and regulations. At least right now that is how I see it.

Our Padre sent some readings to ponder as we delve into this gospel.  My soul chose the selection from Wisdom.

Wisdom 9:9-12 (NRSVCE)

9 With you is wisdom, she who knows your works
and was present when you made the world;
she understands what is pleasing in your sight
and what is right according to your commandments.
10 Send her forth from the holy heavens,
and from the throne of your glory send her,
that she may labor at my side,
and that I may learn what is pleasing to you.
11 For she knows and understands all things,
and she will guide me wisely in my actions
and guard me with her glory.
12 Then my works will be acceptable,
and I shall judge your people justly,
and shall be worthy of the throne[a] of my father.

 

Maybe I will hear.

My Genesis

by

Tonight rain scented air
greeted me as I walked under your gaze

It was not an opening of the skies
downpour rushing over curbs into gutters
brimming the sewers

Nor was it a light sprinkling
glistening petals of blooms closing for the night
content with their daily engagement

It was simply rain-scented air
nudging me to think of you

Not a loud bellowing voice warning of misfortune
if rules are broken

Nor a constant tapping on my shoulder
making me second guess my labor

It was simply you showing me a bit of your soul,
your pleasure in my genesis,
blessing your beloved one.

.

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Author’s Note:

I am not a rule follower.

I hide it well.

I am learning that it is okay not to follow rules.

 

Easter Vigil, Sirius

by

I stand outside under the blackened skiesnapo2014button1
with winks of light looking down on me.

I wonder if these are the same stars she
saw as she walked alone through the streets
early that morn on her way to the hills?

The orange glow of Arcturus,
red hot Mars, the icy blue chill of
Sirius, and the white glare of Jupiter,
eyes looking back from the heavens.

Did they see her walking the road
to a place where they laid Him
behind the stone, inside
even blacker than the night?

Did they see her tears fall across her
cheeks as she gazed up to the heavens
cursing Yahweh for her loss?

Could they look into her emptiness,
her fear of being left alone having
lost one so dear?

I stand under these same stars and
wonder if they see me too?

.

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Author’s Notes:

Holy Saturday and the Easter Vigil.

John 20:1 (NIV)

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance.