Tag Archives: Gospel of Mark

Rules

by

I watch snow begin its fall,bunnyprintsinsnow
lay down this day of chill
on crisp golden locust leaves,
it clutters my path. I know
the price I will pay if
I don’t follow the rules.

I surely must move those
leaves to their proper rest
before flakes, surely not allow
them to stay where footsteps
will grind together snow and
leaves to become a musty cake
making an impossible run.

There are rules I must follow
to keep my path clear, ready
for its pilgrim to walk safe
and true.

Yet, I ask if rules are a good
matter to seek my attention,
give over my time. Rules beget
more rules until rules are all
that cover what was once a
simple way, now made less clear.

Instead I listen, start inside
with a whisper, learn who I am
from the Source. And I see a path,
simple and true, still covered with
leaves and snow. Only then
can my hand stretch to yours.
Together we will divine our way.

.

.

.

Author’s note:

If you would like more on this poem, please visit my page Journey/lex.

 

This week I thank Ryan Taylor of Access Denver for his reflection, in Street Psalms’ Word From Below, on the reading from The Revised Common Lectionary. And a sincere thanks to Fr. Scott Jenkins from a Church of the Holy Family for his prayers and the Beatitudes that will be read in the Celtic Celebration of All Saints this coming Saturday. All are welcome to join us in our celebration.

 

Conjunction

by

My eyes
opened
9000 feet higher than
thundering waves
could offer

Venus,
Jupiter, Mars
a triad,
nothing else
to draw my eye,
nothing else
needed
to light my way

Father,
Son, and Holy Ghost,
a triad,
more to understand,
ever more needed
to unfold

I demand
my place
among
Your stars,
feet grounded
on earth solid,
heart
cracked open
by Your passion

Mother Father,
Elder Brother Jesus,
Holy Wisdom,
make me whole

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

Sometimes I must demand. Show my need. Not be afraid. Declare my faith.

Mark 10: 46-52

Sealed From The Light

by

I sealed my eyes, clasped your hand with sinew so resolute
I would not keel.

I couldn’t see, didn’t believe I could find my own way
in the blinding light.

My grip tired. My eyes craved dawn. I let loose the ligature,
unlatched my eyes.

My urgency was not to see, not trail beyond where I stood,
but unravel in my own Being.

I stand as myself next to you, equal, warmed and gentled
from Within, well equipped for the free fall.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

I marvel at my ridiculous dependence, over a half-century, upon a carefully constructed lectionary to tell me the Story. A Story offered that is only a piece of a very large and luscious meal.

Yes, it is my own undoing, or laziness, or fear. I didn’t push myself early enough to overcome it, to be brave in, or to free myself to look back and forward, to question. Somehow I needed to learn to trust the Voice Inside.

I learned the hard way, or maybe it was just a longer route. I was growing my wings stronger. I didn’t understand that they could be built during the free fall.

Even so, I need to release the guilt, the shame, the self-condemnation. There is no time for that.

Moving on.

On Friday I started my day with Street Psalms‘ reflection of Sunday’s gospel reading in their Word From Below weekly reflection, Brigand’s of the Lord. It is always good stuff. Oh, the thieves on both sides of the cross – “gang members.” I encourage you to read it. But I wasn’t seeing clearly enough yet.

Nadia Bolz-Weber‘s quote from a review of her new book about the meaning of the Cross and sinners, fell right into my lap. It was another way to understand Fr. Scott’s Celtic Conversation asking us what it means to be blessed and how that works with the crucified Christ. And still, I wasn’t satisfied.

So, I began again. I reread the 1st and 2nd readings and the Psalm responses. Then I read all of Psalm 33 in the ESV and then in the Message. I usually don’t use the Message for the Psalms, but yesterday wouldn’t let me rest until I did.

In a last attempt I went back to the Gospel of Mark in the Message, but this time I didn’t stop at the end of the chosen lectionary verse 45 where I was told to STOP. I read to the end of the chapter. Then I went back and read what came before.

I am learning to let go of finding the “right” or “only” way. I realize that I can use experience, wisdom, and knowledge of others to help me see. But in the end, I must stand alone on my own feet, open my eyes and ears, and let the free fall continue to build my wings even greater.

How does this relate to the readings?

Simply, it is not my place to put myself in or request a seat of judgment. I must see that Jesus is not about judgment.

I must see our Holy One from within, seeing the Light in what I can do, am called to do, been given the gifts to do. Do you see?

And remember the root command – love one another.

There is no room for judges here, only lovers.

Diviation

by

It was a mud pie, dusty ground swirledDSCN1255
into water from a brass nozzle. I mixed
a thick concoction to please my eye.
Delicious would never be an
accurate description.

I found the ones that sparkled
hidden among plain granite pebbles,
quartz chips, slips of mica, only those
that caught my eye were treasure
for my pocket.

I peddled hard uphill, long
and slow, patient for the payback,
quick though it be, a fly down,
foot push paused, eyes squinting
against summer air across my face.

Ease of childhood’s wonderment
weeps efficiently through my grasp
to leave behind hardened opinions,
germane novelties, stilled wheels.

I set aside wide-eyed wonders
where magician coins awed,
grass stained knees scouted out
crawlies, tender arms rocked
a goodnight tale. I forgot
there is no need to orchestrate.

I turn back, shake off the dust,
open my palms,
liberate my tunnel vision
to meet your sweetness
once again,
eternal anticipation
of my return.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” Mark 10:15

As I grew into adulthood, I left behind something dear. The wonder of play and nature became a frivolous activity left for vacation time. But the more tragic part of growing up was assuming that I needed to control my life. I forgot the freedom of leaving my worries in the hands of someone more compassionate and wiser and loving than myself. I forgot there is Someone who knows me inside out, my needs, and what I can be.

I believe our Holy One gave us our child time to get good practice in surrender, leaving worry to itself. It was the time to trust and learn to live with abandon the gifts we’ve been given.

May I fall back into childhood simplicity,
that I may see your face, feel your embrace
and know all is well.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

Lexanne

Avowal

by

You broke my heart
not in a love mate sort of way
but profound, raw
an abyss wide open to the elements
you painted me in compassion

You saved me
not in a shining knight sort of way
you reached into earth and pulled
with both hands through muck
standing beside me at the front
equals in strength, brave in our fervor

You listened to me
not as friend but as soul within soul
kindling a fire, faithful true
knowing my worth
holding me in Light

You flung wide the doors
opened the invitation
familiar with the treacherous path
you espoused me as One in Promise
I accept Your hand

Harlot

by

After sunset, as azure deepens into cobalt, I lay
myself down on a wrought iron table, a weathered

appointment to my backyard. It is a quiet wild place
with a simple narrative. Urban born coyotes, at times,

in the distance. Rabbits, always rabbits, ignored
by my dog. Once, an owl. And recently, doves. My gaze

above through undulating branches of ash catches
a clear spot, a free  peek at the universe. The afternoon

storm carried away July’s rage that christened our day,
yielding a healing baptism of breath. Cool flows over my

bare arms, down my legs, around my feet. I would prefer
to guide each button until undone, dropping my livery

into a puddle around my ankles leaving me unembellished.
But modesty, even in shapeless darkness, is pressed here

in the suburbs. A red hot star, the color of harlots, of
Magdalene misunderstood, a flashback to the burn

of midday, catches my eye with a blink. What does the
color red have to say about a soul seven times released?

Are there demons I walk with unaware, each one’s
diminution a step closer to the Sacred? Sanguine flowed

from His veins mapping a path. In my bittersweet days
I gaze into a mirror and see the Divine, leaving demons

behind. In my face and yours I caress Brilliance and in
the night sky I am remembered, exaulted in a crimson flash.

Maundy Thursday

by

I walk with her this humble evenapo2014button1
feet bare touching earth.

I walk with her and her pain
the flow of life from birth.

Her flow of blood from sin unknown
a banishment acceded.

My malady, one of the soul, a
spirit departing untreated.

We walk with Him this quiet night
I wonder if we’re worthy.

I search for cures to ease my torment
not seeking anyone’s mercy.

My feet are washed by gentle hands,
she asks to be made whole.

My feet are dried with loving care,
she reaches for His stole.

I count the stars. She looks to Him,
the mystery reveled.

You have made me worthy, and
by Your Word I am healed.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

This Lent, through an unexpected series of events, I wrote a monologue about the Woman With The Flow of Blood from the Gospel of Mark.

I didn’t expect this journey.

She has been walking beside these weeks and guiding me. Her story is only ten sentences long, but turns on two words: cure and heal.

I didn’t expect to be so moved to a new understanding of who I am and who He is.