Prayer (for discernment)

My Lord God,

I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,

though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

-- Thomas Merton, OCSO (Father Louis) (1915-1968), from Thoughts in Solitude, 1956-- born this day in 1915.

Recorded version of prayer, read by The Rev. James Martin, SJ, on NPR's On Being with Krista Tippett

Prayer for the Sick

Heavenly Father, whose blessed Son our Lord took upon himself our infirmities and had compassion upon all sick and suffering: Hear our prayer for all who suffer in body or mind or spirit; and especially we pray for 

​______

. Grant to 

​her/him

 relief from pain, strength in 

​her/his

 weakness, light in 

​her/his

 darkness and, if it shall please you, restoration to health. Enable 

​her/him

 now to trust you though your way is hidden from their sight; and let 

​her/him

 know

​ that peace which is the gift of your Holt Spirit. Amen.

--from Prayers for All Occasions, by Forward Movement

The Flower

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
       are Thy returns! Even as the flowers in spring,
    to which, besides their own demean,
       the late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
          Grief melts away
          like snow in May,
    As if there were no such cold thing.

    Who would have thought my shrivelled heart
       could have recovered greenness? It was gone
    quite underground, as flowers depart
       to see their mother-root, when they have blown;
         where they together
         all the hard weather,
    dead to the world, keep house unknown.

    These are Thy wonders, Lord of power,
       killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
    and up to heaven in an hour;
       making a chiming of a passing-bell.
         We say amiss
         this or that is;
    Thy word is all, if we could spell.

    Oh, that I once past changing were,
       fast in Thy paradise, where no flower can wither!
    Many a spring I shoot up fair,
       offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither;
         nor doth my flower
         want a spring shower,
    my sins and I joining together.

    But while I grow in a straight line,
       still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
    Thy anger comes, and I decline.
       What frost to that? What pole is not the zone
         where all things burn,
         when Thou dost turn,
    and the least frown of Thine is shown?

    And now in age I bud again;
       after so many deaths I love and write;
    I once more smell the dew and rain,
       and relish versing. O my only Light,
         it cannot be
         that I am he
    on whom Thy tempests fell all night.

    These are Thy wonders, Lord of love,
       to make us see we are but flowers that glide;
    which when we once can find and prove,
       Thou hast a garden for us where to bide.
         Who would be more,
         swelling through store,
    forfeit their paradise by their pride.

-- George Herbert (1593-1633), English priest and poet, from The Temple (1633)

A mother's prayer

May you always be
a strong arm to the weak;
and may you always be
a comfort to the crying;
a smile to the lonely,
a blessing to the grieving;
and may you always be
a haven for the anxious.

May your life be full of Jesus
and His love;
may you be God-driven by the
Father and the Spirit;
and may you be His hands
and smile
and be His arms of comfort.
And may you always be
His blessing to the world.
Amen.

--Neil and Gerlinde Kennedy-Jones and Andrew M. Seddon, from Celtic Daily Prayer Book 2, from the Northumbria Community. p. 1090

A telling place

Blessed be God who lifts us up,
Blessed be the Father of Heaven,
Blessed be the risen and ascended Lord,
Blessed be the Christ in glory.
Blessed be the Spirit of Truth and Love.
Blessed be the Holy Spirit.

Bless us this day with vision.
Bless us this day with faith.
Bless us this day with hope.
May this place be a sacred place,
a telling place,
where earth and heaven meet.
Amen.

--Telling Place Community team, found in Celtic Daily Prayer Book 2, from the Northumbria Community, p. 1090

Losers

If I should pass the tomb of Jonah
I would stop there and sit for awhile;
Because I was swallowed one time deep in the dark
And came out alive after all.

If I pass the burial spot of Nero
I shall say to the wind, “Well, well!”—
I who have fiddled in a world on fire,
I who have done so many stunts not worth doing.

I am looking for the grave of Sinbad too.
I want to shake his ghost-hand and say,
“Neither of us died very early, did we?”

And the last sleeping-place of Nebuchadnezzar—
When I arrive there I shall tell the wind:
“You ate grass; I have eaten crow—
Who is better off now or next year?”

Jack Cade, John Brown, Jesse James,
There too I could sit down and stop for awhile.
I think I could tell their headstones:
“God, let me remember all good losers.”

I could ask people to throw ashes on their heads
In the name of that sergeant at Belleau Woods,
Walking into the drumfires, calling his men,
“Come on, you … Do you want to live forever?”

--Carl Sandburg (1878-1967), from "Playthings of the Wind," in Smoke and Steel, 1922.

Paradox Blessing

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers,
half-truths, superficial relationships,
so that you will live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger at injustice,
oppression and exploitation of people,
so that you will work for justice, equity, and peace.

May God bless you with tears to shed
for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war,
so that you will reach out your hand to comfort them
and change their pain to joy.

And may God bless you with the foolishness to think
that you can make a difference in the world,
so that you will do the things that others tell you
cannot be done.

 --from Celtic Daily Prayer, Book 2, from the Northumbria Community, p. 1088

The blessing of light

May the blessing of light be upon you,
light without and light within...
And in all your comings and goings,
may you ever have a kindly greeting
with any you meet along the road.

-- from Old Gaelic, found in Celtic Daily Prayer Book 2, from the Nortumbria Community, p. 1091

Peace

Will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite

To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes, but
That piecemenal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to Peace thereafter. And whn Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
                                      He comes to brood and sit.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), English poet and Jesuit priest

Jonah

A purple whale
Proudly sweeps his tail
Towards Nineveh;
Glassy green Surges between
A mile of roaring sea.

“O town of gold,
Of splendour multifold,
Lucre and lust,
Leviathan’s eye
Can surely spy
Thy doom of death and dust.”

On curving sands
Vengeful Jonah stands.
“Yet forty days,
Then down, down,
Tumbles the town
In flaming ruin ablaze.”

With swift lament
Those Ninevites repent.
They cry in tears,
“Our hearts fail!”
The whale, the whale!
Our sins prick us like spears.”

Jonah is vexed;
He cries, “What next? what next?”
And shakes his fist.
“Stupid city,
The shame, the pity,
The glorious crash I’ve missed.”

Away goes Jonah grumbling,
Murmuring and mumbling;
Off ploughs the purple whale,
With disappointed tail.

--Robert Graves (1895-1985), from Faeries and Fusiliers, 1918.

Reading 1, Revised Common Lectionary B

Grace of the monk of Farne

Just as a table without bread
is a needy one,
so absence of charity
is ruin to the soul,
for the soul walks by love
and the one who does not love
abides in death.
Bless our full table, Lord.
Help us to supply the need
of others,
and walk in love.
Amen.

--John Whiterig, O.S.B. (1320-1371), monk of Farne (Landisfarne), found in Celtic Daily Prayer Book 2, from the Northumbria Community, p. 1092

A blessing on someone's journey or on a child

I bless you, darling one,
in the name of the Holy Three,
the Father, the Son, and the Sacred Spirit.
May you drink deeply from God's cup of joy. 
May the night bring you quiet.
And when you come
to the Father's palace
may his door be open
and the welcome warm.

--The Northumbria Community, Celtic Daily Prayer, Book One

Sonnet 50: How heavy do I journey on the way

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that case and that repose to say,
"Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!"
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind:
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

--William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

God's Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
     It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
     It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
     And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
     And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
     There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went--
     Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward springs -
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
     World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), English poet and Jesuit priest, 1877

Sabbath Poem V, 1980

Six days of work are spent
To make a Sunday quiet
That Sabbath may return.
It comes in unconcern;
We cannot earn or buy it.
Suppose rest is not sent
Or comes and goes unknown,
The light, unseen, unshown.
Suppose the day begins
In wrath at circumstance,
Or anger at one’s friends
In vain self-innocence
False to the very light,
Breaking the sun in half,
Or anger at oneself
Whose controverting will
Would have the sun stand still.
The world is lost in loss
Of patience; the old curse
Returns, and is made worse
As newly justified.
In hopeless fret and fuss,
In rage at worldly plight
Creation is defied,
All order is unpropped,
All light and singing stopped.

--Wendell Berry (1934- ), American poet, novelist, agrarian activist, from This Day: Sabbath Poems New and Collected, 1979-2013, 2013

At the River Clarion

1.
I don't know who God is exactly.
But I'll tell you this.
I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a
          water splashed stone
and all afternoon I listened to the voices
          of the river talking.
Whenever the water struck the stone it had
          something to say,
and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing
          under the water.
And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me
          what they were saying.
Said the river: I am part of holiness.
And I, too, said the stone. And I too, whispered
          the moss beneath the water.

I'd been to the river before, a few times.
Don't blame the river that nothing happened quickly.
You don't hear such voices in an hour or a day.
You don't hear them at all if selfhood has stuffed your ears.
And it's difficult to hear anything anyway, through
          all the traffic, and ambition.

2.
If God exists he isn't just butter and good luck.
He's also the tick that killed my wonderful dog Luke.
Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then
          keep on going.
Imagine how the lily (who may also be a part of God)
          would sing to you if it could sing, if
                    you would pause to hear it.
And how are you so certain anyway that it doesn't sing?

If God exists he isn't just churches and mathematics.
He's the forest, he's the desert.
He's the ice caps, that are dying.
He's the ghetto and the Museum of Fine Arts.
He's van Gogh and Allen Ginsberg and Robert
          Motherwell.
He's the many desperate hands, cleaning and preparing
          their weapons.
He's every one of us, potentially.
The leaf of grass, the genius, the politican,
          the poet.
And if this is true, isn't it something very important?

3.
Of course for each of us, there is the daily life.
Let us live it, gesture by gesture.
When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?
And should we not thank the knife, also?
We do not live in a simple world.

4.
There was someone I love who grew old and ill.
One by one I watched the fires go out.
There was nothing I could do

except to remember
that we receive
and then we give back.

5.
My dog Luke lies in a grave in the forest,
          and she is given back.
But the river Clarion still flows
          from wherever it comes from
                    to wherever it has been told to go.
I pray for the desperate earth.
I pray for the desperate world.
I do the little each person can do, it isn't much.
Sometimes the river murmurs, sometimes it raves.

6.
Along its shores were, may I say, very intense
          cardinal flowers.
And trees, and birds that have wings to uphold them,
          for heaven's sakes--
the lucky ones: they have such deep natures,
          they are so happily obedient.
While I sit here in a house filled with books,
          ideas, doubts, hesitations.

7.
And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river
          keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its
                    long journey, its pale, infallible voice
                              singing.


--Mary Oliver, (1935- ) from Evidence: Poems, 2009

Questions About Angels

Of all the questions you might want to ask

about angels, the only one you ever hear

is how many can dance on the head of a pin.

No curiosity about how they pass the eternal time

besides circling the Throne chanting in Latin

or delivering a crust of bread to a hermit on earth

or guiding a boy and girl across a rickety wooden bridge.

Do they fly through God's body and come out singing?

Do they swing like children from the hinges

of the spirit world saying their names backwards and forwards?

Do they sit alone in little gardens changing colors?

What about their sleeping habits, the fabric of their robes,

their diet of unfiltered divine light?

What goes on inside their luminous heads? Is there a wall

these tall presences can look over and see hell?

If an angel fell off a cloud, would he leave a hole

in a river and would the hole float along endlessly

filled with the silent letters of every angelic word?

If an angel delivered the mail, would he arrive

in a blinding rush of wings or would he just assume

the appearance of the regular mailman and

whistle up the driveway reading the postcards?

No, the medieval theologians control the court.

The only question you ever hear is about

the little dance floor on the head of a pin

where halos are meant to converge and drift invisibly.

It is designed to make us think in millions,

billions, to make us run out of numbers and collapse

into infinity, but perhaps the answer is simply one:

one female angel dancing alone in her stocking feet,

a small jazz combo working in the background.

She sways like a branch in the wind, her beautiful

eyes closed, and the tall thin bassist leans over

to glance at his watch because she has been dancing

forever, and now it is very late, even for musicians.

--Billy Collins (1941- ), from Questions About Angels, 1991

Winter

A little heat in the iron radiator,

the dog breathing at the foot of the bed,

and the windows shut tight,

encrusted with hexagons of frost.

I can barely hear the geese

complaining in the vast sky,

flying over the living and the dead,

schools and prisons, and the whitened fields.

--Billy Collins (1941- ), from Poetry East, no. 82, 2014

The Three Kings

Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they.
And they traveled by night and they slept by day
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere.
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddlebows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and fubelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.

“Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar,
“Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews.”

And the people answered, “You ask in vain;
We know of no king but Herod the Great!”
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king.”

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the gray of morn;
Yes, it stopped,—it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David, where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn yard;
But the windows were closed and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body’s burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David’s throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Painting: Hendrick Terbrugghen (18588-1629), The Adoration of the Magi

Epiphany Benediction

Go out into the world to share
the many gifts that have been given to you.
    Do not let them go to waste;
     share them through the power of the Spirit.
    And as you do so,
     may the grace and peace of God abide with you along the way.

--Stephen Fearing, from http://www.stephenmfearing.com/liturgy//charge-benediction-epiphany-2c-january-17th-2016, for Epiphany 2C

For Those Who Have Far to Travel: An Epiphany Blessing

If you could see
the journey whole
you might never
undertake it;
might never dare
the first step
that propels you
from the place
you have known
toward the place
you know not.

Call it
one of the mercies
of the road:
that we see it
only by stages
as it opens
before us,
as it comes into
our keeping
step by single step. 

There is nothing
for it
but to go
and by our going
take the vows
the pilgrim takes:

to be faithful to
the next step;
to rely on more
than the map;
to heed the signposts
of intuition and dream;
to follow the star
that only you
will recognize;

to keep an open eye
for the wonders that
attend the path;
to press on
beyond distractions
beyond fatigue
beyond what would
tempt you
from the way.

There are vows
that only you
will know;
the secret promises
for your particular path
and the new ones
you will need to make
when the road
is revealed
by turns
you could not
have foreseen.

Keep them, break them,
make them again:
each promise becomes
part of the path;
each choice creates
the road that will take you
to the place
where at last
you will kneel

to offer the gift
most needed—
the gift that only you
can give—
before turning to go
home by
another way.

--Jan Richardson (1967- )

The Gift

As the wise men of old brought gifts
guided by a star
to the humble birthplace

of the god of love,
the devils
as an old print shows
retreated in confusion.

What could a baby know
of gold ornaments
or frankincense and myrrh,
of priestly robes
and devout genuflections?

But the imagination
knows all stories
before they are told
and knows the truth of this one
past all defection.

The rich gifts
so unsuitable for a child
though devoutly proffered,
stood for all that love can bring.
The men were old
how could they know

of a mother’s needs
of a child’s
appetite?

But as they kneeled
the child was fed.
They saw it
and gave praise!
A miracle

had taken place,
hard gold to love,
a mother’s milk!
before
their wondering eyes.

The ass brayed
the cattle lowed.
It was their nature.

All men by their nature give praise.
It is all
they can do.

The very devils
by their flight give praise.
What is death,
beside this?
Nothing. The wise men
came with gift

and bowed down
to worship
this perfection.

--William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)