Ash Wednesday

    

"Yes--deep within and deeper yet
The rankling shaft of conscience hide,
Quick let the swelling eye forget
The tears that in the heart abide.
Calm be the voice, the aspect bold,
No shuddering pass o'er lip or brow,
For why should Innocence be told
The pangs that guilty spirits bow?

"The loving eye that watches thine
Close as the air that wraps thee round -
Why in thy sorrow should it pine,
Since never of thy sin it found?
And wherefore should the heathen see
What chains of darkness thee enslave,
And mocking say, 'Lo, this is he
Who owned a God that could not save'?"

Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart
Tempts him to hide his grief and die,
Too feeble for Confession's smart,
Too proud to bear a pitying eye;
How sweet, in that dark hour, to fall
On bosoms waiting to receive
Our sighs, and gently whisper all!
They love us--will not God forgive?

Else let us keep our fast within,
Till Heaven and we are quite alone,
Then let the grief, the shame, the sin,
Before the mercy-seat be thrown.
Between the porch and altar weep,
Unworthy of the holiest place,
Yet hoping near the shrine to keep
One lowly cell in sight of grace.

Nor fear lest sympathy should fail -
Hast thou not seen, in night hours drear,
When racking thoughts the heart assail,
The glimmering stars by turns appear,
And from the eternal house above
With silent news of mercy steal?
So Angels pause on tasks of love,
To look where sorrowing sinners kneel.

Or if no Angel pass that way,
He who in secret sees, perchance
May bid His own heart-warming ray
Toward thee stream with kindlier glance,
As when upon His drooping head
His Father's light was poured from Heaven,
What time, unsheltered and unfed,
Far in the wild His steps were driven.

High thoughts were with Him in that hour,
Untold, unspeakable on earth -
And who can stay the soaring power
Of spirits weaned from worldly mirth,
While far beyond the sound of praise
With upward eye they float serene,
And learn to bear their Saviour's blaze
When Judgment shall undraw the screen?


-- John Keble (1792-1866), Anglican priest, poet, and one of the leaders of the Oxford movement.

Call to Worship for Transfiguration

(inspired by Matthew 17:1-8, Mark 9:2-9,
Luke 9:28-36, 2 Peter 1:16-18)

Beyond our busyness,
Above the cold winter floor
there is a glory rising born of heaven
and reaching out to each one of us

a light that shines through the clouds
an invitation seeking all of who we are
that transfigures the world

that transforms darkness into hope
that brings life from a cross
where old life ends and new life is born

In glory Jesus meets us here
raising us from depths of valley to the height of the mountain
carrying the weight of our humanity
to the heights of heavens glory.

Let us worship from the mountain and hear again
“This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”


~ written by Rev. Rob Smith, found at re:worship

The Poem Rising by Its Own Weight

     

The poet is at the disposal of his own night—Jean Cocteau

The singing robes fly onto your body and cling there silkily,
You step out on the rope and move unfalteringly across it,
And seize the fiery knives unscathed and
Keep them spinning above you, a fountain
Of rhythmic rising, falling, rising
Flames,
And proudly let the chains
Be wound about you, ready
To shed them, link by steel link,
padlock by padlock–

but when your graceful
confident shrug and twist drives the metal
into your flesh and the python grip of it tightens
and you see rust on the chains and blood in your pores
and you roll
over and down a steepness into a dark hole
and there is not even the sound of mockery in the distant air
somewhere above you where the sky was,
no sound but your own breath panting:

then it is that the miracle
walks in, on his swift feet,
down the precipice straight into the cave,
opens the locks,
knots of chain fall open,
twists of chain unwind themselves,
links fall asunder,
in seconds there is a heap of scrap-
metal at your ankles, you step free and at once
he turns to go —

but as you catch at him with a cry,
clasping his knees, sobbing your gratitude,
with what radiant joy he turns to you,
and raises you to your feet,
and strokes your disheveled hair,
and holds you,
holds you,
holds you
close and tenderly before he vanishes.

-- Denise Levertov (1923-1997), Anglo-American poet, daughter of an Anglican priest, and convert to Catholicism.

Marked by Ashes

 

     

Ruler of the Night, Guarantor of the day . . .

This day — a gift from you.
This day — like none other you have ever given, or we have ever received.
This Wednesday dazzles us with gift and newness and possibility.
This Wednesday burdens us with the tasks of the day, for we are already halfway home
      halfway back to committees and memos,
      halfway back to calls and appointments,
      halfway on to next Sunday,
      halfway back, half frazzled, half expectant,
      half turned toward you, half rather not.

This Wednesday is a long way from Ash Wednesday,
   but all our Wednesdays are marked by ashes —
      we begin this day with that taste of ash in our mouth:
         of failed hope and broken promises,
         of forgotten children and frightened women,
      we ourselves are ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
   we can taste our mortality as we roll the ash around on our tongues.

We are able to ponder our ashness with
   some confidence, only because our every Wednesday of ashes

   anticipates your Easter victory over that dry, flaky taste of death.

On this Wednesday, we submit our ashen way to you —
   you Easter parade of newness.
   Before the sun sets, take our Wednesday and Easter us,
      Easter us to joy and energy and courage and freedom;
      Easter us that we may be fearless for your truth.
Come here and Easter our Wednesday with
   mercy and justice and peace and generosity.

We pray as we wait for the Risen One who comes soon.


-- Walter Brueggemann (1933- ), American theologian, pastor, author, poet, and former professor at Eden Theological Seminary in Webster Groves.

St. Gobnait and the Place of Her Resurrection

   

On the tiny limestone island

an angel buzzes to Gobnait
in a dream, disrupts her plans,
sends her in search of nine white deer.

She wanders for miles across
sea and land until at last
they appear and rather than
running toward them

she falls gently to wet ground,
sits in silence as light crawls across sky,
lets their long legs approach
and their soft, curious noses surround her.

Breathing slowly, she slides back
onto grass and clover and knows
nothing surpasses this moment,
a heaven of hooves and dew.

Is there a place for each of us,
where we no longer yearn to be elsewhere?
Where our work is to simply soften,
wait, and pay close attention?

She smiles as bees gather eagerly
around her too, wings humming softly
as they collect essence of wildflowers,
transmuting labor into gold.

-- Christine Valters Paintner, Benedictine oblate, teacher, spiritual director, poet, artist, and Abbess of the online Abbey of the Arts.

February 12 is the feast day of St. Gobnait of Ballyvourney, the Irish patron saint of beekeepers (along with St. Ambrose and St. Valentine).

Image: Stained glass window of St. Gobnait, Honan Chapel, Cork, by Harry Clarke, 1914.

The Poetics of Faith

‘Straight to the point’
          can ricochet,
                    unconvincing.
Circumlocution, analogy,
          parable’s ambiguities, provide
                    context, stepping-stones.

Most of the time. And then

the lightning power
          amidst these indirections,
                    of plain
unheralded miracle!
          For example,
                    as if forgetting
to prepare them, He simply
          walks on water
                    towards them, casually –
and impetuous Peter, empowered,
          jumps from the boat and rushes
                    On wave-tip to meet Him –
a few steps, anyway –
          (till it occurs to him,
                    ‘I can’t, this is preposterous’
and Jesus has to grab him,
          tumble his weight
                    back over the gunwale).
Sustaining those light and swift
          steps was more than Peter
                    could manage. Still,
years later,
          his toes and insteps, just before sleep,
                    would remember their passage.

--Denise Levertov (1923-1997), Anglo-American poet, daughter of a Hasidic father who became a priest in the Church of England, and convert to Roman Catholicism, from The Stream and the Sapphire.

Fishing in the Keep of Silence

There is a hush now while the hills rise up
and God is going to sleep. He trusts the ship
of Heaven to take over and proceed beautifully
as he lies dreaming in the lap of the world.
He knows the owls will guard the sweetness
of the soul in the massive keep of silence,
looking out with eyes open or closed over
the length of Tomales Bay that the egrets
conform to, whitely broad in flight, white
and slim in standing. God, who thinks about
poetry all the time, breathes happily as He
repeats to Himself: there are fish in the net,
lots of fish this time in the net of the heart.

--Linda Gregg (1942-2019), American poet, from All of It Singing: New and Selected Poems, 2008

Scripture reference: Luke 5:1-11, 5th Sunday after Epiphany C

Rend Your Heart

     

To receive this blessing,

all you have to do
is let your heart break.
Let it crack open.
Let it fall apart
so that you can see
its secret chambers,
the hidden spaces
where you have hesitated
to go.

Your entire life
is here, inscribed whole
upon your heart’s walls:
every path taken
or left behind,
every face you turned toward
or turned away,
every word spoken in love
or in rage,
every line of your life
you would prefer to leave
in shadow,
every story that shimmers
with treasures known
and those you have yet
to find.

It could take you days
to wander these rooms.
Forty, at least.

And so let this be
a season for wandering
for trusting the breaking
for tracing the tear
that will return you

to the One who waits
who watches
who works within
the rending
to make your heart
whole.

- Jan Richardson, Methodist writer, author, artist, and poet

Glory Glory/ Psalm 19

The heavens bespeak the glory of God.

The firmament ablaze, a text of his works. 

Dawn whispers to sunset. 

Dark to dark the word passes: glory glory. 

All in a great silence, 

no tongue’s clamor— 

yet the web of the world trembles 

conscious, as of great winds passing. 

The bridegroom’s tent is raised, 

a cry goes up: He comes! a radiant sun 

rejoicing, presiding, his wedding day. 

From end to end of the universe his progress. 

No creature, no least being but catches fire from him.

-- Daniel Berrigan (1921-2016), American Jesuit priest, poet, anti-war activist, teacher, and pacifist.