The Sifting of Peter

“Behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat.”—LUKE xxii. 31.

IN Saint Luke’s Gospel we are told
How Peter in the days of old
          Was sifted;
And now, though ages intervene,
Sin is the same, while time and scene 
          Are shifted.

Satan desires us, great and small,
As wheat, to sift us, and we all
          Are tempted;
Not one, however rich or great, 
Is by his station or estate
          Exempted.

No house so safely guarded is
But he, by some device of his,
          Can enter; 
No heart hath armor so complete
But he can pierce with arrows fleet
          Its centre.

For all at last the cock will crow
Who hear the warning voice, but go 
          Unheeding,
Till thrice and more they have denied
The Man of Sorrows, crucified
          And bleeding.

One look of that pale suffering face 
Will make us feel the deep disgrace
          Of weakness;
We shall be sifted till the strength
Of self-conceit be changed at length
          To meekness. 

Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache;
The reddening scars remain, and make
          Confession;
Lost innocence returns no more;
We are not what we were before 
          Transgression.

But noble souls, through dust and heat,
Rise from disaster and defeat
          The stronger,
And conscious still of the divine 
Within them, lie on earth supine
          No longer.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882

Scriptural reference: Luke 22:31-34

July Thunder (Domine non est)

 Psalm 131

 

My shivering dog draping himself over me 

like a quaking blanket, pride abandoned,

driven to anxiety by the sound of thunder 

rumbling overhead for most of this week, sometimes 

bringing rain, sometimes just a threat. And for all with pets, 

 

this entire week holds more of the same--

the neighborhood will echo with the report of 

fireworks and hopefully not gunfire 

at least through the sixth of July. 

 

 “Domine non est

exaltatum cor meum…”

 

But the sky right now is exactly the color of a bruise, 

matching the one inflicted on me as

he pawed me last night to make the insufferable

thunder stop. Stevie Nicks once 

famously sang, “Thunder only happens when it’s raining.”

 

She was wrong. But Kobe believes her. His first owners 

left him outside in all weather, and thunder is a memory 

of being swept into wind and downpour 

with no chance of shelter. Thunder is the memory 

of storms and cruelties long past, 

the menace fresh, the carelessness vivid.

 

Don’t we all know the weight of helplessness

when hoping in God is all there is? 

 

So into the basement we descend. I will 

sit next to him, the press of my body and 

Bach cello suites by Ma in attempted comfort, 

notes gliding and bouncing exactly like rain,

the blare of the C string masking the thunder 

perhaps enough that he can be quieted and rest.

 

And sleep will come and breath will ease 

for all afraid yet drawn into love’s leeward side,

like a child upon his mother’s shoulder

asleep on a damp cheek,

sliding gratefully into open-hearted trust,

elusive too often for the proud and haughty self

I too often wear like armor.

 

I wait upon you gratefully, O Mothering God,

and rest upon you as the storms 

within and without subside.

I have no need to walk in mighty matters

for the reward in my soul

is your abundant lovingkindness and mercy--

more than enough.

--LKS, written for Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for July 1, 2021.

I (I go among trees and sit still)

I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
what I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.

--Wendell Berry (1934- ), American farmer, poet, essayist, and agrarian, from A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems, 1979-1997

Sabbath Poem I: 1979

I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,
mute in my consernations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.

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