From Ash Wednesday, by T S Eliot

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death....


Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

Eye on the sparrow

“Why feed those damn sparrows
and finches?” My neighbor groused.
“They’re just ugly little
Dun colored things. Might as well
Feed the grackles, too, while you’re at it.”

And I do, for I believe in the God of Small Things.
One small bird cannot fall
Without notice, so who am I
To set up a velvet rope and a bouncer at the feeder?

This is the God of the uncut grass
Bowing obeisance to the summer wind
Seed heads bowed, nodding like somnolent watchmen
Thankful for the smaller gifts of wind and rain.

This is the God of cottonwood leaves
Applauding to the exhalations of
Exhausted hurricanes. This is
The God of infinite detail in a hazelnut universe.

This is the God of love without reason.
Surely we receive as much grace as sparrows.
Frantic beggars, they just hope for food.
Frantic beggars, we just hunger for God.

Every creature of God is good, praising with each breath,
Even as winter want implacably awaits.
Eckhart said, “Every creature is a book about God.”
It is given to us to read it, and be led back to love.

Head in a Godward Direction

Tobias Haller at In a Godward Direction has a beautiful poem about a Tuesday in September.

These words are true.

Because my name is Lazarus and I live

John 11:1-45

Tomorrow's gospel tells the story of Lazarus' resurrection from the dead. Even though he'd been dead for four days-- not just minutes, like the synagogue ruler's daughter; not just on the stretcher being carried to the grave, like the son of the widow of Naim; but completely dead, the tomb purchased and the body prepared and beginning to stink.

Martha and Mary have been grieving for these days, probably only leaving the house to wail by the tomb. That, and wonder where their friend had been when they had sent for him, their friend in whom they had believed, the one who could have saved their brother with just a touch, the one who could heal with just some spit.

And Jesus knows that his friend is dead, and believes that it is all part of God's plan. It's hard for us to accept that illness and death are part of God's plan, though. We resist such an idea, because then that would mean that God deliberately abandons good people to suffer, and what would we do with that? So we tell ourselves that we no longer live in an age where miracles bloom like wildflowers, and what are miracles after all but just a primitive people's way of explaining what science explains to us today? And if Jesus would let his friend die, then what about us when we are afraid or in pain or facing death and we call upon God to preserve us?

But Jesus brings his friend back from the tomb, simply by calling Lazarus back from the stench of the grave. Lazarus comes forth in silence. Of all the people mentioned in this story, only Lazarus is silent. We know that Jesus' apostles question him. We know that the dead man's sisters, also friends and disciples of Jesus, demonstrate their faith in Jesus even as their brother rots in his tomb. The crowd murmurs about Jesus as he grieves for his friend. But Lazarus remains silent. I wonder what he was thinking as he suddenly awoke in the tomb, bound with strips of cloth, disoriented, wondering what had happened. Did he have any memory of what it had been like to be dead? Would he go through the rest of his life as if in a waking dream, or did he simply feel like we do after being deeply asleep and awakening suddenly?

Over at desperatepreacher.com, one of the posters left this poem as part of the discussion of this Sunday's text:

The Convert (by G. K. Chesteron)

After one moment when I bowed my head
And the whole world turned over and came upright,
And I came out where the old road shone white,
I walked the ways and heard what all men said,
Forests of tongues, like autumn leaves unshed,
Being not unlovable but strange and light;
Old riddles and new creeds, not in despite
But softly, as men smile about the dead.

The sages have a hundred maps to give
That trace their crawling cosmos like a tree,
They rattle reason out through many a sieve
That stores the sand and lets the gold go free:
And all these things are less than dust to me
Because my name is Lazarus and I live.

Even though we picture heaven as a wonderful place where there is no more suffering, here the poet imagine Lazarus as profoundly grateful for the gift of being back here in this messy, chaotic, pain-filled world. And we know that Lazarus will indeed die again eventually, but in the meantime he is restored to those he loves. Surely that is heaven here on earth.

Pied Beauty

Pied Beauty

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

--Gerard Manly Hopkins