In the Cleft of the Rock: Of Mystics and Mountains

My second hike since moving to Arizona:

My asthmatic Midwest lungs aren’t used to the mountain-desert air.  So I wheeze along in the elation of the climb and the frustration of breathing.  I find hiding places off the path to catch my breath, read a little; and my mind is full of phrases and lines from poetry and Scripture which contain imagery matching the scenery around me.

Humankind should ponder God…

recognize God’s wonders and signs.

Let these signs and wonders be

the firmament on which to build,

            so as not to be shaken by fear,

            or distracted from the love of God.

                                                            Hildegard of Bingen

Dillard couldn’t understand why mystics sought God on mountaintops, knowing He is fearsome and powerful.  She declared she would hide in a cave into which only slivers of God could shine in as light through the cracks.  I think I understand the mystics’ approach more than hers.

Monday Morning Musings: Of Autumn & Death to Self

It is October now, and the trees have begun to transform into their autumn glory.  It is inevitable, observing the world and reading fall poetry, not to think of death as everything appears to lose color and life for the barren beauty of winter.  And as I watch the trees I cannot help but think to myself: If only we could accept our daily, weekly, yearly deaths with such exquisite grace!  If only we could bow and joyfully, humbly give up the adornments of self, our very selves, and whatever else the Lord may ask.

Can we trust that He bares our branches for His greater glory and the triumph of Spring? Can we trust You shall still consent to walk alongside us in our barren state?  O give me grace to die to myself every day, graceful and obedient as the autumn tree!

Fall Poetry: Frost + St. Vincent Millay

Autumn Chant

                       Edna St. Vincent Millay

Now the autumn shudders

  In the rose's root.

Far and wide the ladders

  Lean among the fruit.

Now the autumn clambers

  Up the trellised frame,

And the rose remembers

  The dust from which it came.

Tomorrow's Song

When the quiet of breath

And heartbeats subside,

Peace will remain and love abide.

All that was ever elusive

In flutter of leaf, symphony's soul

Be at last not in part but in glorious whole.

Sojourner will sing, finally home

Where the dream intersects with darkness and light,

And the fearful will rest in speechless delight.

When pain is forgotten

And rainfall subsides—

Peace will remain and love abide.

Broken Chains

[A testament to the work of God as visible and breaking through walls in me throughout the past week]

I said, "My Lord, why won't you break through my chains and free me from them?"

And He said to me, "Fix your eyes on me, not your sins and shortcomings and failures."

And I saw God was so much greater than my chains and I was ashamed to call His power insufficient.

I said, "You said You have broken my chains, and I see that parts are in pieces, but I can't seem to let go of them—they weigh down my feet as I shuffle along, and my back is bent under the load."

He said, "My child, you are free."

I replied, "I know, but I can't seem to feel this freedom!" And suddenly I saw that the chains were not bound to me but I was grabbing them from the ground and laying them over myself till I groaned from the weight.

Do you feel the ache?

What is there for us, darling,

In this world of brightest color

And widest dark;

Of all the deepest laughter

And  most piercing, aching sorrow?

Can we carry the song each day,

And hold the fragile dream in hand?

Can we keep the hope and joy

Of most beautiful world

When weighed by tired days and tragedy?

When the dark burden of the soul

Is invisible to all who see?

Where is our place

When we see and hear and feel

All the beauty and darkness,

Throbs of pain and dazzling light,

In a blind and deaf and muted world?

Where is our place

To contain and express

And to hold in heart

All there is—

And our vibrant, aching

Hope for more?

Creation Canticle

I heard God's voice
     in the wind through the trees;
he said, "My child,
     find a song like these."

The waves on the shore
     spoke to me
and said, "Our song
     is a praise and a plea."

The crickets sing
     long and low:
"Sing all you are
    and have and know."

Holy Sonnet XIV

     John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurp'd town to another due,

Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;

Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,

But am betroth'd unto your enemy;

Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

When Poetry Escapes you

     by Lydia Daugaard

When poetry escapes you,

And you are stripped of your eloquence,

Robbed of your rhythm

And aching for rhyme...

When life lacks color, and confidence,

And you cannot find words,

But only the end of yourself...

When stillness and silence are not enough

To quiet your heart,

And the light in your eyes is fading

Like the day at dusk...

Be still.

I will still be here,

Patiently waiting for you.

I am yours, beloved,

And you are mine. 

Graspings

             by Jessica Stein


You, once, two-thousand years ago,

Were a man. Would that I could 

Grasp the truth of that reality.

When you walked, dust puffed up

In muffled protest to the tread of your

Sandaled, dirty feet. The same feet were

Washed with tears and anointed with 

Perfume, dried with a woman's

Tumbling hair. Did, I wonder, that

Thick, rich perfume sting against cuts

And blisters from days of traveling?

When the people pressed close

About you, and you strained your 

Throat already sore from days

of speaking to reach the outskirts of the people,

Did the smell of their sweat and

Their unwashed bodies reach you?

Did it bother you? But all this,

It is merely the skin, the senses—

Were you ever lonely for the dance

Of eternities you had momentarily left

To get to know us? You were angry,

Once at least, and how your eyes

Must have blazed. How many sunrises 

Did you watch as you hid in the wilderness

With your Father? I wonder whether 

You ever stood silent, heart shattering 

Because of the beauty of this 

Broken, burdened world.

Perhaps you too, along with the 

Spirit, are groaning for our redemption

And the restoring of the earth.

For you too were a man, you knew

and still know our sufferings and the 

trials of the human race. Would that 

I could grasp that truth more fully.

An Overture Untitled

The world is alive today in swelling fullness,
life upon life upon death.


The clouds were played and arranged
by a string quartet,
and the veiled winter sun
the woodwinds proudly array.


(In my Love, the King,
      is all magnificence--)


He opened the heavens,
opened his hands,
and what is invisible poured forth.


If our hearts were but right
      we might see!
If our hearts were but right
      we might hear!
Or perhaps it is not our lot,
and perhaps it is not our lot.


The symphony surges,
swirls above and throughout
      (we keep to our quiet lives).
The triumphal march soars,
sweeping loudly to proclaim
      (we keep to our busy lives).


The resonating cello
left its song within my soul.
It sings sweetly and strongly
of sorrow and lament
and a throbbing ache
of strange, unspeakable joy.


The world, my dear,
is alive today,
and the silent love of a King
(life upon life upon death).

Disquiet

When all that she saw was less than she knew

and she was forced to pass by what she yearned to go through;

when all of the stars in the purple-black sky

wished to grant her wish that she might fly;

as the hollow bark of the old canoe

so her soul felt dull and empty too;

Her lips speak words she knows but can't feel;

beauty exists, though somehow less real;

she holds tight to the window—can't and won't fall—

the lament and joy of her voice grow small;

the world is spinning and color going flat

and her music is shrinking—

    and she sits,

            she goes,

                   she is,

                     she loves,

    confined in a tattered canoe.

the deep longing

Do you ever feel that deep longing?

Does the yearning of your soul ever fill you until you feel it with all that you are, and it is a pulling, expanding ache within you?

Until you are sure that to glimpse something beautiful or become witness to some sorrow or pain might overwhelm you with wordless emotion?

It is hard to put the longing into words...indeed, it almost seems sacrilege to do so.
But I think this is a holy longing.

I think this is the longing that keeps us coming back to God and hoping and praying for redemption and restoration, for all things to be made right.  How long, O Lord?


This longing keeps us alive. Its pain is a form of hope—it reminds us that there is something more, that this world and its pain are not ends in themselves; that God will restore us to Him, restore our relationships with one another, restore the world to peace free from the cataclysm of drought, hurricane, earthquake, famine, war.

The medieval abbess and mystic Hildegard of Bingen wrote of this longing, and her words are an encouragement to me:

Like billowing clouds,
like the incessant gurgle of the brook,
the longing of the soul can never be
stilled. 

It is this longing with which holy
persons seek their work from God. 

Perhaps God also uses this longing to not only keep us seeking Him, but to bring us into participation in bringing about His work of redemption. Whether through proclaiming truth, creating works of beauty, or working to alleviate suffering, perhaps this longing serves as an impetus toward our personal involvement in God's work.  Perhaps that's part of what the Kingdom is all about....

Monday Morning Musings: Becoming Colorblind

But when will it all be new??

When will it be made right?

Forget to keep asking these questions…

Stop because the question hurts;

The longing for more aches within you and is not satisfied.

Forget the questions because the monotony of unchanging days grows tiresome,

And the days are heavy,

And sometimes the questions multiply faster than the answers

And often there are no answers;

You are met with silence.

So forget the questions and trudge on.

Get lost in the meaningless chaos,

In the details of every hour,

And the stale, gray blandness of routine, everyday life.

You must pretend you are not disappointed

When each day is exactly like the last

Because you expected no difference.

You must not, shall not feel the ache, the weight of wanting more,

Though you lose the chance for glimpses of joy and color--

With the expectation that something could happen,

You shall relinquish the slivers of beauty that do happen.

Though perhaps when you give up expecting God to work,

When you cease to look for him everywhere you go,

You give up the ability to see Him where He is working.

But this way there will be no risk.

Maybe in your ache to see the Kingdom,

In your fierce desire for redemption,

You will miss the Kingdom altogether

For fear it might not look just as you thought;

But now you are not disillusioned,

Though you be neither surprised nor overjoyed.

The world of gray envelops you, enfolds you in its dreary hues,

And in your fearful faithfulness

You become colorblind.