Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Don't want to lose this link.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

I Am Waiting

By Lawrence Ferlinghetti
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, “I Am Waiting” from A Coney Island of the Mind. Copyright © 1958 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

I used to know something about Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and hi

Good Shepherd/ Determined Woman

Sermon Start
Luke 15:1-10
Lost and Found

Scripture this morning invites us to  ponder one - perhaps THE - central theme of our faith:  The surprising grace and mercy of God, who is pictured in the first mini story as the Good and Brave Shepherd, who seeks out each lost lamb -
Who in the second story is the Patient and Persistent Woman who will not give up until she has found her treasure.  This is the God who throws a party when any one who has been away flies or is carried or even crawls back home to the One who loves us all.

The story would be so easy to tell if we just could be sure where we are located in it.  Which part of the story belongs to us.  

Which are we?

What are we supposed to be doing?
Searching for something that is lost?
or Celebrating what God has found?

In the set up to the story, do we identify with the tax collectors and sinners?  Or the righteous folks who worried that Jesus spent too much time with those ne’er do wells? Let’s start there:

Suppose you were to walk into Steak and Shake after church and find Jesus already there, with a motley assortment of losers.  Let’s people that table with . . . somebody just out of jail, a woman whose third or fourth marriage is on the skids,  a kid who is always in trouble at school, someone whose always sick, I don’t know --- think of the people whose lives make you think, “Thank God I’m not them.”  So Jesus is sitting in the corner booth with these guys, and some really nice folks who live down the street, who always keep their yard so nice and have really polite teenagers are sitting at a table there, and they sort of roll their eyes at the rabble in the corner, and wave you over.  But you notice that there’s an empty chair at Jesus’ table, too.  Where do you think you’d sit?  Where would you feel most comfortable and at home? At which of the tables do you belong? 

Maybe, like me, you’d see if there wasn’t a stool at the counter? 

And while you are perched on that stool, suppose you hear Jesus’ voice and he’s telling about the shepherd who, because of one little lost lamb, leaves 99 sheep in the wilderness to fend for themselves while he climbs hills and searches in ravines and wades through underbrush with bambles and thistles until the stupid little sheep who has wandered off is found, exhausted and panicked and vulnerable to predators, and freed from whatever has snared his wooly coat and kept him from following the flock.  And the shepherd picks up the sheep and doesn’t drive him, but carries him back to be reunited with the rest. 

You didn’t THINK you were lost, but you know you feel a bit like that lamb sometimes - you are alone, and you don’t know exactly where you are, and you seem to have wandered off the path you thought you knew so well.  You know the world seems dangerous and you feel as though you lack any protection from those who would do you harm.   And when Jesus describes the Shepherd’s strong hands lifting the lamb and placing him on his shoulders, you long to be carried in those strong arms to a place of safety and rest.

Maybe then you reconsider, and pick up your milkshake and start to join the table with Jesus.

But he’s still talking, and you don’t want to be rude, so you settle in to listen as he tells another story - a story of a woman who has lost an important coin.   It is a tenth of her bridal headress, the only real money she will ever own for herself.  And when realizes it is missing, she is frantic.  She begins looking for it immediately, not waiting until the morning light might aid her in her search.  She lights a lamp, and in that meager light she moves the furniture, she gets out her broom and sweeps every corner, inspects every crevice in the flooring until she finds it. 

And you think of things that you have lost --- and given up on finding.  Maybe it is the joy of living, which somehow slipped away awhile ago and you have been too busy to go back to try to regain it.  Maybe it is a commitment to someone or something, even your best self, that just isn’t there anymore.  Maybe it is a spiritual practice - - - prayer, or generosity, or hospitality that used to shape your life, but which lies forgotten . . . where?  You aren’t quite sure.  Maybe it is your faith.  People lose their faith all the time, and not everyone bothers looking for it. 

But whatever it is, the woman who sweeps and searches through the night reminds you of how much you miss it.  You want it.  And you think that maybe, if Jesus helps you, you might be willing to light the lamp, burn the midnight oil, upend your room and pick through the dust and spiderwebs in the corners of your life until you find it again.

The crowd at Jesus’ table is laughing and cheering again, as Jesus describes what happens at the end of the story -  BOTH stories end the same way:  There is a party, a celebration with rejoicing and music and food and good company.  Jesus says, there is  a party that reflects the party that angels have in heaven whenever the lost is found, when the wanderer returns, when a life is reunited with the God who loves us so.  That’s the kind of happy ending you want for your story.  You spin on your stool and head for the chair that’s been waiting for you this whole time.

One who has lost a treasure?
or one who is actively searching?
Where are you in the story? 
Maybe you still aren’t quite sure. 
But at least you know where you want to sit at Steak and Shake.

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Little Church Poem with little letters, too

“i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
--i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
--i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)”
― E.E. Cummings

Monday, June 10, 2013

Dirge Without Music - Edna St. Vincent Millay

Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

I need to learn this one "by heart"

David Lose's blog, again.
A week or so ago I listened to John Lithgow's Poetry for the Whole Family audio book.  It was great.  I should go find some of those poems and put them here.
But today   - - -
The Land of Beginning Again
I wish that there were some wonderful place
In the Land of Beginning Again.
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door
and never put on again.
I wish we could come on it all unaware,
Like the hunter who finds a lost trail;
And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done
The greatest injustice of all
Could be there at the gates
like an old friend that waits
For the comrade he’s gladdest to hail.
We would find all the things we intended to do
But forgot, and remembered too late,
Little praises unspoken, little promises broken,
And all the thousand and one
Little duties neglected that might have perfected
The day for one less fortunate.
It wouldn’t be possible not to be kind
In the Land of Beginning Again,
And the ones we misjudged
and the ones whom we grudged
their moments of victory here,
Would find in the grasp of our loving hand-clasp
More than penitent lips could explain…
So I wish that there were some wonderful place
Called the Land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches,
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door
And never put on again.
By Louisa Fletcher, in The Land of Beginning Again.

David Lose says the Land of Beginning Again is heaven.  And the church should be a foretaste.
I really need to learn this poem by heart.
( Confession:  I am in danger (I think we all are?) of becoming one of what Moses and God, talking over a beer, called "these stiff necked people".)

Sunday, May 5, 2013

David Lose's blog is the source for another poem I don't want to forget.

Reply to the Question: “How can You Become a Poet?”
take the leaf of a tree
trace its exact shape
the outside edges
and inner lines
memorize the way it is fastened to the twig
(and how the twig arches from the branch)
how it springs forth in April
how it is panoplied in July
by late August
crumple it in your hand
so that you smell its end-of-summer sadness
chew its woody stem
listen to its autumn rattle
watch it as it atomizes in the November air
then in winter
when there is no leaf left
invent one
Eve Mirriam