Night Blessing: Speaking to the Soul, August 10, 2023

(Night time is beautiful; a bedtime prayer for children)


The moon and stars dance overhead
To let us know it’s time for bed.
Night holds us in a safe embrace,
So we may rest in this soft place.

Thank you, dear God, for this past day
With time to learn and time to play.
Thank you for friends, and family too,
God bless them all, and bless us too!

God, guide our dreams, for your love’s sake,
Bless all with peace until we wake.
Jesus, stay near, with angels bright,
And guard us through this blessed Night.



-- Leslie Scoopmire, written August 4, 2023. This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on August 10, 2023. The Episcopal Journal and Cafe ceased publication the following week, so this was my last piece for them.

This was written when I searched for hours and could not find prayers that did not need adaptation because they mentioned death, and/or only imagined children living in a two-parent household, and/or used exclusive masculine terms for God. It is also meant to reassure kids that the night is not frightening. 

Transfigured: Speaking to the Soul for August 3, 2023

 Luke 9:28-36

Sometimes, for a suspended moment, 
light can be a physical presence, causing 
eyelids to slam down like window-blinds, the doors 
of the mind to bang shut in shock and wonder, 
hands thrown up, defensively, as the flare 
makes visible the bones in those same hands, hands 
whose strength had been a source of pride but now 
seemed as ephemeral as moth wings against such a light. 

Even with our eyes closed, the figures danced 
orange and black upon the green screen of eyelids. 
Light so bright it deafened, 
at first we reeled, contained within the thunderous roar 
of an open furnace door. Lightning forked heavenward 
and split. Jesus stood, and two more-- 
on one side the Law in Moses, forming community; on the other 
Elijah’s prophetic imagination: poet and goad. 
In the center the Human One, divine image perfected 
yet also living, enfleshed, as when veiled, among us. 

And then the humming sound of our own heartbeats. 
Now we saw the seams torn asunder, 
Virtues at the center of a humanity, 
enlightenment embodied, laid bare 
and God’s Wisdom in the center, committed, 
to lay himself down for our sake. 
The holy companions murmured together, 
as old friends do, laughing at meeting again, 
the delight in pulling back the curtain 
revealing essential cosmic union. 
Of course we wished to stay forever. 

But the pronouncement to listen shocked us to silence, 
and we staggered like sleepwalkers 
from the cloud-shrouded mountain, 
newly alive, boundaries of earth and sky 
an illusion. Scattered images dancing 
along nerves, transformed from experience to memory,
our footsteps in sync with each pulse 
that beat as one with that sacred heart 
and thrummed from that unpierced wrist 
and beautiful, unmarred brow, 
Earth electric beneath our feet, transfigured. 

--LKS, written for the Feast of the Transfiguration, August 6, first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for August 3, 2023.

Worthy Weeds: Speaking to the Soul, July 20, 2023

Sometimes, the worthiness of a weed is in the eye of the beholder. In the lat few years, some farmers, alive to the extreme stress that many pollinating creatures are under, have begun planting the margins of their fields with clover, ox-eye daisies, sorrel—even vetch on the verge! Queen Anne’s lace, which sounds fancy but is actually wild carrot. Taking up valuable farmland! Sixty years ago, this would have been akin to heresy of the hippy-dippiest sort.

But these “weeds” attract pollinators—which in turn, helps the crop to grow, not just in one particular field, but all around. Maybe this is a modern admonition to do as Jesus advises us, to let the weeds grow up among the wheat in Matthew 13:24-30,36-43.

As conditions in our environment get more and more extreme climatologically, weeds are experiencing a rehabilitation of sorts, which makes the parable of the wheat and the weeds in Matthew’s gospel shine with new possibility. What if this isn’t a story about judgment and flames, but a story of redemption, of allowing time and grace to sort things out where we rush in to condemn?

I remember I was sitting in my car one morning, about ten years ago, reading. In between pages I would watch my daughter's field hockey practice. They played in a desiccated brown field full of crispy grass and weeds—even though every boys’ team was gallivanting on crisply tended fields, the girls were shunted a half mile away, not even on school property, and yet the school claimed equivalency under Title IX. Every time I sat near this field watching these girls practice, I felt a sprout of annoyance break through the drought-fired clay of my heart.

The day before, a man half-heartedly, like a somnambulist, mowed this alleged field, even though the grass had remained in a state of stasis due to the extremely dry conditions of that summer. This field seemed to be in suspended animation, but instead of Sleeping Beauty, it was Sleeping Ugly.

There were tiny oases of green visible here and there across the burnt-ochre and sienna expanse, but those were weeds. It's always that way. When the *stuff* goes down, it's the weeds that thrive. It often seems like that with people, too. I don't know about you, but sometimes that just drives me crazy, especially if I have forgotten the weediness of my own natur, and put on airs that I might be more of a hothouse flower.

As I mused, desultorily, my eyes scanned the thatch patches that prickled, sea-urchin-like, over the ground-- and saw one small, shocking flash of color jump out from the landscape. There was a tiny yelp of purple hanging low among the clumps of fescue and thatch. A fluted flower-- belonging, yes, to some weed.

What could be more unlikely than beauty in such sere surroundings? What could be more stubborn than this small flower determined to bloom just here regardless of its improbability? What else could remind me that even in the most drab and dingy places there is grace and beauty if only we open our eyes?

And suddenly the weed was transformed into a bit of grace, a call for second chances.

In other words, a miracle.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for July 20, 2023.

Sowing Hope: Speaking to the Soul, July 13, 2023

Matthew 13:1-9, 18-25

In the woods a woodpecker has discovered a pine
filled with insects like a pinata,
and has already worked a pattern of holes
like the brogues on a pair of wingtip shoes, hammering
a spiraling, pointillist tale of his search for sustenance,
his drumroll also warning me
that this tree may not be long for this world.
But still, this is the way of things,
and this is where I go to feel
the peace
and the industry
of wild things.

This is where things grow
mostly despite me
rather than because of me.

To be a gardener or a farmer
is to trade in hope,
to refuse to give up
even when the odds for abundant growth seem long.

Nonetheless here’s growth,
and anticipation,
and hope
in each new sprout from the ground.

Sow in hope; reap in care:
the instruction manual
for farming and ministry.

There is more than simply science
or even art
in how hearts, sometimes scarred from abuse or neglect,
can nonetheless be transformed
into the soil for new growth in love.

Sure, some seed may feed the birds--
but doesn’t God provide there as well?
Plant anyway, yes—
open to receive the gospel in faithfulness,
in response to the promise
that the gospel will bear fruit
even in the clayest soil of the healing human heart.

God famously works in clay, too.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on July 13, 2023.

After the Fireworks: Speaking to the Soul for July 6, 2023

The moon beams aloft, reclaiming her throne
from the waning of rockets’ red glare; 

Dogs army-crawl, dazed, from under our beds,
still in shock from bombs bursting in air; 

The owl and whip-poor-will renew their song,
vesper hymns lifted God-ward once more, 

That true freedom rings out in sounds of peace--
precious after the echoes of war.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on July 6, 2023.

The Value of Sparrows: Speaking to the Soul, June 22, 2023

 “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?”- Matthew 10:29

The Almighty, and my professor, 
have enticed me to commit 
to thirty minutes of daily unstructured prayer. 
For Episcopalians, this may almost 
sound heretical, but I put away 
my prayerbooks and liturgies, and sit in silence 
at dawn, to discern the tender voice of God 
in whatever guise she assumes 
by this pond 
in the middle 
of this campus 
on this rainy mountaintop, 
clouds above, clouds below. 

At first all you can hear 
are the intrusions crafted by humans: 
the ringing of an unattended telephone, the 
garbage men greeting one another, heavy 
machinery belching diesel fumes aloft, 
revving engines, egad--
and it’s not even six a.m. 

Re-center, the wind murmurs, 
stippling the face of the pond like hammered silver, 
and the poplar leaves flash pale 
as they shrug over in unison, 
hands cupped in gratitude to midwife the coming rain. 

But then, the voice of God hovers 
just behind my ear: 
fish crows chiding “ah ah” just over my shoulder; 
Carolina wrens’ liquid song arrowing from the underbrush 
as Bachman’s sparrow—named after a preacher-- trills; 
a red-winged blackbird’s alarm whistle 
blending perfectly into the sound 
of the garbage truck reversing, 
upending any smug certainty 
of the comparative value of sparrows.

-- Leslie Barnes Scoopmire; this was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on June 22, 2023.

Image: the pond at which I was praying at Sewanee during my summer school session there.

Practicing Loving-kindness: Speaking to the Soul, June 8, 2023

In the reading from Genesis this weekend (Genesis 18:1-15), we find Abraham to be an example of hospitality, generosity, and consideration of others. When approached by strangers, Abraham drops what he is doing to welcome them, and to offer rest, refreshment, and nourishment. The rabbinic tradition holds that Abraham’s example of generosity to others flowed out of his unity with God and God’s will.

Jewish midrash — collections of imaginative explanations and extensions of sacred texts—rabbis treat Abraham’s hospitality as even more than the simple welcoming of strangers, and is instead a sign of one of God’s key characteristics: chesed, or “loving-kindness.”

The rabbis teach that this kind of open-hearted embrace of the other, especially if that other is vulnerable, is one of the pillars that supports the world itself. The other pillars are prayer and the study of Torah. Chesed is about cultivating a character of love, mercy, generosity, charity, and service that comes from allowing God to work within us and align ourselves with the divine spark, or breath, that God planted within us from our very beginnings.

As it turns out, Abraham was offering hospitality to God, only he did not realize it. In return, the strangers demonstrated to Abraham that his and Sarah’s needs were seen and would be lovingly, generously addressed by God. When Abraham and Sarah respond to the wondrous predictions of the strangers with disbelief, and even bitter laughter, they are caught short by this question: “Is anything too marvelous for God?”

That same compassion and generosity lies at the root of Jesus’s sending out his disciples to heal and preach to the lost and hurting around them. The twelve received new titles, “apostle,” which means “sent.” They are “sent” to the ordinary people of Israel—for whom Matthew is writing.

Jesus has compassion and empathy for the common people; he sees their needs, like Abraham did as those strangers approached, and is determined to fulfill their needs as shepherd would for those sheep who have no one to watch over them. Jesus compels his disciples to go engage in the same compassion and empathy. To live a grace-filled life, especially because they themselves have received grace, loving kindness, and mercy.

This mercy, grace, and obligation to others that Abraham embodied is referenced in Hebrews 13:1-2: “Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

Could it be that strangers are angels among us, reminding us that we are stronger when we let loving-kindness rather than anger and woundedness rule our lives? May we be inspired to live a grace-filled life, practicing lovingkindness because we ourselves know we have received grace.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on June 8, 2023.

AfterGlow: Speaking to the Soul June 1, 2023

In the beginning there was light. 

As the first flash of light danced at creation,
and the gravid Earth burst into song,
as it was formed,
Elizabeth and Mary danced
and rejoiced, so too
reflecting
the dance of Trinity, mothering and brooding over
all three, all three.

Who are we
that God would invite us into the dance?
Who are we
that our lowliness would be swept aside
by the Mighty One
who nourishes the hungry
and cradles the fallen sparrow?

The heavens are telling
that love–
the shy or tentative or bold assent
to the pull of attraction
in either astrophysics or the mystery of God–
holds all together,
disparate bodies treasured, precious
regardless of difference.

So we look up at the blue skies
looking back down at us like the bluest eye,
and so we look at the smallest ant–
all wonders, wonders all, setting us wondering–
lovingly, tenderly made by God’s very fingers.
Each flares out with the divine afterglow of creation
that burns within each heart,
and sets aglow this star-shaped phlox,
echoing that first flash of love
from when this world
was but a thought.

--This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on June 1, 2023.

Home Among the Weeds: Speaking to the Soul May 25, 2023

At our former home

my beloved disliked
our Rose of Sharon trees—
he likened them to weeds.

Yet I am convinced
that it is always the “weeds”
that provide the most refuge
without asking anything in return.

In five minutes,
I watched six hummingbirds
zoom around the blossoms
as they jockeyed for a chance
at each unfurling blossom.

I watched cardinals
and Carolina wrens fight
over the ripening grape clusters
from the vine
that is supported by not one but two trees
along our fence.

I watched butterflies—
humble little skippers,
but also hairstreaks, fritillaries,
swallowtails,
and oh my God, even a monarch,
once so ubiquitous
but now almost as surprising to see
as a Bengal tiger.

Even on my deck I could hear
the thrum of probably thirty bumble bees
hovering like tugboats from blossom to bloom,
staying aloft
only God knows how.

We owe our lives
to the “weeds” of this world,
to their humble welcome
and hospitality,
anchoring the chain of life.

Is that not beautiful?

--This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 25, 2023.

Blessing Beyond Boundaries: Speaking to the Soul May 18, 2023

The rogation procession begins at the parish door, 

in ages past a lion leading the way,
priest and people tracing and beating the parish bounds,
icons aloft, each footfall a proclamation of hope and gratitude–
saints old and new, invoking and being invoked,
that our labor may ever serve each other
and you, Lord Christ, as you ascend.

Creator God,
who laid the foundations of the earth,
and filled the sky with light both by day and by night,
we ask that you bless us this day.

New life springs up from freshly turned soil,
each furrow tracing the hills studiously,
gratefully drinking in the spring rains
like a child at breast.

Bless the fields, our holy ground and succor,
that they may thrum with the song of the diligent bees,
who help make our harvests bountiful,
orchard blossoms releasing a redolent sweetness,
scenting the air with hope.

Bless the skies, dappled with dawn,
that they may bring forth sunshine and rain in good measure,
sustaining the tender plants as they burgeon and bud,
sun gazing benevolently, enticing seed to sprout,
clouds and wind reviving the sleepy dance of ripening grain.

Bless our common toil, our labor and industry,
as we offer our strength and skill
for the sustenance of your people,
that we may minister and midwife
your renewal of the gravid, engraced earth,
that the gifts yielded to us may bless one and all,
even to the communion we share,
offering and gift,
born of earth, hearth, and Spirit.

Ever enclose us within your bounds, O God,
and call us safely into your fold and embrace,
that we may flower and bloom anew
awash in wonder, sustained by goodness.
in kinship and in kindness to your glory
clothing the earth anew.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 18, 2023.

Image:  Jules Breton - La Bénédiction des blés en Artois, 1857

UnChained: Speaking to the Soul, May 11, 2023

“An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”—Mahatma Gandhi

1 Peter 3:13-22

How should we respond when treated badly, even while doing good? How do we react when being good is no shield to suffering? Why do we think being good and then treated badly are even related? This is a question that hangs over the epistle reading from Peter’s first letter that will be read this coming weekend. Years ago, these questions even became the topic of a popular book by Rabbi Harold S. Kushner, entitled When Bad Things Happen to Good People. The question of why bad things happen even to people of faith is one that haunts followers of every faith, as well as those who have none—and often those who have turned their backs on faith have done so precisely because of this question. The insistence of God’s continued goodness in the face of injustice and evil even has a special name in theology: theodicy.

Let’s face it: God does not try to blackmail us into belief, but instead honors our free will that was given to us in our creation in God’s image. And as unsatisfying as it may be, it is true that sometimes things just happen. If believing in God would protect people from everything from everyday betrayals to suffering and oppression, there wouldn’t be atheists—but many people would also have a shallow, transactional faith, which really is close to no faith at all. Yet the story of Jesus himself, his passion and betrayal in particular, reminds us that we are framing the issue the wrong way. If Jesus himself could be betrayed by a friend and suffer a horrific death, then we ourselves cannot assume that we are inoculated from pain or suffering, either. We can, however, be reassured by the knowledge that Jesus not only understands our suffering and pain, but is alongside us in those experiences. We can also determine that we ourselves are going to be part of the healing, rather than part of the wounding. We are not promised a reward when doing what we should, just as we don’t always get punished when we are doing something wrong. These kinds of situations occur more often than we would like, certainly.

It is said that “Hurt people hurt people.” This is a profound truth for many hurtful acts deliberately committed. Threatened people lash out, jealous people try to tear others down—and on and on it goes. This is the chain of pain that often gets passed down through generations. And let’s be honest: previous generations didn’t really know how to move toward healing, either. Trauma, revenge, and belligerence are handed down through generations just the same as hair color or blood type. The difference is, we ourselves can decide to break the cycle of pain, develop an understanding of suffering that it is universal, and even pray for those who seek to do us harm.

But, if we practice the gift of listening, and of honesty, we can decide how WE are going to react to the residual pain that reverberates in our souls from the pains inflicted upon us or upon those in our lives. Not by repaying wrong with wrong, and by letting go of the injury that has been done to us, trusting in God that the grace we receive through love that knows no limits can put in perspective the harm we have suffered. While there is life, there is hope, and while there is hope, there is forgiveness and peace.

May we all seek first of unchain ourselves from our own woundedness, and seek the assurance of Christ’s love for us, and determine to walk gently among each other and upon this earth, forging a new cycle of community and love—the very definition of God’s kingdom come and God’s will be done.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 11, 2023.

The God of Green Pastures: Speaking to the Soul, April 27, 2023

Let me give thanks and praise to God,

my Shepherd and Provider,
who claims and unfailingly loves me as God’s own.
I lay all my trust at the feet of the Almighty,
Lover and Seeker of my soul.

The One Who Sees leads me into verdant, abundant pastures
filled with all I need, and gives me rest and security.
God restores and refreshes my soul,
tending and guarding my inmost being.
My Shepherd sees my weariness, and lifts me up;
guiding me in right pathways,
that I bring honor to God’s Name.

Searcher of the Heart, You shield me with your strength and vigilance;
may I always remain at your side.
No matter what terrors or trials approach me,
I am not afraid
for You,
Emmanuel,
are with me, even if death overhangs me.

Maker of Peace, You provide for me plentifully and exalt me,
even as my enemies look on,
helpless to harm me.
You have consecrated me
and blessed me abundantly,
and the cup of my blessings overflows
like a spring in the desert.

O God That Formed Me, your promise to love me
envelops me in goodness and mercy,
following me as my companions throughout my life.
I am secure as a child in God’s arms,
and my home is with you forever,
even into eternity.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on April 27, 2023.

We Had Hoped: Speaking to the Soul, April 20, 2023

Luke 24:13-24

We had hoped
that he would redeem Israel,
make Israel great again, a power among powers.

We had hoped
that he would cleanse us of sin
without changing us too much–
that he would keep out of politics,
hate all the people we do,
and keep us comfortable in our prejudices.

But instead,
he appears to us as a stranger,
slightly shiny around the edges,
but a stranger
making our hearts burn,
setting us aflame
for the love of the world
including all those we render invisible,
powerless,
voiceless,
and excluded from the table.

In the breaking of the bread,
he is at once revealed and vanishes,
lightning crashes at our feet
and rolls away the stone of our hearts.

He vanishes into those he renders visible
by his companionship and kinship,
and bids us welcome all to the table
where he is at once both host and guest.

This is the eternal life he gives:
to be his hands
pierced yet restored
that break bread
and hearts
open
tenderly
on the way to Emmaus
and beyond.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on April 20, 2023.

Thomas Speaks: Speaking to the Soul, April 13, 2023

John 20:19-31

What would you have done?
We all had heard Magdalene’s crazy tale,
but even after all the Master’s assurances,
fear seized us.
My brothers and sisters shivering behind locked doors,
while I was out in the streets and the garden
looking for our risen Lord, hoping
to see him kneeling in some thicket,
speaking to God like a child speaks to his mother.
Why they should be more afraid of a missing corpse
than of the horrors of Golgotha I cannot say.
I was looking for him,
looking, and scattering the resurrection news like seed.

I was the only one looking, hoping,
and yet the only one to not be found by him that night.
And so I missed his murmured “peace,”
his outpouring of Spirit and commission:
“Your forgiveness of sins forgives them;
your holding fast to someone holds them fast.”
But God knows we clung to each other in our grief,
and the whole town was muttering–
you could feel the rising fear lapping
at the foundations of our house.

An octave of days passed,
and this time I heard the melody of his voice
offering peace once more.
I was like a man parched with thirst
offered sweet, cool spring water.
My mind whirled.
And so I confessed:
“Lord, I cannot be sure that it is you
Unless I myself see the wounds you bear.”
And touching them, I was able
to find my place on the map of the good news.

Scars are proof of life and proof of God’s love.
The healing power of overcoming those wounds
make us who we truly are:
bearers of the image of Jesus,
the One who does wonders in our lives
by loving us, scars and all.
And with that promised peace,
holding each other fast in mercy and grace,
the world is changed.
And so I believe.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, April 13, 2023.

A Love Story: Speaking to the Soul, April 6, 2023

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

A table.
A robe.
A towel.
A basin.

Water.
A cup of wine.
A loaf of bread.

Blessing. Thanksgiving. Service. Love.

These are the images that flash before us tonight as we gather for the Maundy Thursday service.

Can you picture yourself in that room? Can you see the dust from the triumphant march through the crowded festal streets of Jerusalem still clinging to the disciples’ feet, as we remembered on Palm Sunday?

As the disciples lean back after their meal, they can probably still hear echoes of the crowd’s “Hosannas!” ricocheting off the stone walls around Jerusalem. And now they have shared a meal with their teacher, their brother, their Messiah. The disciples are gathered around a table where everyone is loved. Where every one is loved.

Tonight is the night for a love story.

The first sentence that jumps out to me is this one: “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” Jesus is getting ready to leave his disciples—and he wants to show them what true love is.

There is just one lesson left to impart. There is just one commandment left to give. The lesson is service. The commandment is love.

Love is thanksgiving. Love is sacrifice. Love sometimes includes heartbreak. On this night we will dwell between the two poles of our existence- the agony of loss and the call of love.

A few years ago I was sitting in class with Dr. Clint McCann, who is a renowned scholar of the psalms. We were discussing psalms of lamentation, especially the ones that are quoted in the Passion narrative this week. Dr. McCann noted that the gospel writers could not understand the story of Jesus during Holy Week without the lamentation psalms, psalms in which the psalmist asks for help when feeling abandoned, and laments being turned upon even by his closest friends.

Yet Dr. McCann also pointed out that every one of those lamentation psalms quoted in the story of Jesus’s passion turns to praise at the end. And that’s often how it is in our lives, too. Our lives are shot through with both sorrow and joy.

As we turn toward the cross, may we never forget: it is love that remains at the end.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on April 6, 2023

Empty: Speaking to the Soul, March 30, 2023

 Philippians 2:5-11

Empty of all privilege and power, 
empty of all vanity and puffed up pride 
he arrives not as a great warrior 
astride a mighty war horse. 

Nobodies herald him, 
the collaborators yawn and snicker 
the authorities wave their hands dismissively 
-- for now. 

Empty 
not like the chamber of a gun,
not like a fainthearted suitor pleading his case
not like the scroll of years in a crosscut of a tree,
   rippling concentrically, 
         adamantly, 
                if finitely.
Not like the would-be tyrant’s vise-like grin.

Empty like a ledger wiped clean, 
power ceded so that love is seeded and sown;
empty like cedar branches holding the morning light 
already eons old.

Lord, make us empty 
the way petals unfurl like a fist unclenched 
the way a heart, unburdened, embraces hope 
so that we may stand in solidarity 
   with the least of the least 
   out of love with the stranger 
shedding all that holds us back 
   from embracing the dream of God for all
borne aloft on a rood of love.

--This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 30, 2023.

Lazarus Unbound: Speaking to the Soul March 23, 2023

John 11:1-45

To the sound of distant weeping I exited:
“Eleazar, Eleazar,” my sisters cried
but the keen came as if from the bottom of a well,
recessing like a long, slow tide; fevered rasp
of buzzing insects in the sick room;
and my scroll was torn in half with what I thought
was finality.

All was still. I rose and spun
and I cooled like a stone skipped into a river
pain and broken body shrugged off, a spent husk:

At this point of the page I resume:
I had shed this tomb of a body and rolled back the stone.
In golden sunlight, walking under a canopy
of lupine-blue sky, hands at waist facing forward, fingers open
as bobbing seas of wildflowers
- anemones and poppies, rockrose, Aaron’s rod-
weave their stems around my wrists,
and I absorb the honeyed petrichor of a desert in bloom,
murmuration of sparrows from a wadi nearby

swallows swooping from the tops of locust trees.
The difference between a field and a wasteland is in the flowers.
All was rest. All was God. All was peace.

A kaleidoscope of colors and I am jerked back
by the voice of love, insistent.
From the depths he called me to rising with a voice tear-choked.
Then the longed-for renewal of breath back into a body
now stretched like a new wineskin across my soul.
I am a somnambulist, stumbling pale in my shroud
toward an aperture so bright all was white beyond,
heart pounding like a child’s eager fist at a door.



--Leslie Barnes Scoopmire, March 22, 2023


This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 23, 2023.

Scripture Reference: John 11:1-45, Lent 5A

Image: Jose Luis Castrillo, The Resurrection of Lazarus

Refreshment: Speaking to the Soul, March 9, 2023

John4: 5-42

Lenten violet and white papel picado flutter overhead,
the bougainvillea blooms sprawl
over the crisp white tablecloths,
altars beneath the warming Oaxacan sun.

Come, be refreshed. Offer up your cup
from stall to stall, a feast amidst fast
for stranger or friend, all receive refreshment:
Agua frescas, jamaica, tamarindo, chilacoyata, horchatas,
tejate brimming from clay bowls
on the Dia de la Samaritana.
The Pacific air is redolent and vibrant
with chocolate, sugar,
sunlight and music.

Remembering the heat of another noonday sun,
in Samaria, scorned for its mongrel faith,
sprawled between the boundaries
of Jerusalem’s industrialized religion
and Galilee with its olives and figs,
crocus and anemone,
cyclamen nodding from rocky crevices.
His face was turned toward home.

He did not seek more contention
or midnight visitors brimming
with questions. He sought
a shortcut. The route
should have been along seashore or river bank,
but God so loved the world,
and the world begins
within the hostilities in Samaria,
beyond boundaries of belief,
or the scorn of gender
or judgment and prejudice.

Photina sought to retrieve her water
when the gossiping tongues remained at home,
the heat of the sun less bitter,
her footsteps slowing as she took in
the shimmering shape of the dusty traveler
seated despite the noonday heat.
Only her need overcame her wariness. But
despite all differences,
he did not judge her but loved her,
stripping away all the rumors that clung to her,
and seeing a disciple instead.

Through her refreshed perception
she was emboldened to witness;
by calling her to tend his humanity--
his weariness, his thirst, his hunger,
and seeing hers--
the disillusionment, the contempt she bore
even among her kindred, the
burden of abandonment and scorn
but also the strength of mind and heart to dare.
His words provoke and promise,
testimony received and boldly proclaimed
to her and to us.

Nicodemus saw he was from God,
but Photina saw he was Savior.

Come, be refreshed.
Let down your bucket within your heart
to receive the living water of joy,
faith and hope--
a wellspring of witness.

Come be refreshed and restored,
stranger or friend,
by the love that was always within you
from the Maker’s handiwork
and seal upon your soul.

It is only those who have need of Jesus
who hear the hope of the invitation,
who receive the offered cup of fresh water
of God’s kingdom.


Note: the Oaxacan festival of the Dia de la Samaritana will be March 17 this year.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 9, 2023.

Marked By Love: Speaking to the Soul February 23, 2023

Ashes to tie us to dust,
the alleged poverty of too brief time on Earth,
but instead proclaims our kinship
with the flaring symphony of stars overhead,

The fragrant oil graves the ash upon each forehead,
and answers the ash’s challenge
with a proclamation of being chosen and beloved,
entrusted as heirs of God’s promised lovingkindness.

Then the cross,
the shape of love that never gives up,
drawn into the tender and wide open embrace
of the One, who proclaims with generous grace
that Love
always
wins.

Emptiness isn’t poverty,
but the ability to make room for something better,
hallowing and honoring us
by reminding us of our unity
with all of creation borne tenderly by God.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on February 23, 2023.

Transfiguration at Dawn: Speaking to the Soul, February 16, 2023

Exodus 24:12-18
2 Peter 1:16-21
Matthew 17:1-9


Something called the sleeper to wakefulness
to stand outside in the hour before dawn;
large flecks of snow arrowing out of the inky sky
looming suddenly, then swerving past.
They shush the interior chatter: “Be still.”
And as the unclad trees glow from within
the snow twines about like maypole ribbons

to communicate the wisdom each flake has drawn into itself
before vanishing when earth is met.
The creation light within each trunk
transfigures scrub oak to holy sentinels:
that light breathing in tree and stone and witness.

And the warmth of God’s pleasure stirs within the firs.

What is the origin of this light?
The forest switched on like Christmas trees,
vividly living against the night,

and the dark, silken, stars beyond a veil of cloud overhead.

They say when Moses was pulled up the holy mountain,
each cell vibrating and dancing like iron shavings over a magnet,
God’s glory rested upon the peak like wildfire cloud, and
he alighted face alit, God’s glow clinging to him like a shout. And when Jesus
took James, John, and Peter atop another, no less holy, prominence,
that fire, and that sacred love, came down,
and settled within and burst beyond that familiar, beloved body.
Jesus glowed like a sun, the true morning star
that guides weary wanderers home.
The air sizzled with God’s love,
stripping his friends of words but filling them with wonder.

The mountain can provide both a vista
and a frank reminder of the valleys that lie among us:
Jesus’s glory bursts forth from him,
twining around his friends and dazzling their hearts,
but the light has been there all the time.
God’s spark with our heart likewise stirs,

and the holy atoms dance.

-- Leslie Barnes Scoopmire

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on February 16, 2023.