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 Parable of the Blade of Grass

                  Where the fire enters
a city of small doors, a city
of one blade of grass, a city
where the fire enters, where
the children on their hands
and knees lick the stones
of the street and the mice gather
in the square with the others
to watch the one blade of grass,
where old men whisper
in their hands, a city where the old
women move their skirts against
their thighs to remind themselves
of their own flesh, and what flesh
can do for a city, for a fire,
where a couple not from the city,
not blue-veined, but full of flesh,
watch the town gather around the blade
of grass, watch them offer their eyes,
watch them heap stones around their fire,
this couple not from this city,
not flattened by the heat
or the dust watch the children
crawl to the edge of the blade
of grass and offer their young tongues,
in this city where the fire enters,
the two not of the city walk
to the children, step over their hunched
backs and dirt-stained lips, past the edge
and pluck the flower from the fire,
from this city, in this city where
fire enters through a hush of flesh,
the couple not of the city snap
the blade of grass in two
and place it in each other’s mouth     watch
them eat a fire watch the children grow
legs below the knees     watch the old men
kiss the old women behind the house walls.
Love is when you hear the flood coming.


-- Roger Reeves (1980- ), African American poet and professor of poetry at the University of Illinois, Chicago

God Our Refuge: Speaking to the Soul May 4, 2023

(inspired by Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16)

In You, O God, do we take refuge:
our trust is in You as we cry out in distress.
Even when the darkness surrounds us,
when walls close in upon us,
You are our mighty fortress.
Preserve us within the storms of life,
for though the tempest rages about us,
You are our God.
Mighty winds may blow and howl,
but You,
O God,
are our rock of refuge and stronghold to keep us safe.
For You take heed of our souls’ distress
and will never give us up to the power of darkness and despair.
We rest in the hands of the Almighty:
we rejoice in your mercy and lovingkindness.
Watch over your children, we pray,
and embrace those who rest within You.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 4, 2023.

Easter Week

See the land, her Easter keeping,
Rises as her Maker rose.
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,
Burst at last from winter snows.
Earth with heaven above rejoices;
Fields and gardens hail the spring;
Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,
While the wild birds build and sing. 

You, to whom your Maker granted
Powers to those sweet birds unknown,
Use the craft by God implanted;
Use the reason not your own.
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices,
Each his Easter tribute bring-
Work of fingers, chant of voices,
Like the birds who build and sing.


-- Charles Kingsley (1819-1875), English priest and poet

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.

Where the Wind Blows: Speaking to the Soul March 2, 2023

Abraham, back when 

he was just two syllable Abram
heard the voice of God
from within his soul
speak so convincingly that even
as his molars still
rattled from the conversation,
he packed up
wife and cattle and nephew
and headed to an unknown land.
In doing so
he left behind
all he had ever known.

I am a good man,
admired, respected,
a leader.
So through the anonymity
of dark-veiled streets
I went, seeking answers,
overflowing with questions.

I started with oil:
Rabbi, we know
that you were sent by God.
He blinked up.

And to be fair,
I did barge in
in the middle of the night.

There were signs.
But I wanted answers.
Instead I got riddles.
And he left me here.

To be brave enough
to let go of our “certainties”
—which are often just opinions
wrapped up in fear
and cynicism.
“The wind blows
where it chooses.”
And I hear leaves
rattling down the narrow alleys

I took my questions to Jesus.
The answer took me
someplace unexpected.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 2, 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.

Bless. Be. Speaking to the Soul for January 26, 2023

Matthew 5:1-12

O God, You bless us in every moment, 

and uphold us by the strength of your Love:
hear our prayer, for our hope is in You.

Bless those who work as your servants,
for they have fixed their hearts upon salvation in each moment.

Bless those who are gentle and kind,
for they draw others to You through their witness.

Bless those who hunger for a just society,
for they seek to build the kingdom of God.

Bless those who demonstrate mercy and forgiveness,
for they live out a life of Love and Charity.

Bless those who are innocent and childlike,
for their hearts are always open to You.

Bless those who spread peace in their wake,
for they call us to live as better people and children of your household.

Bless those who suffer for their faith,
for their resolve will never be shaken.

Bless those who cry out to You,
for they know that God will comfort them in their needs.

Almighty One, guide us to be
the blessed, the generous, the brave,
whose faith reflects your blessing upon all creation.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on January 26, 2023.

A Fortress Not of Stone

Psalm 27:1, 5-13

Into your courts, O Most Holy,
we come bearing our weights and burdens,
to cross the threshold and breathe in the cool air
redolent with tallow, incense, wood soap,

dust motes set ablaze and twirling
by colored grass and the breath of prayer–
a humble little church, carpet threadbare
from the tread of feet drawn to your radiance.

Your house, O God—
made not of stone or plaster,
but lyric of the human heart,
a refuge from all that assails
when we see beyond the skin that divides us
to the image of eternity with each one..

Here I see You, O redeemer,
in the beauty of your living temple:
in the sticky face of a child playing in the pew,
looking up to say “Amen;”
in the young woman whose very step across the threshold
is an act of bravery and resistance
to the pains yoked to her against her will
by those who thought themselves God’s anointed, praying
that this day she will be reminded of her beauty carved by your love;
the mother who has prays for her son awaiting diagnosis,
the young man whose job hangs by a thread,
the elderly father whose children do not call.

You call us to embrace of each other- that is your church.
To sing for those who breath is tight,
to welcome those seeking shelter,
to embody grace for the bowed down,
to flare with hope and tenderness for those casting off their burdens.
made free by your mercy.
In resting on each other,
we rest in You.
This is a fortress not of stone,
but of being a people for others.

You, God, are our sheltering fortress,
rock and refuge,
our dwelling place for all our days,
shelter in storm and trouble
made visible in the peace that we share.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on January 19, 2023.

At the Gate of Advent: Speaking to the Soul, December 22, 2022

Mary is waiting, 

   every new ache
      ironically raising a stir of hope.
Joseph is waiting,
   wide awake
      to keep those crazy dreams at bay.
The angels are waiting
   and warming up their voices for the cantata,
   the altos humming a perfect fifth
      below the melody.
The shepherds
   don’t yet know they are waiting,
      but they are, eyes darting unconsciously skyward.
The sheep and goats are waiting,
   grazing while they wait,
      in the eternal wisdom of sheep and goats.
The goats are waiting
   to see if they get written out of the tale
   at the end.
The sheepdogs are waiting
   baring their teeth at malevolent shadows
   that blink with yellowy eyes
   and slink away.

The manger
   -temporarily still just a manger,
   corncrib, not crib-
      is empty but ready for the spotlight.
Zechariah and Elizabeth
   are up all night with a three-month-old
   nicknamed “Jumping Jack,”
   smelling of curdled milk and damp nappies,
   but they are waiting too.
The Magi are scrutinizing the star-charts,
   arguing, debating, pointing furiously,
      and redoing the math to no avail,
      subconsciously preparing a shopping list
         because the signs have spoken.
The Star is waiting, flaring on cue,
   testifying to portents and prophecies
   saying all that is needed
   simply by being itself.
God rubs her hands together in anticipation,
   like all parents
   when they know they have found
   the perfect gift.

So we wait too,
   on this longest night.
And while we wait, let us
   stand in awe at the vault of stars,
      who serve as witness and stage for wonders;
   breathe in stillness and alertness in this present moment
   offer up simple gratitude for the gift of hope
   sing along with celestial concerts
   practice peace for the Prince of Peace
in gratitude that God came to dwell
   among us
   as one of us
making the Creator human
and the created holy
infusing divine love into finite flesh
that we might dance with God
and truly love one another.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 22, 2022.

Dreamer: Speaking to the Soul, December 15, 2022

Matthew 1:18-25


No, that was another Joseph.

I am not the one
in many-colored coat, braggart boy, Daddy’s pet
who told his brothers they’d grovel before him, who
dreamed that the heavens would dim
before his brilliance, who lured our ancestors west
famine dogging their heels.

I never confused myself
with the messenger,
much less the message.
I work with chisel and hammer, lathe and line,
a worker of wood and hewer of timber,
not prone to flights of fancy, feet on solid ground
even after she came into my life.

It was time for a wife. So the match
was arranged, her eyes shyly downcast,
her youth convinced me my simple life would spool on. But

now she speaks of being
the handmaiden of the Lord,
but prophet, too,
breathing revolution and a child to come
who will be God-with-us,
Eternity become enfleshed wisdom and truth.
With my pledge
--and angelic visitors’ guidance.

Now I am the Joseph-guided-by-dreams, angels
arriving on beams of light under night’s curtain, drawn aside
to unveil a new future, a choice
to smother the scandal by embracing all.
My honor will be their shield.
Helpless, from child’s first cry
my arms will open to claim and name
the One through whom all creation spins into life.

No, I am not that Joseph, either.
And so I echo her “Let it be for me
according to your will,” and I
will offer my name, my arm, my heart
to child and mother
as my God commands,
even to following the Joseph path westward,
the night banged with terror through
despotic plots and angelic commands.
At your word, Lord, I will go
led by dreams, and faith.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 15, 2022.

Winnowing: Speaking to the Soul, December 8, 2022

Bedeviled by thoughts ominous and thoughts profound,

wreathing fog about my noggin, sheathing
perspective, restive, I
did not know how to spy the blue sky,
to believe it abides, though veiled,
beyond the steel-gray vault of cloud.

What to keep, what to fling away,
wheat and chaff, seed and soil, shell and sand–
I cannot clear the threshing floor of mind
nor shoulder the load alone.

My Heart’s Companion whispers, “Peace.
Be still.” Fists unfurl. And the breath of prayer
sends the draff and dregs eddying away.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 8, 2022.

Praise Now: Speaking to the Soul, December 1, 2022

Inspired by Caedmon’s Hymn

O God the Maker, whose creation brings forth stuttering praises of awe and wonder
from the untutored tongues of your children,
our hearts overflow now with your marvelous love.

Holy One, you weave the silken tapestry of heaven,
glorious to drink in and refresh our faith,
spread overhead like the canopy of a mighty oak
drawn anew to contemplate the depth of your wisdom.

Our feet firmly planted among the grasses,
our eyes lifted to the spangled expanse
of the roof of the world You have made, World-Warden;
we stretch heavenward like tender saplings.

You have fashioned this Earth as our home,
and made it holy by the work of your fingers
for all to rejoice in your bounty.

Gratitude and wonder are the foundation of our prayer,
surging up like a spring of water from our souls.

And now, O Creator,
gather our swirling thoughts
within the bounds of your mercy,
and grant your blessing upon us,
and all who turn their hearts to your light.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, December 1, 2022.

Lazarus, Found: Speaking to the Soul for October 28, 2022

Luke 19:1-10


I did not deliberately set out upon the road
On which I found myself. It started from the scorn
Of classmates who belittled me.
I may have been a small man, but
I became someone everyone bowed and scraped before.
My wealth and power reduced them to silence
To my face, and I told myself it was enough.
They grudgingly sought my favor
Who had laughed at me in my youth
Once I held the power to ruin them. Yet inside,
I knew myself to still be small, and certainly
Unwelcomed and unloved.

But when I heard of the great healer and teacher
Coming to Jericho--
Who welcomed even little children--
I was filled with wonder. I needed
To see him for myself.

Ahead of the crowds
I climbed the sycamore above the road.
No one would see me here, I thought.
But when the teacher passed below,
He stopped as if he knew I was there,
And called me down by name.
Despite the disapproval of those around me,
He sought my table and came under my roof
And spoke to me with kindness.
I served him myself, and
Beneath that compassionate gaze,
The walls of my self-contempt gave way,
Echoes of years of taunts were stilled.

All my life I thought I could hide from God,
The same way I thought wealth and power
Would heal the ache within myself.
Yet I never counted on God
Pursuing me.
Loving me despite
Everything.

--This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on October 28, 2022.

Two Before the Altar: Speaking to the Soul, October 20, 2022

“There is a crack in everything;
That’s how the light gets in.”—Leonard Cohen

The upright Pharisee, each hair in place, not a
Fringe on his tasseled loafers askew, stood
Before God’s altar and prayed to himself
Congratulations for his impeccable soul.
He knew what others thought of him.
His righteousness shone from his shoulders
Like epaulets- so certain was he of his goodness.
He checked the lock on the vault of his heart,
And nodded, satisfied. Nothing
In, nothing out, undisturbed. Shrugging deeper
Into the mantle of his own esteem,
Duty satisfied, he knew he was blessed.
Nothing had changed.

On trembling legs the tax-collector climbed the steps, aware
Of the eyes that turned his way, the stink of collusion
That clung to his fine clothes. He could still turn away,
But his heart urged him forward. No one
Expected to see him here in God’s courts,
And some sneered as he passed.
He knew what others thought of him.
Eyes downcast, he made himself small,
And beat his breast,
Pouring out his sins until his soul
Was an empty bowl, so thirsty was he for God’s mercy.
A spark of forgiveness lit the tinder
Of his heart. Cheeks wet, he resolved to turn.
In the new fire of grace and gratitude he was reclaimed.
Everything had changed.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on October 20, 2022.

The Feast of Michaelmas: Speaking to the Soul September 29, 2022

Genesis 28:10-17
Revelation 12:7-12
Psalm 103:19-22
John 1:47-51


Who is like God? The nine choirs of angels shouted,
and Michael, leading the heavenly host,
ground the bat-winged dragon beneath his heel,
he who once bore light, Lucifer,
rocketing to earth on a lightning bolt.
In that moment
Satan, crowned with blackberry brambles,
slinks off trailing intrigue like shadows.
Sword drawn, Michael bows before the Son of Man,
ready to intercede for those in crisis--
his breastplate gleaming like noonday
against the fear that stalks in darkness,
less a messenger than a warrior,
when killing in the name of God was expected.

That’s what the old folk say.

And so, as equinox recedes,
the days grow short, the meadows
rattle with spent blossoms, but
Michaelmas daisies flare like blue stars--
little suns among the weeds.
Stubble stands in harvested fields,
carrots and Queen Anne’s lace are sorted,
the fishermen return to port one last time,
nets bursting, home until spring.
The rent’s due but the cake is sweet.
Innkeepers seethe as the tourists depart at summer’s end,
and throw statues of Michael into the sea.

The fasting Francis of Assisi rises from his knees:
forty days past Ascension,
St. Michael’s Lent gives over to feast,
and there is a moment of luxurious quiet.
Thoughtfully hiding a goose
behind the hem of his robe,
he has her to dinner, rather than for,
offers her a carrot, and smiles.

(For a collection of folk traditions regarding the Feast of St. Michael and All Angels, click here and here.)

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on September 29, 2022.

Last Day of Summer: Speaking to the Soul, September 22, 2022

Yours is the day, yours also the night;

    you established the luminaries and the sun.

You have fixed all the bounds of the earth;

    you made summer and winter.

— Psalm 74:16-17

It is time to gather
the green tomatoes,
even as the day and night are at equinox.
Gourds lie drunkenly in the fields.
The crows exult in thuggery
as they hog the birdfeeders, the jays
cursing them with frat-boy fluency.
Strange migrants, Nashville warblers, phoebes, and vireos,
belly up like tourists in a foreign pub,
nervously observing the commotion,
in the basement of the pecking order.

Whether you call it
haying season
or hay-fever season
reveals your real relationship to the land:
as giver or nuisance.

After years of living in a maze of suburban
lawns crowding haphazardly against each other
like mah-jongg tiles midgame, we now live
where folks like this farmer own tractors unironically,
faded rust colored, almost salmon pink
International Harvesters tilting and
heeling, sailboats in a sea of grass. He’s dragging
a wheel rake behind him, peering over his shoulder
in Half Lord of Fishes pose, the farmer-yogi sagely
trails windrows behind, a serpent effigy mound,
ceremoniously marking the celestial season
transition to equinox
after darkfall.

There’s a sweet clean fragrance of the dew 
vaporizing in the heat
as the grass is tedded rather than tended.
Let the sun do his work,
this final summer sun
in all faithfulness. Summer lingers
until earth turn away at the coming twilight.

The last day of summer is not yet over,
despite the barbarism of storefronts 
full of sweaters, cinnamon, skeletons, even Santas. It is
a precious time of turning from green to gold,
of tending to harvest, of lining up 

what has been received:
this last summer sunset
with gratitude and grace.

-- Leslie Scoopmire, first published this day at Episcopal Journal's Speaking to the Soul on September 22, 2022.

Little But Fierce: Speaking to the Soul for September 15, 2022

  

Whoever is faithful in a very little 

is faithful also in much…- Luke 16:10

 

Some pray for faith to move mountains;
but overlook the gnarled and knotty pine
that grasps the cliff face
with roots as strong as talons
that persistently turn that mountain into soil,
daredevil defying gravity and wind
its needles whistling a laughing alleluia.

 

Some pray for the faith of a mustard seed,
forgetting, in the parable
it was an ugly, humble weed
better located outside the garden wall.

 

Lord, let me pray for the faithfulness 
proclaimed by the honest little flower
that’s blooming in the pavement crack
or garbage dump; the dandelion,
maned all in white ruff, who
though spurned, has nourished the bees all season.

 

This is my prayer: 

to be brave enough to offer my heart
like a flare of blue in an autumn sky
without calculus of renown or esteem.

O Lord, make me faithful 
like little, overlooked things.

-- Leslie Barnes Scoopmire, first published at Episcopal Journal's Speaking to the Soul on September 15, 2022

The Way Prayer Rises: Speaking to the Soul for September 8, 2022

 

The way the air holds warmth 

like a brimming teacup, tenderly
lifting the turkey vultures so high
their grace is all you see, as they trace
lazy lemniscates 
                     forever,
                           forever,
                               forever,
balancing on a thermal delicately,
black-winged angels gravely waltzing 
           atop the head of a pin

The way the painted sunflower bows
her head under the weight of the bumblebee
and the tickseed heads bristle with hyphenated seeds
that will scatter their blessings over 
the living earth
     and prepare a table before the goldfinch
        in the presence of those who treasure her

The way September’s grasshopper
rasps his way from ditches to gravel roads
his battered wings extolling his travels even as
newborn monarchs iron their wings
     under a radiant, dog-summer sun
          and shadows with edges like knives

The way the redbud leaves dance–
a line in the canopy shifting green to citrine
affirming the beauty of repair, healing, and resilience
like a vein of gold repairing a broken pot
      made more beautiful
            for the continued life it offers

is the way prayer rises and falls

-- This was first published at Episcopal Journal's Speaking to the Soul on September 8, 2022.

Praise Song at Dawn: Speaking to the Soul for September 1, 2022

Loving Creator,
we rise from our rest to sing your praise,
joining the world You have made holy
through your hands, O God.

The coyotes are back in their dens,
after antagonizing the farm dogs all night;
the barred owls have paused their conversation
under the lacy veil of heaven at sun rise;
katydid, tree frog, and cricket have raised their song
and filled the night with the throb of their praise:
now it is time for us to lift our hearts
and join in the love song of the Earth for our Maker.

Almighty One, this moment is your gift to us, too:
let us use it to center ourselves in your grace.
Let us in our prayer give thanks
for all your blessings to us,
especially this fragile Earth:
may we seek to mend and heal
the frayed cords that bind us to all creation,
and see with new eyes the beauty and completeness
in a drop of rain or sparkle of dew.

The Earth beneath our feet
is your gift to all that lives,
to animal, tree, and stream: all creation is holy.
May we care for each other with tenderness and unity,
walking in the healing path that Jesus invites us to follow.
Tune our hearts to always hear
the echo of our Savior’s laughter and empathy
through the air that still carries the imprint
of his breath and blessing.

Spirit of the Living God,
spread your wings over us
that we may be strengthened to joyfully greet this day,
and grant your peace to all for whom we pray.

Amen.


-- Leslie Barnes Scoopmire. This was first published at Episcopal Journal's Speaking to the Soul on September 1, 2022.