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

Commencing Resurrection: Speaking to the Soul, May 19, 2022

Revelation 21:1-6

It is graduation season all across the country, including in our own household. Our son Scott graduated last weekend from the University of Kansas with a degree in architectural engineering. The excitement is real, as the third of our three children has earned his degree!

Too often, a lot of attention gets placed upon the endings that the graduation season signifies: for some, the end of 13 years of secondary education; for others the end of four or more years of postsecondary education. A lot of blood, sweat, study, and sometimes tears have gone into these diplomas and degrees. For many of us in our parishes, it is the end of the program year, the end of the choir season, and the start of many parishioners scattering for vacations and summer holidays.

Perhaps it would be helpful if we could think of this not as a season of endings but as a season of commencement—a chance to use another word that is often used for these ceremonies, only extending the idea of growth more fully in our own lives. As we heard in one of our readings last Sunday, God is ever making all things new—even in extraordinary and unsettling times such as these.

What if we were to view May, June, and the warmer months as a time of re-invigoration, as a chance to use the gift of time summer presents as a new beginning, a time to strengthen our spiritual lives? For as difficult as the last two and a half years have been, how much more difficult would it have been without our faith communities us through the traumatic, anxious worldwide emergency of covid. This season of resurrection calls us to remember and re-member and embody God’s loving-kindness and compassion not just for ourselves, when we need it the most, but for those in the world who hunger and thirst for good news in these times.

The world all around us is bursting forth in its leafy, floral finery. What better time than now to dig deep and cultivate a sense of wonder, gratitude, enjoy in our hearts for all the gifts that God has given us, for each precious moment that we have to be with those we love, and to see the miracle of this beautiful earth that bears us tenderly within her embrace? To think of the myriad ways we have received and been given grace and kindness over the fall and winter months and the ways that imperfect people and imperfect times have nonetheless also shone a light into our hearts and minds. And even as we may travel here or there, to give thanks for the home that we experience in our parishes. Our faith communities, after all, have had to struggle and rethink so much of what we do and how we connect, just as teachers and students have had to, as well. How can we double down in our support of clergy and fellow parishioners?

Beloved, in summer especially, we see the physical proof that the commencement of each day brings new possibility, new hope, and new opportunities to deepen our connection and commitment to each other and to God, our Creator and Redeemer.

Let resurrection commence, in all our heart and souls!

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, May 19, 2022.

Prayer 3334: On the First Full Day of Spring

O God,
as Earth turns in wakefulness
from the slumber of winter
to the rising dawn of spring,
as geese arrow southward overhead,
we too turn our thoughts to home,
the sunlit home we offer us in your kingdom.

Help us gather
beneath your shining countenance.

Help us sing out your love;
let halting harmonies
become intricate tapestries of grateful praise,
for your love is steadfast and true.

May we release the stones of our cares
in the deep well of your abundant grace,
casting all our burdens
upon the promise of your mercy and care.
Teach us to walk in paths of compassion
to share from the bounty we have received
of charity, forgiveness, and holy wisdom.

O God,
cast your finest net beneath our seeking hearts
that we may be gathered when our way turns to wandering
as we long to be drawn
within the sheltering wing of your loving-kindness,
and extend your sheltering hand
beneath those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 3039: Spring Rhapsody

God of the Honey Bee,
God of the Lark,
God of the Aspen Grove,
we join with all your creatures
in a chorus of praise and worship.
We are upheld by your almighty hand;
all that we have and are is yours,
and we bow in gratitude before you.

May we echo the humble thanksgiving
sung out by cicada and tree frog,
who praise You and your provision without ceasing.
May we find delight in the labor you set before us,
as the hummingbird does.
May we lift our arms to you in praise
like the oak as it stretches skyward.
May we constantly sing your praises
like the wind that weaves through pine-needle
and sets them to resonating in joy.

May we open our hearts to your guidance
for our own sake and the sake of the world,
led by wisdom of the Spirit of Truth,
enlightened by the example of the Prince of Peace,
rooted deep in the verdant garden of the God of Life.

Holy Trinity, One God,
envelop us in your mercy and grace this day,
and place the kiss of your blessing
upon those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Springing-Up: Speaking to the Soul, March 25, 2021

John 12:20-33

Finally the blue sky finally unfurled itself before our wondering eyes—but it sure seems like it has been raining for weeks. And for all that we are told that

April showers
Bring May flowers,

it’s just as true around here that

March rain brings flood
and icy cold mud.

Today, though, we have been rewarded: I have seen the first buds on the redbud tree in our front garden. The redbud is grandchild to the wee, timorous stick brought across two states from Oklahoma in a bucket by my dad, who has been gone these last fifteen years.

These nascent buds are beautiful, though transitory. Those same blossoms must fall to the ground to make way for the heart-shaped leaves that will soon provide a canopy of cool shade. Then, in November those leaves too will die and drift to the ground.

So, also, we are reminded in a recent Lenten gospel that the solitary grain of wheat must fall to the ground and be buried before it can bring forth fruit. Otherwise, it remains a single grain—the original Greek here actually says, “Remains alone.”

Jesus, through his upcoming passion, will also be nailed on a cross, facing death and feeling abandoned and alone.

We know this will happen.

We also know that that cross will then awaken the world to the greatest power on earth—the power of love that does not hold our frailties and sins against us, but calls us to a new life in love. We know that the cross is not the end for Jesus, but just the beginning of victory. This is what is known in religious lingo as “the Paschal mystery.” Dying leads to rising. And around again.

So the image of the grain of wheat says something first of all about Jesus as the Christ, but second of all it says something about us. Christ transforms death through his own death on the cross, and then rises again to bring light and hope into this divided world. We become faithful by dying to our own divisions and fears and embracing love as Jesus spread his arms of love on the cross.

This is what all of scripture and God’s revelation has been trying to get through our thick skulls all along.

Our faith doesn’t tell us how to die.

It tells us how to live.

It doesn’t tell us what to give up.

It tells us what we will gain.

It doesn’t tell us that the world is broken.

It tells us how to make the world better. Hope springs up where love reigns.

Let us begin.

This was first published at the Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, March 25, 2021.

The Least We Can Do: Homily for Ash Wednesday 2021

Lent is a season that I doubt many people say that they look forward to. First of all, there is a broad swath of American Christianity that scarcely pays this season any notice. Then there is the common misconception of most things about Lent in popular culture. 

 

Even people who are NOT religious seem to know plenty about Mardi Gras, with its party-in-the-streets, purple green and gold, king cake eating, Southern-Comfort-drinking, bead-tossing, zydeco-dancing, costume-wearing, “laissez le bon temps rouler” attitude. One last chance to party it up before what is commonly held to be seven long weeks of denial and surrender during what in most of the US is the coldest part of winter.

 

After the big party comes Ash Wednesday, the official start of Lent, and to outsiders it can seem to be filled with morbid reminders of human mortality. It’s a day of fasting after the feasting of Mardi Gras—and THIS meaning of the word “fast” is one most of us view with at worst dread and at best resignation.

 

Christians who observe Lent are often asked “What are you going to give up for Lent?” Give up. As in surrender. As in submission. And these are very uncomfortable words. 

 

Then there’s the actual idea that you must offer up some beloved habit or treat for those seven weeks, denying yourself the pleasure of chocolate, or dessert, or soda, or caffeine, or swear words, or refined sugar, or red meat. You know—all the things that help us do the adulating during the day. And the giving up of something that our body may crave with the idea that it will make us more spiritual perpetuates some unhelpful stereotypes about suffering and pleasure, not to mention exaggerating the supposed divide between body and soul. Done right, Lent reminds us that our bodily existence is a gift from God, not something to deny. 

 

Too often, all of the things we associate with Lent can threaten to overwhelm us with distraction rather than leading us into a deeper understanding of how much God loves us and pursues us throughout our lives. Worst of all, it gives us the idea that God wants us to be deprived, or even miserable. As if devotion to God can’t lead us to true joy and praise! 

 

I fear we have allowed Lent, and much of our church-going experiences, to become transactional rather than transformational. We say we believe in Jesus, but we avoid following him. We get hung up on saying the right words to get into heaven, and forget to do the right things so that we can stake our claim in God’s love and abundant mercy right now. Instead of wonder, we scoff. 

 

We spend too much time eating the bread of anxiety. We hold ourselves back, thinking it will keep us safe, or we worry what our friends would think if we started placing God’s commandment to love each other at the center of our existence, rather than our own fears and suspicions at the heart of our day. 

 

Too often, we end up doing the least we can get away with, in the hopes that we can forget that we are God’s, and we are also God’s beloveds. We turn our backs on people and associations if they do not cater enough to us. WE put up our defenses rather than really allow love in, for fear of being hurt—and yet the binding of our hearts does far more damage than any potential heartbreak could cause.

 

Jesus urges us to a better way. In our gospel we are urged to enter into fasting and self-examination with joy and gladness, knowing that offering just this little thing to God still leaves us enormously outmatched by the gifts that God offers to us. 

 

The name of the season on Lent comes from the Middle English word for "Spring." We have it all wrong: Lent is a time of new growth, of anticipation, of hope, and of looking forward in joy and gratitude for the breaking of winter’s grip on our frozen hearts. Jesus calls us to joyfully embrace the turning into the greening of our spirits into a renewed commitment to God and each other.

 

The love that Christ offers to us, especially during Lent, is one of self-giving, of generosity. That love elicits in us the impulse turn upon its head the notion of doing “the least we can do” in our relationships with God and with each other—of avoiding the common responsibility and care we owe each other as fellow-creatures. When we seek to offer a sacrifice to God, may we remember that the purpose of a sacrifice is not pain and denial, but to make ourselves holy, and making ourselves holy is a step toward making ourselves whole. 

As we are marked with the ashes today, ashes derived from the palm fronds from previous Palm Sundays, may we remember that the ashes originated in rejoicing, in proclaiming Jesus as our ruler and Lord within our lives. And let us wear those ashes with joy, with hope, as people of love.

 

As we are reminded that we are dust, and to dust we shall return, may we remember that ashes are not just a sign of mourning but a reminder of our union with all creation, and that being dust makes us kindred of the stars that dance overhead, and set ourselves the task, during these 40 blessed days, to be drawn back into the knowledge of our one-ness with all things, our fellowship with even the most common stuff of creation, and be drawn therefore into love and care with each other and with all the whole earth, that we may we dies to the casual sins of complacency and disdain that so pervades too much of our world, and instead live in gratitude and joy --starting today and for the rest of our lives.

Let Lent begin the thawing of our gratitude—formed by the hand of God, who breathed life into us from God’s own Spirit, the God who then gave us God’s Son as the ultimate sign of how beloved we all are—all of us. No exceptions. I am convinced that living out our days embodying that truth would be the greatest, most holy fast and offering of all. Nothing more, and nothing less, than all we are we are called to offer to each other, and to God.

 

And that is the least we can do.

 

 

 

Amen.

Preached at the online noon service on Ash Wednesday, February 17, 2021, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO

Readings:

• Joel 2:1-2,12-17
• Psalm 103
• 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
• Matthew 6:1-6,16-21

Prayer 2644

We give you praise, O Loving Creator,
and lift our hearts in wonder before you,
grateful for your multitudes of blessings.

Guide us into wisdom and grace,
that we may seek out the stranger and the outcast,
seeing the face of Christ in all,
drawing wide the circle of mercy and redemption,
as you call us to do, O Lord.

Lift us on the wings of hope and healing,
that we can be witnesses of your power,
and draw the world closer to You, O God,
by the generosity and love
we bear for each other and all creation.

Holy One,
your tenderness is a balm in suffering,
and a reminder of the sweetness of the life of faith:
pour out your Spirit upon us,
and gather within your embrace
all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2640: Prayer of the woodlands

O God, 
as the mourning dove sings out 
its five round notes of praise and seeking, 
so my soul calls for you, 
and rests secure in the boughs of your love.

Bend my soul and shape my heart
by the breath of your Spirit, O Holy One.
O Lord Jesus, Savior And Redeemer
may I flourish in grace and reflect your beauty, 
like the redbuds wearing your crowns of purple blooms.

May I bow the knee of my heart
before the dogwood blossoms of white crosses,
bearing the marks of your wounds,
transformed by your blessing
into a sign of our redemption 
and herald of your resurrection,
and ever give thanks for your wondrous love.

Lead us, O Morning Star Who Guides Us,
and blaze eternally within the hearth our hearts, 
and draw within the lea of your mercy
all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2631: Easter Day in time of pandemic

Alleluia!
Spring up, O Heart, from your slumber;
behold the Risen Light of Christ!
Let us raise our praises to Our Redeemer,
who has shattered the chains of death forever!

Risen Christ, unbind the shroud around our hearts,
that we may rise with You into new life,
bound only by the law of love and service.
Just as you commissioned Mary Magdalene
to proclaim your resurrection,
may we shout the story of salvation and sing songs of joy
telling the glad news to the ends of the Earth.

Almighty God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
You have opened the gates of everlasting life before us:
draw into your embrace all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2308

We praise You, O Living Word of God,
who healed with just a word;
We praise You, O Wisdom from on high,
whose call to us resounds with love and tenderness.

Holy One, may we center our minds
that we can see your imprint throughout the world,
and respond with awe and wonder,
revived in our determination to serve you in love
and to care for your creation.

Let us remember that we are knit together
by your love for us,
and deal gently with those we meet,
seeing your beloved face, O Christ,
in each other.

Spirit of God, stir up within us
faith and hope enough
to walk in love always,
scattering blessings in our wake
in the name of Jesus.
Spread wide the tent of your mercy, O God,
and draw beneath it all those
who turn to you as we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2307

Photo by Chris Jenkins of the Jefferson City tornado that hit on May 23, 2019.

Let us raise our hearts to our Creator,
who is making the heavens and the Earth.
Let us sing praise to our Savior,
whose mercy endures forever,
and sustains the weary with unfailing compassion.

Your creating energy, O God, is awesome in its power:
we worship You and give you glory!
God is our refuge and our shelter,
our steadfast companion in times of trouble or danger.
We turn to you in trust, Holy One,
for You abide with us even in the midst of the storm.
Place your hand of protection
over all who are in danger,
over all who seek the lost or injured,
we humbly pray.

Guide the hands and the hearts
of doctors, nurses, and first responders,
of clergy and chaplains,
as they seek to comfort and heal the injured and the traumatized.

Blessed Jesus, you know our cares and concerns:
gather under your sheltering wing
all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2280

Most Holy God,
who has upheld us by your hand
throughout our resting and our waking,
we offer our praises and prayers to You,
trusting in your goodness and tender love.

Our hearts sing with joy
amidst the susurus of pine
and the basso chorus of oak and maple boughs
resounding upon the warming breeze;
all things have their origin in You, O God,
and they are sustained by your delight.

Give us the empathy to see your face
in every face we encounter, Lord Christ,
and the courage to love each other
as you entreated us to do.

Strengthen us in a spirit of wisdom and charity,
that we may walk in integrity and holiness
wherever our paths take us this day.
Draw us into your embrace, Blessed Jesus,
and bestow your peace and relief
to those whose hope rests in You.

Amen.

Prayer 2256

Most Merciful One,
your lovingkindness has sustained us
through the watches of the night,
and by your grace we feel the warmth of a rising sun:
may we center this day within your service.

May we always live out the beauty of your gospel,
and embody your compassion and healing
within the cracked and shattered places that we encounter
in ourselves
and the world around us.

Grant your benediction, we pray, O Lord,
on all whose hope is in you,
and strengthen us to be your reconciling hands in the world.

We ask your comfort to rest, Lord Christ,
on those whose cares we lift before you.

Amen.

Prayer 2255: Prayer for April 1

Almighty God,
who is making the heavens and the earth,
we glorify and rejoice in your wisdom and truth:
hear our prayer.

You part the curtain of stars with the blessing of dawn;
You kindle the celestial fire of a billion suns
and also the bright eye of the robin
industriously breaking her fast:
accept our wonder and praise, O Creator.

May we listen to the rasp of the rising buds in the red bud trees,
and hear the surging prayer of the dogwood
as it unfurls its cruciform blooms
that testify to Christ's salvation.

May we rejoice at the song of life that thrums in our veins,
that also calls the slumbering earth
to awaken under April's bright-eyed gaze:
You, O Holy One, have made them all,
singing all that is into being,
imbuing life by the Holy Spirit,
sustaining it by your Word, our Savior.

Send now your blessing upon us, Lord Christ,
as we raise our hearts and hopes to You,
and pour out the comfort of your healing
upon all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2249

Blessed Savior,
we thank You for bringing us to the shores of this day:
may we ever serve your kingdom.
All Creation sings a waking tune,
and bids us worship the One
who made us for love and service:
come, let us pray and give thanks. 

May we join in with the melody of hope and harmony
that springs up from the earth,
and open ourselves to be forgiven and renewed.
Grant us wisdom and understanding, O God,
that we may hear your gospel message
of love, mercy, and compassion for all living things. 

We repent of the wrongs we have done
or that we have not challenged:
have mercy, and restore our determination to good.
Gentle our hearts and thoughts, Lord Christ,
that we may seek to build each other up
and work to heal the world. 

May the warmth of Love Unending
quicken our wakening hearts, O Holy One,
and a Spirit of Peace dwell within us.

Amen.

Prayer 1922: For the beauty of the Earth

Creator of the Universe,
your hands have molded stars and galaxies
in all their glory,
and also this small redbud blossom
that dances and shivers in the breeze.
It too is glorious,
and soon will carpet the earth in beauty,
making way for the heart-shaped leaves
that will canopy over our heads,
glowing with resurrection light,
offering luxurious shade and refuge:
in all things offering praise to You, O God.

It is the time of the greening of the Earth:
may our spirits also be revived by your abundant love,
that we may rest in your embrace, Lord Christ,
and breathe out our prayers with the morning breeze,
secure in your lovingkindness,
grateful that you call us beloved.

Spirit of Holiness, envelop us and mold us,
that we be set on fire to do the work of love,
sustained by the beauty
You have spread before us like a banquet,
putting our hands and hearts to the cause of peace.

Let us place our hearts within your peace.
Let us pause for a while in contentment,
grateful for the wonders You have created,
O Rising Light, O Blessed Trinity,
knowing that you sustain our hearts and minds
in all our journeying and our resting.

Merciful God, Lover of Our Souls,
we place all our cares and all our loves within your hands,
and humbly ask You to set your benediction and healing
over all for whom we pray.

Amen.

For Where Your Treasure Is, There Your Heart Will Be Also: Speaking to the Soul, May 2, 2018

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”—Matthew 6:21

For many months while I was in seminary, I went every week to visit a parishioner who was homebound. I would bring her communion right after worship, and we would sit and talk about her life, her husband, her love of sports cars, art, her collection of classical music, or little snippets of poetry from whatever she was currently reading. Sometimes we would just sit for a moment in silence, before we would share bread and cup brought straight from the altar of our parish.

We often sat facing a window that overlooked a community garden, and there were bird feeders on poles, wreathed with flowers that changed depending upon the season: first the daffodils, which then subsided to tulips, which then subsided to iris with a backdrop of lilac, which then subsided to gladiolas and lilies. As we would sit and savor our companionship, a goldfinch or wren might swoop into view, grabbing a seed from the bird feeder and then darting away to perch on some leaf or pole which working assiduously to open the shell to get to the kernel. Our gazes would rest upon the scene, and she would turn to me, with her blue-gray eyes shining, and whisper, “Isn’t that marvelous?” with the delight of a person fully content.

I am thinking about my friend today as I sit in my garden and watch the birds at my own feeders dash about like mad. I am able for a few minutes to be at rest while they swoop in and out, in search of food, in search of water, in search of materials to reinforce their nests. Yet they sing with joy at their work, and I think, “That’s the way I want to be when I work. And isn’t it marvelous?”

It is at last that season of the year when I am able to sit amongst the plants on the hillside in my backyard, and simply tune my senses to what is going on around me for a few moments as I pause in the otherwise busy day. The hostas are unfurling and uncurling with a determination that will not be denied. You can feel the vibration of earthworms as they slide into view to escape the water that has puddled around the emerging fiddleheads of ferns. The temperatures finally are above 60 degrees, and there is a breeze in the air that stirs the cathedral bell chimes hanging from the boughs of the pine, providing the bass and the middle to the joyful sounds of the birds all around me. Remembering that friendship that was so dear, I carry the memory of my friend into this moment right now, and her joy and wonder in simple things, her rootedness and contentment in each moment as we sat together.

I breathe, and listen to the birdsong, and the chimes, and the slough of new leaves rubbing against each other as a gust of wind brings them together. Sometimes my busy minds tries to count or categorize the different types of birdsong I hear, but I try to shut down that striving part of my mind and just enjoy being in the center of such a symphony of sound. “Oh, hey, it’s only 75 degrees, and my neighbor’s air conditioner just clicked on,” I think, and then immediately realize I am doing it again. Back, back, mind. Be at rest, and be content. My friend treasured simple moments in her heart, and reminds me still to do the same.

Too often I get caught up in the concerns and petty annoyances of everyday life. I allow myself to put my focus on things which do not generate a sense of peace, but rather a sense of anxiety. And I know I am not alone. We are programmed to respond instinctually to a sense of scarcity, to a sense that we are somehow being at rest places us at a disadvantage. We are too eager for distraction, too afraid we will miss some peak experience or some bit of news.

But my time with my friend showed me that rare gift of contentment and wonder that is so easy to lose. She treasured each moment, and that was where her heart was. She responded with joy to little things of beauty that could easily be overlooked. And though she has been gone for over a year, I remember her and feel like I am sitting with her again, enjoying the industry of the dun-colored sparrow, watching a redbud bloom flutter to the ground to make way for a tiny, heart-shaped leaf that will soon join with her fellows to provide a cool green canopy all summer long. This is a moment I will treasure in my heart. And isn’t it marvelous?

(This essay was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 2, 2018.)

Bearing Fruit: Speaking to the Soul, April 11, 2018

John 15:1-11, from this morning's daily office

Spring officially began on March 20, but in much of the country you couldn’t tell that. One of my friends on the West Coast was bewailing the fact that it was in the 90s a few days ago where she lives, while those of us trapped in Flyover Country and Eastward keeping getting slapped with shocking amounts of snow and ice. Tender perennials have begun poking the heads up from the frozen ground, regardless, and those of us who are gardeners worry. Will that tender green survive? 

American poet Robert Frost famously started his poem, “Nothing Gold Can Stay” with the line, “Nature’s first green is gold/her hardest hue to hold.” Yet the vagaries of the weather thus far have me wondering if Frost doesn’t get that exactly wrong, at least in early spring.

Here in the Midwest, Nature’s first gold is green. Starting at the end of February, the bayonet tips of forgotten, somnolent daffodils draw the eye as they appear in late February, shy at first as then as confident as a toddler with a dangerously full diaper, scoffing at disaster looming just ahead. That infant green is so shocking, it almost seems lit from within, and truly is more precious than gold, especially to my winter-starved eyes. It will only be weeks later that the gold of daffodil flowers will grace us—the green comes first, of course.

A few days later, the broadsword leaves of iris slash up three inches, seemingly overnight, putting winter and me on notice, we hope, that its days are numbered. It may be that it will snow tomorrow. But that green teases the heart, and if you are brave enough to wander out on the crisp, sere grass in your bare feet for just a few moments, you can feel the shuddering awakening of the living soil, throwing off its slumber and preparing to resume its hum and thrum. I go out and walk the perimeter of my yard every day now, barefoot if I can stand it, checking for the signs of reawakening, a dog or two patrolling with me, and give thanks for each new precious green thing I find.

Soon the redbud trees around my house will begin to bud and blossom, especially the one my late father gave me from Oklahoma and my then-toddler first-born and I planted in the backyard even though it was, as she chanted just a “stick, stick, baby stick.” The fuschia buds will frost branch and twig of this now- magnificent twenty-year-old tree, and then they too will drop to carpet the hillside as heart-shape leaves take their place and unfurl, softening the percussive clash of bare limbs now when the wind blows in as effectively as muffling a drum.

As I was recklessly doing that just a couple days ago, before yet another snowfall was predicted here in Missouri, I noticed that the grape vine along our fence remained stubbornly barren. This came back to mind this morning in the daily office, as we were presented with Jesus’s teaching about being the true vine in John 15:1-11. “I am the true vine,” Jesus reminds his followers, “and my Father is the vine-grower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to bear more fruit.” Every time I read those lines, I am reminded of my need to prune away the things in me that bear no fruit: anger, fears, worries, frustrations that do nothing to help me lead a more God-centered life, but instead trap me in a cycle of winter within my heart and mind that clings stubbornly to me as the winter weather patterns are right now. The dead branches that are the inevitable risk of living, but that can get out of control if we let them.

Here during Easter we are called especially to remember that God’s life within us cannot be contained: that even in the midst of sorrow we are surprised continually with the truth of resurrection. Christ opens that door for us as surely as those blades of daffodil and iris will return each spring, poking their heads stubbornly up from the sleeping earth regardless of what madness the weather has unleashed overhead. “My Father is glorified in this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples. As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.”

I like the fact that this passage from John reminds me of the need to have faith in the green within me, just as we have to have faith in the green reappearing all across the landscape, especially at this time of year.

One of the things that I have started doing since my ordination that has fed me spiritually has been deliberately spending more time reading and writing poetry again, a discipline that skittered away from me during the years I was so busy raising and tending to my family and pursuing my first career as a teacher. I have started collecting poems, prayers, and songs and storing them on a blog so that I can find them even when I am out and about—which came in handy last Sunday when I realized I had misplaced the blessing I was planning to use at the end of a Eucharist I was supplying at a friend’s parish as he took a well-deserved post-Easter trip. And one of the poems I have been thinking about that I collected there also came to mind this morning, as this morning’s passage from John 15 rubs against and enlivens our Sunday Easter readings about faith in resurrection. This poem, called “Easter Week,” written by 19th century English priest Charles Kingsley, also encourages us to continue pruning away even as our hearts awaken within us, as the April birds call us to prayer even before the sun. They know better than I do that spring really is here, that winter WILL relax its grip soon both in the world around us as well as in my heart:

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.



This was first published on Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on April 11, 2018.


Image: Bleeding hearts outside St. Augustine's Chapel, Vanderbilt University, April 2017.

Prayer 1864: Safe Through the Storm

The storms of night have rolled away,
but the favor of our God lasts forever!-
let me praise our God with my first thought,
Our Shield and Shelter,
Our Help and Our Maker.

As the wind and rain coax new life
into the awakening grasses and groves,
and remnant leaves add their percussive testimony
to the cadence of my heart,
yet my spirit hears the music of creation
in the joy of the nesting birds, ringing like bells:
this moment of peace with You is precious, O God,
a gift beyond measure.

The smallest sparrow sings her prayer
from the rooftop of the house of Your mercy,
knowing Your hand is beneath her:
why then should I fear?

Help my greening faith, I pray,
and knit up the ragged, frayed edges of my spirit,
Beloved Savior, Brother Jesus.

May your grace soak into my bones, O God,
your love keep me within the field of your blessing,
that my life testify to your wondrous compassion and saving help.

Into the lea of your mercy
we gather in gratitude, Lord Christ,
to offer your our prayers:
help us to walk in your ways today,
and pour your abundant favor upon those we now name.

Amen.