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Remembering that it happened once,
We cannot turn away the thought,
As we go out, cold, to our barns
Toward the long night's end, that we
Ourselves are living in the world
It happened in when it first happened,
That we ourselves, opening a stall
(A latch thrown open countless times
Before), might find them breathing there,
Foreknown: the Child bedded in straw,
The mother kneeling over Him,
The husband standing in belief
He scarcely can believe, in light
That lights from no source we see,
An April morning's light, the air
Around them joyful as a choir.
We stand with one hand on the door,
Looking into another world
That is this world, the pale daylight
Coming just as before, our chores
To do, the cattle all awake,
Our own white frozen breath hanging
In front of us; and we are here
As we have never been before,
Sighted as not before, our place
Holy, although we knew it not.
- Wendell Berry, from "A Timbered Choir"
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"Lord, thank you that I have awakened this morning with breath of life in my lungs. Each day is a gift, and I am grateful for this day. Thank you for work -- for a place and an occupation to reflect who you've made me to be. May the manner in which I labor today be honoring to you. Grant me the grace to work with a heart of integrity and with hands of skill. In Jesus' name, Amen."
- Prayer of Vocation
"The God-breathed life is common, it is totally accessible across the whole spectrum of the human condition. We are welcome into life, period. There are no pre-conditions."
- Eugene Peterson
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Sorry this is early: looking forward to, or experiencing ahead of time, Advent.
Christ, one orphan of many
First and almost final dark
under broken starlight,
blankets pulled over faces.
Begin with the manure splattered
bucket full of buggy wheat.
Light the first Advent candle.
Pause, silence, strike, hushed
glow and match moves forward:
and we wait for the liturgist to ignite
hope.
Aflame.
-
He was an orphan.
After Joseph died he gave Mary away
to John whom he loved while he died.
Furthermore, God beat him at night,
gave His beloved to suffer a whip
from His own hand, and of others.
When he was tired the Father finished the course
by tying him in a towel, bloody
weighted with a millstone
thrown without mercy for mercy's sake
into the cold dark deep.
Sink to mountain roots, Christ-child.
Sink to where there is no light
and there, aflame, you'll find us:
orphaned, sunk, bouldered.
The Spirit over the chaos deep
call forth, and down your hand sink
to draw forth your right hand,
only to find this:
A myriad of orphans grasping his heel
like so many little Jacobs born
again of the grave womb sea.
-
You razed the vineyard, farmer.
Why should you have forgiven us?
"Burn it all, but leave the roots."
You drove us to the farm that night.
Wrapped in his swaddling clothes,
warm with wine and full of bread.
Hand in hand we walked the vineyard.
You broke open the ground,
split the core and shore us upon it.
We never knew the cornerstone
to be so fragile
but so strong.
Starved to the bone
now grown to the greatest.
Christ, orphaned that we may have one Father.
Infant crushed to uncrush all others.
Flooded with lifeblood,
surges upward
filling every capillary,
breath hard and shiver.
Lord sundered for our ingrafting.
Christ, one orphan of many.
"Go forth, fight to stand, though thousands may fall at your right hand.
Weather the tides and win the prize for which I call you heavenly.
Come home knowing in you, true child, my True Child to be."
-
He began with one candle
in a filth ridden hovel -
now let's light every space.
Faith breaks dark recess
as He works where the shadow rests,
nook by nook, lifting up things,
crawling behind dressers, beneath beds,
lighting each space 'til everything glows,
every shadow breaks into smaller shadows
so all the more we know we need
the sun and moon dashed aground,
we need the day He is our light
and every heart illuminated.
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Every day begins and ends in twilight,
but yours goes on and on.
Wake up, dusk-dweller,
and chase the dawn.
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