Winter Poem
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
The wind blows,
hard
The old maple in the backyard sways
with a little less grace than last year -
Down the tiniest bit
To the side
and upward,
her reach arthritic now
but no less tuned to the music that flows earth to sky
and back again -
like a river
beneath her burlap skin.
The snow comes then,
the temperature plunges.
Two degrees,
too few degrees
to even shiver into.
The old maple in the backyard
stops
right there
like a pendulum,
suddenly a victim of the gravity that choreographs its dance.
I can see it there in the yard
in the dark,
bedazzled by moonlight that recreates itself six times over on each of a million million crystals.
The old maple is young again -
suspended, like in a dream.
Dressed in her shimmering cloth,
draped in jewels,
tip-toe in glass slippers -
Hesitating
Posed, poised
Frosty-lipped smile
Aching
Waiting
Weighted in place -
a dancer listening for the beat that will swing her weary arms northward;
an old woman's thoughts
beautiful and wise
waiting for the letters
to fall into place.
Advent Poem
By the Rev. Cathy J. Gray
If I were Mary,
I’d say this to my new-born son:
There
in a make-believe cradle
bathed in starlight and sweet hay,
there you are -
glory unwound to earthly thread,
arm’s reach, vast as the universe,
now measured in inches, changed as easily
as night opens way for dawn.
There, warmed by the breath of a cow,
is God.
You. My Baby.
Blinking, wondering.
Worried,
waiting to know who
you have become;
you’re this...
tiny, squirming, wet, cold,
shivering against
the strangeness of it all.
But I
I saw the stars one day -
captive on burnished angel’s wings -
their spiral dance earthward,
gravity
formed of fiery gyration -
spinning to atoms of love and light,
making spine and hand and heart...
I felt the universe
sliding through me, bursting the
bounds of heaven and earth
I saw the dancing stars,
saw your pirouettes and jete’s
I watched
as you were formed in my flesh,
as you became a bit of my being.
I know you,
fully as I know my own heart.
Little one, you’re the visitor now.
No star-sparked angel wing,
feathering my morning.
This time, you - all bone and soft flesh,
dimpled hands and ancient-wisdom eyes -
here, here
seeking milk and a warm blanket.
Stranger,
tangled in heartstrings,
here for a while -
among us, with us, for us,
in us, as us. As us...
God. Wearing my own mortality,
crying my own fears,
warming my own heart.
Sleep, then, little one.
My tiny drop of God, grasping human form,
weary now from traveling through
infinite space,
tired from skipping
across meteors, like
any another child
skips stones across a pond.
Sleep and dream your journey,
dream your journey and
drift again through the stars.
Remember that - now -
you are dust,
... stardust gathered,
miracle among miracles,
created among God’s creatures,
Come, now.
I will be your cradle.
Your milk.
The weaver of your dreams
and the blanket to enfold your sleep.
I will be mama. You will be Jesus.
Nothing more
Nothing less.
Bones Like Birds / Easter Vigil
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
bones take flight like parched white birds
rising above the blue desert floor
petrified wings beating the wind
heading to the moon to the stars to the sun
to heaven
they rattle and chant their ancient melodies
in sweet and raspy tones
God's own breath sliding through marrow long dried to brittle web
when dry bones dance
you know that God is at hand
holy arms waving gracefully,
and wildly
setting a rhythm
for toes and feet and knees
hips and spine and arms and head
when God is at hand
you know dry bones can dance
you can hear them
you can feel them
when dry bones dance
when dry bones dance
your skin tingles
every sinew
every muscle
every vein, pulsing blood and breath
prepares to leap, prepares to spin
stretches toward rejoicing
when dry bones dance
tongues long dried to brittle web
sing alleluia
alleluia like water
like honey and wine
alleluia like rain and snow that water the earth
forty days and forty nights
our alleluias lay mute on crusted earth
thirsty
like seeds beyond fertility
like dry twigs that tumble and snap in the wind
like death and sorrow and fear in desert hearts
like hope in chains
petrified birds without wing
bones on the desert floor
but when God is at hand
dry bones dance and alleluias rise
like water on desert sand
like crucified flesh
refusing the grave’s offer of eternity
when dry bones dance
we know God’s response to death
when dry bones dance
crosses and tombs and desert floors
are unmasked,
revealed as fertile earth
revealed as bearers of life.
when dry bones dance
and crucified flesh bursts from the tomb like morning light
our longing rises like hope set free -
hope
that with alleluias the thirsty should come
like a living stream to the living water
hope
that with alleluias the poor and hungry should eat and be delighted
hope
that pain and sadness
will flee
that rejoicing and peace
will be our lot
when dry bones dance
we know God's response to death-
life
life
life where sun and moon and starts are good
Where evening and morning, dry land and water
tree and tulip
cattle and fish and birds
are good
life
where you are very good
and I am very good
life where God's own image
drips like hone from the hands of God's people
brittle death has been restrung
laced new with living flesh
animated and set to dancing
by four winds that breathe holy life
when dry bones dance
we know what God has in mind
that the alleluias should return to the land
that mercy should rain down on the earth
and rejoicing rise up from the peoples
that flowers should spring up from the desert
and light from the darkness of earth
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
The wind blows,
hard
The old maple in the backyard sways
with a little less grace than last year -
Down the tiniest bit
To the side
and upward,
her reach arthritic now
but no less tuned to the music that flows earth to sky
and back again -
like a river
beneath her burlap skin.
The snow comes then,
the temperature plunges.
Two degrees,
too few degrees
to even shiver into.
The old maple in the backyard
stops
right there
like a pendulum,
suddenly a victim of the gravity that choreographs its dance.
I can see it there in the yard
in the dark,
bedazzled by moonlight that recreates itself six times over on each of a million million crystals.
The old maple is young again -
suspended, like in a dream.
Dressed in her shimmering cloth,
draped in jewels,
tip-toe in glass slippers -
Hesitating
Posed, poised
Frosty-lipped smile
Aching
Waiting
Weighted in place -
a dancer listening for the beat that will swing her weary arms northward;
an old woman's thoughts
beautiful and wise
waiting for the letters
to fall into place.
Advent Poem
By the Rev. Cathy J. Gray
If I were Mary,
I’d say this to my new-born son:
There
in a make-believe cradle
bathed in starlight and sweet hay,
there you are -
glory unwound to earthly thread,
arm’s reach, vast as the universe,
now measured in inches, changed as easily
as night opens way for dawn.
There, warmed by the breath of a cow,
is God.
You. My Baby.
Blinking, wondering.
Worried,
waiting to know who
you have become;
you’re this...
tiny, squirming, wet, cold,
shivering against
the strangeness of it all.
But I
I saw the stars one day -
captive on burnished angel’s wings -
their spiral dance earthward,
gravity
formed of fiery gyration -
spinning to atoms of love and light,
making spine and hand and heart...
I felt the universe
sliding through me, bursting the
bounds of heaven and earth
I saw the dancing stars,
saw your pirouettes and jete’s
I watched
as you were formed in my flesh,
as you became a bit of my being.
I know you,
fully as I know my own heart.
Little one, you’re the visitor now.
No star-sparked angel wing,
feathering my morning.
This time, you - all bone and soft flesh,
dimpled hands and ancient-wisdom eyes -
here, here
seeking milk and a warm blanket.
Stranger,
tangled in heartstrings,
here for a while -
among us, with us, for us,
in us, as us. As us...
God. Wearing my own mortality,
crying my own fears,
warming my own heart.
Sleep, then, little one.
My tiny drop of God, grasping human form,
weary now from traveling through
infinite space,
tired from skipping
across meteors, like
any another child
skips stones across a pond.
Sleep and dream your journey,
dream your journey and
drift again through the stars.
Remember that - now -
you are dust,
... stardust gathered,
miracle among miracles,
created among God’s creatures,
Come, now.
I will be your cradle.
Your milk.
The weaver of your dreams
and the blanket to enfold your sleep.
I will be mama. You will be Jesus.
Nothing more
Nothing less.
Bones Like Birds / Easter Vigil
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
bones take flight like parched white birds
rising above the blue desert floor
petrified wings beating the wind
heading to the moon to the stars to the sun
to heaven
they rattle and chant their ancient melodies
in sweet and raspy tones
God's own breath sliding through marrow long dried to brittle web
when dry bones dance
you know that God is at hand
holy arms waving gracefully,
and wildly
setting a rhythm
for toes and feet and knees
hips and spine and arms and head
when God is at hand
you know dry bones can dance
you can hear them
you can feel them
when dry bones dance
when dry bones dance
your skin tingles
every sinew
every muscle
every vein, pulsing blood and breath
prepares to leap, prepares to spin
stretches toward rejoicing
when dry bones dance
tongues long dried to brittle web
sing alleluia
alleluia like water
like honey and wine
alleluia like rain and snow that water the earth
forty days and forty nights
our alleluias lay mute on crusted earth
thirsty
like seeds beyond fertility
like dry twigs that tumble and snap in the wind
like death and sorrow and fear in desert hearts
like hope in chains
petrified birds without wing
bones on the desert floor
but when God is at hand
dry bones dance and alleluias rise
like water on desert sand
like crucified flesh
refusing the grave’s offer of eternity
when dry bones dance
we know God’s response to death
when dry bones dance
crosses and tombs and desert floors
are unmasked,
revealed as fertile earth
revealed as bearers of life.
when dry bones dance
and crucified flesh bursts from the tomb like morning light
our longing rises like hope set free -
hope
that with alleluias the thirsty should come
like a living stream to the living water
hope
that with alleluias the poor and hungry should eat and be delighted
hope
that pain and sadness
will flee
that rejoicing and peace
will be our lot
when dry bones dance
we know God's response to death-
life
life
life where sun and moon and starts are good
Where evening and morning, dry land and water
tree and tulip
cattle and fish and birds
are good
life
where you are very good
and I am very good
life where God's own image
drips like hone from the hands of God's people
brittle death has been restrung
laced new with living flesh
animated and set to dancing
by four winds that breathe holy life
when dry bones dance
we know what God has in mind
that the alleluias should return to the land
that mercy should rain down on the earth
and rejoicing rise up from the peoples
that flowers should spring up from the desert
and light from the darkness of earth
What God Did and Did Not Do...
(A poem of Good Friday)
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
It had been a long and weary night
~ Sleepless -
The tight knot of people dragging him,
trailing him,
from one jester’s courtroom to another.
Accusations pulled from a battered hat --
Fear become anger become blame,
selling their children’s dream for the price of a nightmare
bathing the desires of their fathers
and their fathers’ fathers
in the juices of bitter fruit.
They beat him
because they had no other word for
confusion
or for afraid
or for “come back when we are ready...”
White knuckles and tingling fingers
stood in for the questions they dare not ask;
torn flesh would have to do for an answer.
On the heels of dashed hope
tumult became the invitation to the coronation
- indeed a king must be crowned tonight!
Thorns, no gold
No blessing but the laughter
But here he is, your king
The knot led him out into the streets
paraded him through the dark and beautiful city
to the hill swollen with the bones of the guilty
and the outcast (the two the same once dead)
Crowds urged him upward on weary feet
- sheep herding their shepherd to the slaughter -
sandals skidding on unsure pebbles
knees bruising and sliding downward
-- the very ground unsure of the verdict
the stones no longer acclaiming his glory
palms and children silent in the early light
He bowed down as he reached the top --
(master climber before the jeering crowd)
and quietly waited for what God would do next
They hung him there
pinned to the cross like a handbill to a tree,
raised on the hilltop like a banner
warning all would-be “gods come to earth”
of the danger they court
in this world where love
is no longer valid currency
and truth-telling mirrors crack in the desert heat
And he stayed there
and quietly waited for what God would do next -
The God before whom dry bones danced,
at whose command rocks gushed water in the desert
and dawning sky rained bread
The very God whose breath
- gentle through artists lips -
could create stars and animate clay
he waited to see what this God would do next
He died there
Bestowing paradise on rueful thief
And forgiveness on the quieting crowd
Under darking sky;
Beneath a sun
powerless to breach the distance between heaven and earth
he cried out to the God whose arms he could not feel
and entrusted his spirit to Father Mother God of love
He died there
victim of the sins of the world
(our sins, all of us)
Lamb impaled on the spearhead of our isolation
He died
and God breath
in tortured sigh
jolted clay and stone to tumbling
God breath in desperation
tore the veil between heaven and earth
and shouted “enough” through hollow universes
and it was finished.
+++++
They drifted away
One by one by one
Step by step down the hillside
the knot unraveling
threads drifting downward with pebbles and dust
anger fading with the day
Words like accusations stuffed back into the hat
Silence, a shroud falling dark around their shoulders
Unsure feet carrying unsure hearts.
A few remained
gently loosening the nails from his hands
receiving a cherished friend into their arms
cradling him to a bed of stone
bathing his body in desolate tears.
And they laid him there
to rest
because it was the Sabbath.
+++++
And we call this day Good.
Because we know this God --
this God whose breath makes world and life
this God whose Father Mother Love
cradles a broken universe in holy arms
This God would not let the story end
before dawn’s rosy-gold fingers
had time to paint a new day onto the canvas.
(A poem of Good Friday)
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
It had been a long and weary night
~ Sleepless -
The tight knot of people dragging him,
trailing him,
from one jester’s courtroom to another.
Accusations pulled from a battered hat --
Fear become anger become blame,
selling their children’s dream for the price of a nightmare
bathing the desires of their fathers
and their fathers’ fathers
in the juices of bitter fruit.
They beat him
because they had no other word for
confusion
or for afraid
or for “come back when we are ready...”
White knuckles and tingling fingers
stood in for the questions they dare not ask;
torn flesh would have to do for an answer.
On the heels of dashed hope
tumult became the invitation to the coronation
- indeed a king must be crowned tonight!
Thorns, no gold
No blessing but the laughter
But here he is, your king
The knot led him out into the streets
paraded him through the dark and beautiful city
to the hill swollen with the bones of the guilty
and the outcast (the two the same once dead)
Crowds urged him upward on weary feet
- sheep herding their shepherd to the slaughter -
sandals skidding on unsure pebbles
knees bruising and sliding downward
-- the very ground unsure of the verdict
the stones no longer acclaiming his glory
palms and children silent in the early light
He bowed down as he reached the top --
(master climber before the jeering crowd)
and quietly waited for what God would do next
They hung him there
pinned to the cross like a handbill to a tree,
raised on the hilltop like a banner
warning all would-be “gods come to earth”
of the danger they court
in this world where love
is no longer valid currency
and truth-telling mirrors crack in the desert heat
And he stayed there
and quietly waited for what God would do next -
The God before whom dry bones danced,
at whose command rocks gushed water in the desert
and dawning sky rained bread
The very God whose breath
- gentle through artists lips -
could create stars and animate clay
he waited to see what this God would do next
He died there
Bestowing paradise on rueful thief
And forgiveness on the quieting crowd
Under darking sky;
Beneath a sun
powerless to breach the distance between heaven and earth
he cried out to the God whose arms he could not feel
and entrusted his spirit to Father Mother God of love
He died there
victim of the sins of the world
(our sins, all of us)
Lamb impaled on the spearhead of our isolation
He died
and God breath
in tortured sigh
jolted clay and stone to tumbling
God breath in desperation
tore the veil between heaven and earth
and shouted “enough” through hollow universes
and it was finished.
+++++
They drifted away
One by one by one
Step by step down the hillside
the knot unraveling
threads drifting downward with pebbles and dust
anger fading with the day
Words like accusations stuffed back into the hat
Silence, a shroud falling dark around their shoulders
Unsure feet carrying unsure hearts.
A few remained
gently loosening the nails from his hands
receiving a cherished friend into their arms
cradling him to a bed of stone
bathing his body in desolate tears.
And they laid him there
to rest
because it was the Sabbath.
+++++
And we call this day Good.
Because we know this God --
this God whose breath makes world and life
this God whose Father Mother Love
cradles a broken universe in holy arms
This God would not let the story end
before dawn’s rosy-gold fingers
had time to paint a new day onto the canvas.
The fruit of time spent sitting at the altar
By The Rev. Cathy Gray April 22, 2011
Maundy Thursday, at the very end
The sanctuary stripped
is like the last glance over your shoulder
as you shut the door when moving house.
The wide, hollow space
yawns at you,
mouth stretched to stinging
trying to hold back one empty anguished gasp.
Sturdy brown ribs and marble heart
exposed,
aching:
spurning the tears that sit on the very rim,
refusing to let them spill.
Sitting Vigil
Still the flame,
still the air:
one unmoved,
one unmoving:
fire frozen in time and space
breath captive in paralytic lung –
like death itself keeping watch
spying-out just the moment
to slide in
and steal away
By The Rev. Cathy Gray April 22, 2011
Maundy Thursday, at the very end
The sanctuary stripped
is like the last glance over your shoulder
as you shut the door when moving house.
The wide, hollow space
yawns at you,
mouth stretched to stinging
trying to hold back one empty anguished gasp.
Sturdy brown ribs and marble heart
exposed,
aching:
spurning the tears that sit on the very rim,
refusing to let them spill.
Sitting Vigil
Still the flame,
still the air:
one unmoved,
one unmoving:
fire frozen in time and space
breath captive in paralytic lung –
like death itself keeping watch
spying-out just the moment
to slide in
and steal away
Holy Week in Waiting
by the Rev. Cathy Gray
We do a lot of waiting in the church,
A lot of measuring of souls in interval times.
Weeks or months.
Forty days and forty nights,
plus a handful of Sundays –
that many more days and night
And yet this thing -
this week that is Holy beyond Holy -
sneaks up on us,
pops in and catches us unaware
with its waving palms and its black chiffon draperies.
It yanks us out of our discreet anticipation
And tosses us into the throes of late-night bustling:
Bread and wine laid out and lifted up -
Poured out,
like body and blood given up and given over.
Dinner interrupted,
foolish naps in gardens of prayer,
the jangle and wrangle of silver coins
and soldiers just doing their job;
the shuffle of weary, indignant feet in stone courtyards,
the crackling of fire and raw nerves;
rulers wishing their rule to be gone (just for this moment)
aimlessly washing their hands of the blood
that has not yet spilled.
Pause…
Before dawn can lift her weary head
it all begins again:
the crack and creak of wood against wood,
the ear-splitting clang of iron hammer on iron nail,
stone rolling across the groan and shatter of grieving earth,
a boulder to close the gaping, astonished mouth of the mountainside.
Holy Week only happens in the dark.
When noonday threatens, darkness surges through yet again
as if this truth cannot be spoken in the light of day,
as if these moments ache to remain unseen.
by the Rev. Cathy Gray
We do a lot of waiting in the church,
A lot of measuring of souls in interval times.
Weeks or months.
Forty days and forty nights,
plus a handful of Sundays –
that many more days and night
And yet this thing -
this week that is Holy beyond Holy -
sneaks up on us,
pops in and catches us unaware
with its waving palms and its black chiffon draperies.
It yanks us out of our discreet anticipation
And tosses us into the throes of late-night bustling:
Bread and wine laid out and lifted up -
Poured out,
like body and blood given up and given over.
Dinner interrupted,
foolish naps in gardens of prayer,
the jangle and wrangle of silver coins
and soldiers just doing their job;
the shuffle of weary, indignant feet in stone courtyards,
the crackling of fire and raw nerves;
rulers wishing their rule to be gone (just for this moment)
aimlessly washing their hands of the blood
that has not yet spilled.
Pause…
Before dawn can lift her weary head
it all begins again:
the crack and creak of wood against wood,
the ear-splitting clang of iron hammer on iron nail,
stone rolling across the groan and shatter of grieving earth,
a boulder to close the gaping, astonished mouth of the mountainside.
Holy Week only happens in the dark.
When noonday threatens, darkness surges through yet again
as if this truth cannot be spoken in the light of day,
as if these moments ache to remain unseen.
Bare Trees
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
We see the leaves in spring and celebrate
that the trees are once again become beautiful
...that they are more fully trees now.
A real tree is about leaves and shade
and the almost-tinkling sound of the breeze that comes through.
A real tree
cuts the landscape with shades of green
and gives our fear of "beyond" smaller boundaries.
A real tree is a harbinger of life - here and to come -
and
(as our hopes rise with the deepening color)
maybe forever.
But the season of leaves is short,
each leaf a mere infant when it goes.
Leaves flame and fall
(a beauty of its own but not so much a promise, we fear).
The skeleton trees make us shiver.
Bare.
All the entanglements and truncations exposed,
the unending weaving of twig across twig,
gray-brown winding aimlessly through itself.
But skeleton is tree in its truest form
- it is tree that endures longer than a human life,
tree that is rooted deep, tight-woven with the earth itself.
It is tree that dives deep for water
and clings to bare rock if it must,
tree that strains toward the heavens.
This is tree that opens sight-lines and gives softened glimpses
of what lies beyond.
This is tree that is simply what it is.
No pretense.
No short-lived promises.
A bare reflection of our own bare selves.
A bare reflection
of the One who creates and adorns and
strips to its essence all that lives.
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
We see the leaves in spring and celebrate
that the trees are once again become beautiful
...that they are more fully trees now.
A real tree is about leaves and shade
and the almost-tinkling sound of the breeze that comes through.
A real tree
cuts the landscape with shades of green
and gives our fear of "beyond" smaller boundaries.
A real tree is a harbinger of life - here and to come -
and
(as our hopes rise with the deepening color)
maybe forever.
But the season of leaves is short,
each leaf a mere infant when it goes.
Leaves flame and fall
(a beauty of its own but not so much a promise, we fear).
The skeleton trees make us shiver.
Bare.
All the entanglements and truncations exposed,
the unending weaving of twig across twig,
gray-brown winding aimlessly through itself.
But skeleton is tree in its truest form
- it is tree that endures longer than a human life,
tree that is rooted deep, tight-woven with the earth itself.
It is tree that dives deep for water
and clings to bare rock if it must,
tree that strains toward the heavens.
This is tree that opens sight-lines and gives softened glimpses
of what lies beyond.
This is tree that is simply what it is.
No pretense.
No short-lived promises.
A bare reflection of our own bare selves.
A bare reflection
of the One who creates and adorns and
strips to its essence all that lives.
How Much of God is Enough?
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
How much of God is enough?
The bit I behold in the sparking of a star at the other end of the universe
or in the flash of lightening across the darkening desert sky?
Is it enough,
that waft of God that spills from a blade of grass on a breezy day?
Or the holy fragrance that rises up to meet me
when my feet dance across rich, dark soil?
The spirit-breath-ruach
that blows around us and breathes through us –
is that enough?
How much of God is enough?
A storming downpour
A glittering drop of dew, born from morning’s womb
A pool
A stream
An ocean
A puddle on the road?
How much do we need of this God who is at once
awesome giant
and the breeze of a butterfly’s wing?
What will suffice for us?
The light touch of a hand?
Can the rhythmic pulse of God’s fingertip
out-perform the doctor’s magic oil? or
Perhaps the speaking of a word…
The speaking of hope
the speaking of life itself?
Can a word bring death to its feet and banish it from the threshold?
Oblige cold repose and prickling hunger to trade places?
Is it enough to touch – barely,
almost imperceptibly touch –
the frayed hem of God’s garment as it skims the earth?
Just a thread -
a bit of home-spun,
coarse but insubstantial,
not even adequate to warm a nest…
Could that be enough?
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
How much of God is enough?
The bit I behold in the sparking of a star at the other end of the universe
or in the flash of lightening across the darkening desert sky?
Is it enough,
that waft of God that spills from a blade of grass on a breezy day?
Or the holy fragrance that rises up to meet me
when my feet dance across rich, dark soil?
The spirit-breath-ruach
that blows around us and breathes through us –
is that enough?
How much of God is enough?
A storming downpour
A glittering drop of dew, born from morning’s womb
A pool
A stream
An ocean
A puddle on the road?
How much do we need of this God who is at once
awesome giant
and the breeze of a butterfly’s wing?
What will suffice for us?
The light touch of a hand?
Can the rhythmic pulse of God’s fingertip
out-perform the doctor’s magic oil? or
Perhaps the speaking of a word…
The speaking of hope
the speaking of life itself?
Can a word bring death to its feet and banish it from the threshold?
Oblige cold repose and prickling hunger to trade places?
Is it enough to touch – barely,
almost imperceptibly touch –
the frayed hem of God’s garment as it skims the earth?
Just a thread -
a bit of home-spun,
coarse but insubstantial,
not even adequate to warm a nest…
Could that be enough?
Broken Ones Made Whole
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
I would say God is not all powerful
( at least chooses not to be)
So what are we to do here?
What is this call to pick up
after a less than omnipotent
less than all-controlling - - all “got it in my hand” God?
We’re all broken
Chipped teacups
rag dolls with missing arms
We are cracked windows
Unhinged doors
Chairs with unwound springs
Birds - fragile, magical, powerful birds -
But we are birds with broken wings
(I can barely fly at all, let alone carry God on my back)
This challenge is not one for the faint of heart
The puzzle of “us” has no neat cuts (only tears and tatters)
No clarified connector points
No instructions to tell us that A connects to C and B intersects with D
We’re sort of on our own here, so it can seem
We are stuck being puzzle and puzzle master at once
We are the disjointed bits - and the glue
and the shaky fingers that must sort it all
Fluffed-up confidence will not get us through
even as it makes us feel unconquerable.
Knowing the history of our gods will not get us through
especially if it leaves us thinking we are,
thus, chosen and infallible.
Never mind, though
God is here. God is here
And there. And in all places
In all us broken beings...
Broken people. Broken God, maybe.
But, still, God.
And the people God has made.
Hang on then...and keep with the puzzle,
oh broken ones.
In our incompleteness
We complete one another.
It just may be that this
is the truest meaning of love:
To hold on to each other
to believe in each other
and in what bit we have of God
long enough and hard enough
to make us broken ones one living whole.
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
I would say God is not all powerful
( at least chooses not to be)
So what are we to do here?
What is this call to pick up
after a less than omnipotent
less than all-controlling - - all “got it in my hand” God?
We’re all broken
Chipped teacups
rag dolls with missing arms
We are cracked windows
Unhinged doors
Chairs with unwound springs
Birds - fragile, magical, powerful birds -
But we are birds with broken wings
(I can barely fly at all, let alone carry God on my back)
This challenge is not one for the faint of heart
The puzzle of “us” has no neat cuts (only tears and tatters)
No clarified connector points
No instructions to tell us that A connects to C and B intersects with D
We’re sort of on our own here, so it can seem
We are stuck being puzzle and puzzle master at once
We are the disjointed bits - and the glue
and the shaky fingers that must sort it all
Fluffed-up confidence will not get us through
even as it makes us feel unconquerable.
Knowing the history of our gods will not get us through
especially if it leaves us thinking we are,
thus, chosen and infallible.
Never mind, though
God is here. God is here
And there. And in all places
In all us broken beings...
Broken people. Broken God, maybe.
But, still, God.
And the people God has made.
Hang on then...and keep with the puzzle,
oh broken ones.
In our incompleteness
We complete one another.
It just may be that this
is the truest meaning of love:
To hold on to each other
to believe in each other
and in what bit we have of God
long enough and hard enough
to make us broken ones one living whole.
Breaking the Surface Tension of Water
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
Find for yourself the finest needle
fashioned of purest silver
polished to flawless
smoothest
perfection
A needle thin and sleek
akin to a thread tightly spun of diamond dust
Then, find for yourself a bowl
wide and deep and strong
or small, delicate
thin, fragile glass.
Fill it with water
clean, fresh
from the purest spring
in the deep and serene valley
Set that water
flawless as it is
on a strong table and let it rest
Let it fall into quiet un-stirring sleep
Now
slide your needle
- that finest slip of silver, firm and sleek -
into the sleeping water.
But do not disturb
Do not wake the water
Do not cause ripples or ruffling
or the slightest wound.
Be quick and precise
Be slow, gentle,
constant.
Hold your breath and steady your hand...but
- I warn you now -
it cannot be done.
Not even God can do it
Not even God
can challenge the fact of surface tension
and come out victorious
But why would God want to?
spirit as she is
of eternal dance,
she of sacred pliable unsleeping shape?
Some say the exchange of DNA may be permanent
that the cross-over of this to that
stays with us
Could it be that in
one embrace one kiss
one welcoming touch of hand on hand
one moment of resting together in holy water
-could it be
we become forever a part of one another,
that each is changed, irreversibly
- like the finger of God, now Creator
sticky forever with the mud of creation
The finest needle becomes wet with water
holding each droplet in new reflective tension
The water moves (graciously) as it welcomes that silver spine,
each brought to never-before-seen jostling chaotic rebirth
in time, to settle
as one vital beating heart
Like downy chicks:
when one flutters a wing in her dreams
each stirs and resettles
a gentle chirping wave
like the softest of breezes ruffling through
and the whole becomes a new nest
breathing again as one
By the Rev. Cathy Gray
Find for yourself the finest needle
fashioned of purest silver
polished to flawless
smoothest
perfection
A needle thin and sleek
akin to a thread tightly spun of diamond dust
Then, find for yourself a bowl
wide and deep and strong
or small, delicate
thin, fragile glass.
Fill it with water
clean, fresh
from the purest spring
in the deep and serene valley
Set that water
flawless as it is
on a strong table and let it rest
Let it fall into quiet un-stirring sleep
Now
slide your needle
- that finest slip of silver, firm and sleek -
into the sleeping water.
But do not disturb
Do not wake the water
Do not cause ripples or ruffling
or the slightest wound.
Be quick and precise
Be slow, gentle,
constant.
Hold your breath and steady your hand...but
- I warn you now -
it cannot be done.
Not even God can do it
Not even God
can challenge the fact of surface tension
and come out victorious
But why would God want to?
spirit as she is
of eternal dance,
she of sacred pliable unsleeping shape?
Some say the exchange of DNA may be permanent
that the cross-over of this to that
stays with us
Could it be that in
one embrace one kiss
one welcoming touch of hand on hand
one moment of resting together in holy water
-could it be
we become forever a part of one another,
that each is changed, irreversibly
- like the finger of God, now Creator
sticky forever with the mud of creation
The finest needle becomes wet with water
holding each droplet in new reflective tension
The water moves (graciously) as it welcomes that silver spine,
each brought to never-before-seen jostling chaotic rebirth
in time, to settle
as one vital beating heart
Like downy chicks:
when one flutters a wing in her dreams
each stirs and resettles
a gentle chirping wave
like the softest of breezes ruffling through
and the whole becomes a new nest
breathing again as one
