Poet Luis Rodriguez @The Well, July 19

"Art is the heart's explosion on the world. There is probably no more powerful force for change in this uncertain and crisis-ridden world than young people and their art. It is the consciousness of the world breaking away from the strangle grip of an archaic social order." - Poet and Author Luis Rodriguez

@The Well on July 19

"The Well, a gathering place for conversation" is a new ongoing dialogue about faith, life, community, mind, body, and the world. We believe that regular dialogue over time and in community creates a more just and compassionate society. "The Well, a gathering place for conversation" is an intimate space for big conversation. Join us.

Our schedule continues to grow and change. Be sure to keep checking back: www.qaumc.org/the-well

TS Eliot and the Magi

Here is the crux of this year's Epiphany sermon at Queen Anne United Methodist Church. It seems to me that Epiphany calls us to go down new paths. More than that, though, in our time of intense international conflict and uncertainty, the idea of all nations seeking light to lead us all to peace is a wonderful thought.



Soon after his conversion and baptism in 1927, TS Eliot wrote “Journey of the Magi,” which begins:

‘A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.’

Eliot wrote this poem during a time of deep personal and spiritual struggle. His marriage, which had been difficult for a number of years, was coming to a close. His newly forming faith demanded that he leave behind parts of himself to which he had grown accustomed. Everything was changing. New life was born out of a series of deaths. The poem concludes:

'All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.'

The story of the Magi, which culminates in the Adoration of the Magi on January 6 – Epiphany – is a story about uncertainty, journey, death, and birth. Many of us look back to the story of the Magi believing it to be part of our spiritual history, but, a more mature faith looks to the story as something much more meaningful. It is about us searching for God. We struggle. We search. We come to what feels like unsatisfactory endings to our travels only to be led down yet more paths to unknown destinations. We go through periods of deep uncertainty. Like the Magi, we little understand the culture or the ways of Jesus and his family. Like the Magi, we are distanced from them by space. Unlike the Magi, we are also distanced by two millennia; time is its own ocean we must cross to meet the Christ-child. Like the Magi, we must die to our gods in order to enter into the presence of the God of the Most High.

Epiphany is our celebration of the gift of ourselves to God. We bring all that we have – our best, our most precious selves and we kneel in awe and wonder at the miracle of the Divine One right here among us. Epiphany is for all who struggle and weep, for all who wrestle with God, for all who question whether we will find God at all. Epiphany is our way of experiencing together, if only for one day, a reality that is both in and outside of our world. God is here. In the humble places. In our fear. In our dreams. In the dirt, slime, and muck of the world. God is here. Despite our doubts. Despite our wars. Despite our greed. Despite our proclivity to wound one another. God is here. God knows the pain of birth, life, and death. God knows all that we experience because God experiences it with us. Birth and death. So close together. As we start our new year together, I wish you healing deaths and vibrant life. I hope that we, like the Magi, learn to die that we might live. I hope that we, Queen Anne UMC, can hear the beauty and the calling of the words of TS Eliot, whose own journey to the manger led him to realize:

'I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.'

Lent 4A -Easier Not to See

As I prepare for this week's sermon on John 9:1-41,

I think about the blindness in our society.

We cut off

disability benefits,

collective bargaining rights,

unemployment benefits,

protection for our environment.

And, yet we still fight two wars

and one "non-war."

We consume.

We use.

We burn.

We blow up.

We divide.

We bicker.

We hate.

We do not see.

We do not see.

We do not see.

One thing is clear to me in John's gospel story.

We cannot be sent into the world

if we cannot see it.

We cannot heal it

if we do not love it.

We cannot.

We must first see.

Our eyes are closed,

though.

There is too much to see

sometimes.

To see

is to love.

To love

is to act.

To act in love

is to heal

and not kill.

I wonder if we are ready

to wash in the Pool

of Sent.

But I pray to God

to rub our eyes with holy mud,

made from earth

and holy spit,

and to open our eyes

to new sights

that cannot

be unseen.

This is the Gospel of Our Lord:

To see.

"The Bright Field" by R.S. Thomas

In his poem "The Bright Field," Welsh poet R.S. Thomas invites us into a moment of eternity. Eternity as the ultimate singularity. All. Whole. Complete. We are invited into eternal life, not only in life after death, but whole life here on this earth, in the company of all that ever was, is, or will be.

The Bright Field

I have seen the light break through

to illuminate a small field

for a while and gone my way

and forgotten it. But that was the pearl

of great price, the one field that had

the treasure in it. I realize now

that I must give all that I have

to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future nor hankering after

an imagined past. It is the turning

aside like Moses to the miracle

of the lit bush. To a brightness

that seems as transitory as your youth

once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

"A Blessing of Solitude" - John O'Donohue

With all that is going on in the world, I thought of this poem by John O'Donohue. Found in his book "Anam Cara" in the section "One of the Greatest Sins is the Unlived Life," he writes:

"The shape of each soul is different. There is a secret destiny for each person. When you endeavor to repeat what others have done or force yourself into a preset mold, you betray your individuality. We need to return to the solitude within, to find again the dream that lies at the hearth of the soul. We need to feel the dream with the wonder of a child approaching a threshold of discovery. When we rediscover our childlike nature, we enter into a world of gentle possibility. Consequently, we will find ourselves more frequently at that place, at the place of ease, delight, and celebration. The false burdens fall away. We come into rhythm with ourselves. Our clay shape gradually learns to walk beautifully on this magnificent earth" (124-125).

To help us find that "world of gentle possibility" and to help our clay shapes "walk beautifully on this magnificent earth," he gives us this poem:

A Blessing of Solitude
-John O'Donohue

May you recognize in your life the presence, power, and light of your soul.
May you realize that you are never alone,
that your soul in its brightness and belonging connects you intimately with the rhythm of the universe.
May you have respect for you own individuality and difference.
May you realize that the shape of your soul is unique, that
you have a special destiny here,
that behind the facade of your life there is something
beautiful, good, and eternal happening.
May you learn to see yourself with the same delight, pride,
and expectation with which God sees you in every moment.

Advent 4C - Mary, Fear and Peace, and Wendell Berry

As I think about Sunday, too many topics roll around in my mind. It will be December 20, and we could focus on a "blue Christmas" or a "longest night" theme. We could focus on the talks in Copenhagen and how, as it seems now, they have disappointed our hopes that leaders would actually lead and offer us a vision for the future that contains hope. The texts invite me into thoughts of joy and peace, of women and community, and of anticipation and uncertainty. And somehow, in my mind, all of these are related. All of my thoughts bring me back to the angel's proclamation to Mary, "Do not fear."

It seems that fear has gripped the world. Fear, in my opinion, is the biggest obstacle to peace. Fear drives the greed that keeps us from caring for the earth or lifting the lowly to high places. It is fear that overwhelms the lonely on the longest night. Fear is the engine of war. But I don't want this Sunday to be about fear, do I? My problem is how to craft a service that doesn't wade too deeply into fear. At least I think so. And I need to discover how to usher those assembled in worship on Sunday morning into a celebration of peace without disregarding the force of fear at work in the texts and in the world today.

I read a good article about Mary in Celebration Publications from January of this year. The article is called "Mary's Magnificat: a song of shalom," and author Irene Nowell takes issue with the traditional idea that the Magnificat is a song of "reversal." Rather, she thinks it is a song of "mutuality." I like this. She uses examples of women's work taking place in pairs - mutuality. But it is her focus on God's justice as one of mutuality and not of reversal that is most interesting. She writes, "[W]hat is subversive is not just that the powerful are brought down, but that the lowly are lifted up. The Magnificat proclaims a new world order in which people meet on the same level...Mary's song can only be good news if its message is not 'reversal' but mutuality. If [one] proclaims simply that the oppressors will become the oppressed, then there is no hope for us." And she goes on to talk about the role of fear that obstructs mutuality - God's justice, if you will - and keeps it at bay.

As I ponder Sunday's sermon and I struggle to find balance in the message that I want to bring, I think of Wendell Berry's poem "The Peace of Wild Things." It is a reminder that in the struggle against that which threatens to overwhelm, a good respite is needed. Mary went to Elizabeth, after all. Berry goes where he always does - into God's beautiful natural world. And this is what he writes:

"The Peace of Wild Things
-Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of the wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free."

Advent Poem - "Candlemas" by Denise Levertov

Today is a mild and gray rainy day in Seattle. Many people think it's like this every day, but it isn't. When the sun shines, I have never seen any place more beautiful than the Pacific Northwest. Really. But today, we live in a stereotype. Wet roads. Slow drivers. Lots of traffic. And an oppressive darkness threatens to rob us of the slivers of gray that passes for light.

Entering the church, I looked up and saw even our bright rainbow banners struggling against the steel of the sky and the naked trees on the corner. I thought of Denise Levertov's poem "Candlemas," and it helped brighten the world up just a little.

"Candlemas"

-Denise Levertov

With certitude
Simeon opened
ancient arms
to infant light.
Decades
before the cross, the tomb
and the new life,
he knew
new life.
What depth
of faith he drew on,
turning illumined
towards deep light.

As the dark presses in and the days get even shorter, I hope I "turn illumined towards deep night."

This poem can be found in Denise Levertov's book "Breathing the Water."

Advent Thought - Dylan Thomas

For Advent, I re-read Dylan Thomas' "A Child's Christmas in Wales" and two excerpts stand out for me this year.

From the beginning of the book:

"All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find."

And I ask myself, when I plunge my hands into the unknown, what do I find?

From the end of the book:

"I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept."

Good words for Advent, a perfect time to speak words into the close and holy darkness.

"Ash Wednesday" by TS Elliot

There are so many devotional books written for the season of Lent. Rather than relying upon these ready-made materials, however, the church that I serve is putting together its own booklet. It's part of our theme "Our Journey With God." The stories that we write, collect, and edit together will be a part of our own journey, more so than a booklet with stories put together for an anonymous public. I am looking forward to what people submit. I know one submission is T.S. Elliot's poem "Ash Wednesday."

Ash Wednesday
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.


II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.



III

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.


Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy

but speak the word only.

IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Whe walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile


V
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.


O my people.


VI
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

--

The lines most meaningful to me in this poem are:
"And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice" - Lent is a time to let go of "the voice" and construct something new in which we can rejoice - a new faith, a renewed faith.

"Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still" - This has been my mantra for several years.

"Shall these bones live...and the bones sang chirping" - the question for each of us and for the Church itself. The power of faith, the power of life, the remnant singing to the wind.

"The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed." - Exile, exile of spirit, exile of soul, exile of people. Lent is exile chosen, but exile comes all too often unplanned and uncharted.

"Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee." - The perfect prayer.

You can hear TS Elliot read his own poem.

Sabbath Poems - Wendell Berry

As I've been thinking a lot about worship this Sunday during which we will remember our saints and as I've been thinking a lot about the election next Tuesday, this poem by Wendell Berry came to mind. It comes from the book "A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems, 1979-1997." Every Sunday after church Wendell Berry walks the grounds of his Kentucky farm and then writes. This is the collection of the ideas and thoughts that came to him during his walks. Here is one poem:

"A gracious Sabbath stood here while they stood
Who gave our rest a haven.
Now fallen, they are given
To labor and distress.
These times we know much evil, little good
To steady us in faith
And comfort when our losses press
Hard on us, and we choose,
In panic or despair or both,
To keep what we will lose.

For we are fallen like the trees, our peace
Broken, and so we must
Love where we cannot trust,
Trust where we cannot know,
And must await the wayward-coming grace
That joins living and dead,
Taking us where we would not go--
Into the boundless dark.
When what was made has been unmade
The Maker comes to His work."

Thank you, Wendell Berry.

"Ring Out, Wild Bells" - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

This was written in 1850, the same year Tennyson was named Poet Laureate.

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Go here to read more Christmas poems.

Awe

My vocation is seeking God.
In the warmth and simple love of my cats. Georgie, neurotic from who knows what, whines until his back is scratched, right in front of his tail. And Fred, curmudgeonly Fred, he picks with his nails until welcomed under the covers, to flip and roll with delight in the warmth of my body.

My vocation is seeking God.
In the struggles between wills in my church,
In the streets dappled with newly fallen rain,
In each face I see: smooth and not yet weathered by time and experience,
wrinkled and battered like a well traveled suitcase.
It's a good job.

But too often I miss God for the things in front of me.
I forget to look up to the sky: blue, white, magenta, gray,
dotted with birds of all kinds - airplanes zooming people near and far -
stars filled with mystery far and long ago.
I forget to find the miracle in a smile or bitter hot coffee or the home which steadfastly shelters me every night.
How can I miss the miracle of life wrestling all around me?
But I do. My eyes lose the wonder they once had
when every day I awoke to say, "What a beautiful day."
And my mom shook her head in wonder at me.

On the street corner, in front of the local market, is a homeless woman
in her heavy ski jacket, with wiry gray hair.
She is there most days
selling a newspaper
written to remind people like me that not every one can forget life's wrestling matches; that there are people who watch the sky every night, when the rain falls to dapple the grass, bend the trees, and soak the evergreens. They are there to see the stars in the nights so cold the air burns our lungs. She is John the Baptist.
Less crazy
Less loud
But a prophet
Telling me something important about God.

I rejoice.
Time stands still.
Every time I look her in the eye.
There is God.
Not in my sanctuary.
Not in my ideas.
Not in doctrine.
There.
She stands before me when I need a quick lunch or milk,
reflecting the expanse of the sky
and bending under the weight of my forgetfulness.

Her beauty,
Her sorrow,
Are both there - Divine and relentless.
I should buy milk more often.

We all need awe.

a book of poetry for advent...

Yesterday I stepped in poo - actual crap. That's always frustrating enough, but I didn't realize it and I went a good part of the morning tracking poop around with me. What a humbling reminder that I carry too much poop around all of the time (now I'm being metaphorical...just thought I'd clarify). Advent is a great time to shake it off, reach into the winter of my heart, and wait for God to arise in the most unexpected of places. Advent is the time for me to prepare for the collision of two diametrically oppsed realities - the reality of this world and the kingdom (not kin-dom, in this case) of God. God's ways are different from ours, and when God comes among us, it changes everything. There's no room in God's reality for the smelly stuff I track around !

I've already written how I keep an Advent calendar and light candles in my home, but there are all kinds of things to do during Advent that will shake the mess of the world off from our heels and remove a little of the stink that we carry with us. Reading poetry is something that I want to lift up as a good Advent practice.

Mary Oliver has a new book of poetry out called "Thirst." Clearly it is written in response to the death of her partner Molly Malone Cook. She is working through a lot in her writings, but she remains, as ever, the perfect observer of nature. Oliver is one of the best poets of our time. "Thirst" does not disappoint and offers us a great collection of reflections this Advent. I picked up a copy yesterday and have read it all through...twice. I recommend "Making the House Ready for the Lord" - a lyrical and visually compelling Advent poem. Poetry is perfect during Advent because good poetry is always pregnant with possibility; it looks around at the world and gives us a new view of it; and, it lifts up the hope for newness without forgetting the darkness of our souls and the frightfulness of the world. And, when someone like Mary Oliver is behind the pen, the humor of our lives eeks out into her observations.

"Thirst" invited me into the details of the world and away from the poop that I drag around with me all too often. Thank you, Mary Oliver.