The Stone Mason

Only the mason knows the secret flaw

carved into the setting of precious stones

and metal, glorious, reflecting sunlight

and the king’s delight, having built God a home,

domesticated the Wild One, his prize.
Inspired by the whorl and swirl of a wild

flower, the labourer worked his prayer into

the very foundation of the Temple;

a small act of rebellion, under

mining the master’s design,
entreating all that is Holy,

in the language of the free –

the birds of the air, lilies of the field –

to see that which is hidden beneath.

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Reasons to #WearOrange: Devaluation

A confession: when we are discussing the pros and cons of an apartment to rent, our family has come to use a rather disrespectful shorthand for one particular criterion.

How “killy” the street or block has become the self-defining descriptor of choice used as a gauge by my college-aged offspring to assess the relative safety of an address at which they might rent accommodation. Factors include the relative severity of violent and violating incidents, plotted against an axis of frequency. “There’s less crime west of High,” eldest observes wisely, “but when it happens there, it tends to be really bad.” Whereas the odd gunshot at the corner gas station becomes, it would seem, par for the course.

Last fall, one of my parishioners lost his eldest child to a gas station gunshot. As I talked with the bereaved father, as I listened to him telling me how unnecessary it was for them to kill him, I was struck by the gulf between the infinite value that this man placed upon the life he had carried in his arms; and the wealth of love, life, possibilities that had been wantonly discounted and discarded, wasted by his killers.

Is it the case, I wonder, that as we have made it so easy and so commonplace to kill that we have devalued life itself in our common currency?

Even our language has changed (I am speaking for myself). In the face of foggy threats to lives and our loves beyond our control, we revert to a childish shorthand that deflects and denies and diminishes danger, and draws us together in our little circle of hope, and family.

I think I need to change my language. Perhaps it’s time to grow up and face the real grief behind the reputation that labels a street, a block as “a bit killy.” I know the value of my own son’s life. The boy passing through, the woman pumping gas, the drunken man stumbling by the gas station are worth nothing less. Nor even, nor even the one waiting with a gun, if he but knew it.

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Trinity 2016: Delight

Wisdom calls out – the wisdom of God; we may know her as the Holy Spirit.

When she is spoken aloud, she becomes the Word. The Word was in the beginning, the yet unspoken, ever articulate Wisdom of God.

Only in our time was the Word made flesh, to live among us, when there was already a creation to inhabit.

This Sunday after the Pentecost is the time in the church year when we traditionally discuss the doctrine of the Holy Trinity, and try to explain to one another the inexplicable intricacies of our God. It is difficult to know exactly how God is made up, since God was never made. All we have are hints, and the clues developed, evolved through our millennia of existing in relationship with a God in whose image we are made.

Knowledge may be elusive; but Wisdom calls, and understanding raises her voice. She speaks of delight, and of rejoicing. She speaks of the delight of God, and of her delight in the human race, created in God’s own image.

This Wisdom is not hard to find, or to understand. She calls out from the crossroads, and from the gates of town, from the portals of the important places. She cries out to all who pass by; to anyone who will listen she will impart Wisdom and understanding.

This is not always the same thing as knowledge.

Knowledge, the knowledge of good and evil, comes with its shadow side. It is a gift not to be disparaged. The knowledge that fixes a car, or finds a new cure for cancer, or detects the need for a deep intervention into a network of sorrow and sin; such knowledge benefits us all, and it is good; but it depends upon our knowledge, too, of evil. Of all that can go wrong. All that can beset us, whether by design or by dastardly deed or by disease or disaster; we know too much to delight always in the creation that God has shared with us.

What we know is what Paul hints at in his letter to the Romans. We know that as often as we know delight, and rejoicing, and peace; at least that often we know suffering, and the need for endurance, and as often as not we know that we cannot endure, even when we are in the middle of doing just that. If endurance produces character, then we know that we would prefer to remain flat. If character produces hope, then we know that we would prefer fantasy. We walk in the valley of the shadow of death too often to rejoice always in the light that God has let in upon us. And yet.

Wisdom calls, and understanding raises her voice. They insist on rejoicing and delight. Despite knowing everything; despite seeing all from before the beginning of time: the goodness of creation, the depravity of its fall, our stumblings and our struggles and our little successes; still Wisdom celebrates.

Wisdom cries out, and understanding raises her voice.
We crave understanding: not only to understand the world around us, and its intricacies and intrigues and complicated rules and ruses; but we crave understanding in that we want to be understood. We long to convey ourselves to those whom we love, wishing that we could open our pages to them as the written Word and say: here. This is what I mean. This is who I am.

The Word of God was made human, and came and lived among us as a human being, in the flesh. His life is written in the books that we read and read again; he longs for our understanding still. He promises the Spirit of truth, to explain him to us, to translate the glory of God for us. To translate us into the glory of God.

At the Pentecost, when the Spirit of truth opened the minds and the doors of the disciples, they saw glory descending like a flame on one another, like fire. They understood the Word in their own words, in their own languages; and they were understood by one another.

Made in the image of God, in their language, in their words and their wisdom and their understanding they reflected the glory of God made manifest in living flames, in living men and women.
The doctrine of the Holy Trinity is a source of great curiosity and inspiration and the desire for knowledge in many people. But its realization may be less wonderful than the delight that it produces in clever explanations and cartoons and internet memes. For the prophet says, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor your ways my ways, says the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

The famous Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel might have this to say about a day dedicated to discussing doctrine:

“When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit; when the crisis of today is ignored because of the splendor of the past; when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion–its message becomes meaningless.”

Instead, he advises,

“Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement. ….get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed.”
Wisdom calls, and understanding raises her voice. They call from the rooftops and in the marketplace – get your Wisdom here! They are not difficult to find, or to understand. They tell us, no matter what we know or remember, or face; nevertheless they call to us to remember that God delights in us always, and always has, as God’s own creation, made in the image of God.

They tell us that the secret to Wisdom, to understanding – an open secret called out from the doorways and the portals of the poor and the important places – the secret to Wisdom is delight.

Delight in the creativity of God. Delight in being human, in being the creatures of God made in God’s image. Delight in creation – which means not only in what we call the natural world – as though we were unnatural, made somehow apart from the rest of God’s creation – but delight, as Wisdom says, in the inhabited world. In the world of people made in the image of God to reflect the glory of God.

We know that we are tarnished, and often too dull to catch fire. But there are moments, like Pentecost, when we see the flames, and we remember to delight in God and one another.

And there is true and holy wisdom in such delight, and in such love and wonder is the beginning of all understanding.

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Mother of sleepless nights

You are

the Mother of all sleepless nights.

Before the light was bound over 

to keep the peace till morning,

you neither slumbered nor rested your eyes;

before the darkness fell from sheer weary

excess of hours; as long as it took

to make us, lose us, find us crawling home 

at dawn, sliding, eliding night into day.

You are the Mother of all

sleepless nights, in curlers and slippers,

in silence, arms folded, heart unbroken,

waiting up.

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Unbabel

Slab-flat vowels like a block of dough
slapped down on the kneading board;
sibilant aromas of spice and fruit from afar off
mingle with crisp consonants.

Syllables roll like oranges through
the early morning marketplace; polyphonic
strangers drawn by the guttural growl
of hunger and homesickness.

So long lost in translation, the tongue
is astonished by the sudden taste of home.

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Making an orange stole

I’ve had a request for a pattern and/or instructions for making orange stoles for Gun Violence Prevention.

[You can read more about why I’m making orange stoles here.]

As the project has grown and been shared beyond our imaginings, I am grateful for the opportunity to share the work of making the stoles. I am not, as the following will demonstrate, a seamstress of any experience or skill; I am simply doing the best I can to place the gospel between our children and our guns.

I have used cotton fabric, 44″ wide, in two orange designs for the main front and back of the stoles. I can make four stoles out of 1-1/4 – 1-1/2 yards of fabric, rounded out with a trim at the bottom. I used a children’s handprint fabric at the ends of the stoles (I bought 1 yard in the first instance), to represent our prayers, our trust, and our responsibility, reaching up.

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I use the width of the orange fabric as a self-measuring device to make a standard length stole. The length can be adjusted by using more or less of the handprint trim.

Cut out two pieces each of the front and backing material, making sure to mirror the mitre pattern. Join the two front pieces together at the neck (hold them right side to right side, so that the seam appears on the wrong side), then join the two back pieces together in the same way. Attach the handprint trim to the ends. You now have a whole stole front, and a whole stole back.

Pin the front to the back, right side to right side, starting at the neck seam and working outward to the ends. Because these will be the longest seams you sew, be extra careful to keep them straight.

Once the pieces are joined together, turn the stole right side out, then sew up the ends by turning them in and either running across the bottom with the sewing machine, or, if you prefer an invisible finish, sewing them by hand.

This is the pattern I used for the mitred join at the neck of the stole:

stole pattern 001

Hint: open the image in a new tab if it gives you trouble.
Hint 2: this isn’t their original pattern because somewhere along the line I redrew it to the measurements I prefer, but I once got a stole “kit” from churchlinens.com and it was great. If you want something more professional and helpful, I highly recommend the kit. 

Even as I was making this post, another report was crossing my news feed of a 5-year-old child who died of gun violence – an accident waiting to happen that found its time when she found a gun under her grandmother’s pillow, and another family is torn apart.

And here, in part, is what Bishop Hollingsworth (Diocese of Ohio) told his clergy this week, writing from his sabbatical:

Awareness that gun violence is epidemic in our nation and society is essential if we are to be creative and self-sacrificing in healing the culture of fear and aggression in which we live. The notion that gun safety regulations infringe upon individual rights is unreasonable. The lack of such regulations compromises everyone’s right to live in safety.

This non-partisan witness to the Prince of Peace, who gave his own life that all might be saved, is one way of reminding ourselves and others of the self-sacrifice required of us for all of God’s beloved to be safe. It is a sign of our belief in the God who cares for every one of us as a shepherd does his sheep, and of our commitment to be the voice, hands, and heart of the Shepherd in our own time.

I commend you to God’s keeping in safety, in passion, in love.

Featured image: clergy of the Diocese of Ohio preparing to #WearOrange. Photo by the Rev. Jeff Bunke.


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Suffer the children

It was Mother’s Day weekend, a weekend of mixed emotions, to say the least. I am among the fortunate. I spent the day surrounded by family, celebrating our eldest child’s college graduation in the Columbus sunshine.

On Saturday, her younger sister and I marched across the Hope Memorial Bridge in Cleveland to remember those lost to gun violence, and to hope actively for safer times to come.

pd

via cleveland.com . The sign said, “In God we trust, not guns.”

I remember when the children were small, before we left Singapore, sitting by the pool one day watching them play. A recent arrival, a nurse named Nicki from New Orleans, was recounting her day, rehearsing with her 12-year-old son the route he would take to his new international school, across to the centre of the island. One bus driver was shocked that this mother felt the need to accompany her child on the public bus, and Nicki was concerned: was she being too protective?

“It was the same look,” she said, “that I got from other parents back home when I always insisted on asking if there’s a gun in the house before letting him go over there to play.”

I watched my toddlers and their kindergartner sister splashing in the shallow end. I thought of how I had never in their lives needed to worry about whether there was a lethal weapon in a home into which they had been invited. I could hardly imagine being in a situation where that might be a regular concern, one to check out before a play date, just in case someone might get killed.

Three years later, we moved to Cleveland.

At the rally Saturday, we heard from a gentleman who spends too much of his time visiting with the victims and relatives of gun violence in hospitals and in funeral homes, trying to wrap his arms around the wound and wrap his mind around the anger and frustration that is killing people before his eyes.

We heard from a police officer who told us that three years old is the most common age for an accident involving a child and a gun. In front of us all, she wished to God that her own grown son was not allowed a gun. It didn’t make him any safer.

kris

We heard from pastors and parents, mothers and men with t-shirts proclaiming “Moms Demand Action,” and babes in arms, toddlers in tow. Always ask, they said, if there’s a gun in the house that your child is going to visit, and if so, how it is secured.

We heard from the Distinguished Gentlemen of Spoken Word, who are “living in the fire but we do not burn.” Young men demonstrating how grow up within a world of danger with dignity, passion, and respect for themselves, for one another.

We heard the names of those young people their age and younger (as young as five months) who had died in Cleveland of gun violence since last year’s march and rally.

My youngest daughter stood beside me in the sunshine, the toddler grown now, texting her friends about gun safety. I remembered Nicki, and the son she protected with fierce wisdom and uncompromising common sense. By the time school started, she would let him ride the bus alone, having made sure he knew the way, the rules of travel, the safe way home. She would ask what she needed to know for his security and her peace of mind, and then hope, trust. Love.

The organizers of Saturday’s march and rally, God Before Guns, told the Plain Dealer, “Gun violence is definitely a mother’s issue… We’re emphasizing how many children are victims of gun violence.”

And they brought unto him also infants, that he would touch them: but when his disciples saw it, they rebuked them. But Jesus called them unto him and said, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” (Luke 18:15-16)

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Graduations

A Mother’s Day poem for a grown daughter graduating college

There was a time

measured in the skipped beats

of a sonogram machine

when you were mine

completely to hold;

you ate my food,

shared my blood,

before the cord was cut

and like a yellow balloon

spiralling slowly, quickened

at times by turbulent air

rising, you flew.

There never will come a time,

when the beats run ragged and out

of time, when they no longer tattoo:

I love you.

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Ascension (inversion)

Precipitous falling land & water
at the shore where dust turns to clay,
matter moulded to our humanity.

A low fog confuses earth with its firmament;
the mud holds its breath until the star
breaks, rising in the east.

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Leaning

I cannot stand straight.

My body shapes itself to air

that falls away beneath its drooping

head and arms. 

Once so solid,

with you no longer there,

I drift as though weightless,

of no substance; I lean against

the empty place presenting 

its silent promise 

to love me forever.

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