God in Hand

Communion


Lying in my palm,
the coming of a holy Presence
to fill my life with love,
lying in my palm
to save me from myself,
the feeding of a hungry soul:
lying in my palm.


 By Ed Pacht

Receiving the consecration wafer in one's right hand is a very old custom. Ephrem the Syrian invites the Christian communicant to feel awe at what is received in his or her hand, since even the Seraph did not take the divine coal with his hand, nor did the prophet Isaiah eat it (Isa 6:6). The divine coal is a common image of the Eucharist in Syrian theology.

Searching for a Lost Goat and a Lost Son

 

An Arab Shepherd is Searching for His Goat on Mount Zion

An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion
And on the opposite hill I am searching for my little boy.
An Arab shepherd and a Jewish father
Both in their temporary failure.
Our two voices met above
The Sultan’s Pool in the valley between us.
Neither of us wants the boy or the goat
To get caught in the wheels
Of the “Had Gadya” machine.

Afterward we found them among the bushes,
And our voices came back inside us
Laughing and crying.

Searching for a goat or for a child has always been
The beginning of a new religion in these mountains.

Yehuda Amichai, translated by Chana Bloch and Stephen Mitchell, from The Selected Poetry of Yehuda Amichai (University of California Press, 1996)

Remembering My Neighbor Esther McGraw

 

Alice C. Linsley

I lived in a small cottage by Kiser Lake in Ohio, near the "Pony Wagon" town of St. Paris. My closest neighbor, Esther McGraw, was one of the sweetest persons I have met. She was a young mother, a devoted wife, a phenomenal cook, and an aspiring writer. Once when I was very sick, she arrived at my house with a pot of delicious homemade chicken noodle soup. That soup and her prayers were restorative!

When she could, Esther would attend the Western Ohio Christian Writers monthly meetings at St. Mark's Episcopal Church in Sidney, Ohio. I helped to establish that group when I served as the Vicar of that parish. 

Esther was always cheerful though she suffered from chronic renal problems and was frequently fatigued. I was very sad when I received the news of her death about 8 years after I moved away.

This Christmas poem, written by Esther, was originally published in the 1996 issue of Selah, an annual publication of the Western Ohio Christian Writers Guild.

Every Eye Upon Him

In a wooden manger a baby meekly rests

with every eye upon Him

and history is made.

Pale starlight for a compass

brings three kings from afar

to kneel before the infant's stall.

Tender Mary gazes there

while Joseph leans upon his staff

and history is made.

A bigger plan of God is set

to save us from our sins and death.

Over Bethlehem the twinkling stars announce

His story has begun.

A Hard Lent

March 25 is the Feast of the Annunciation for Orthodox, Anglicans, and Roman Catholics. The story of the Feast of the Annunciation is found in Luke 1:26-39.

Mary said, “Be it unto me according to thy will,” and then, in the famous words of the Magnificat, she said, “My soul doth magnify the Lord…”

 
It is often difficult to say either or both of these things, or to mean them when we say them. The Spirit reminds us that our yearnings are resolved only in the Holy One, and our desires fulfilled only in His plan for us. 

Lent is our spiritual reset button. Our mortality is impressed upon us. Our frailness recognized. This is a time to submit anew to the Triune God and whisper praises for the comfort God speaks to our hearts as we struggle to repent. 

Ed Pacht explores the hardness of a Lent formally or informally observed in this poem.


It Has Been …

A hard Lent,
a thoughtful Lent,
a less than pious Lent,
with less time in church,
less formal prayer,
less meditative reading
than in other Lents,
but with a sharpened knowledge
of the weakness of the spirit,
and the frailness of the body,
and the shortness of the time
that one is given on the earth –
it is a Lent of sickness,
of myself and others around me;
a Lent where death is near
and several die around me,
where sickness in a church
brings changes that seem wrong
but have descended willy-nilly on it;
a Lent of laws that work injustice,
of discouragement and near despair,
of depression, but of hope:
for behind the negativity of life
there is the hand of God,
there is the gateway of the cross,
there is a pathway from the trials of this life
that surely leads unto the throne of God;
there is a will to good I cannot see,
to glories never to be seen with eyes,
to a presence seldom fully realized,
but never absent from a Christian’s life;
and in the hardness of this Lent,
in the midst of burdens I can’t really bear,
at the heart of all my unhappiness,
I give thanks:
for God is good,
His goodness never fails,
and even now I walk and dwell
in the arms of One who’ll never let me go.

-ed pacht


Related reading: John Donne's Annunciation

Chesterton on The Kingdom of Heaven

THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

Said the Lord God, "Build a house,
Build it in the gorge of death,
Found it in the throats of hell.
Where the lost sea muttereth,
Fires and whirlwinds, build it well."

Laboured sternly flame and wind,
But a little, and they cry,
"Lord, we doubt of this Thy will,
We are blind and murmur why,"
And the winds are murmuring still.

Said the Lord God, "Build a house,
Cleave its treasure from the earth,
With the jarring powers of hell
Strive with formless might and mirth,
Tribes and war-men, build it well."

Then the raw red sons of men
Brake the soil, and lopped the wood,
But a little and they shrill,
"Lord, we cannot view Thy good,"
And the wild men clamour still.

Said the Lord God, "Build a house,
Smoke and iron, spark and steam,
Speak and vote and buy and sell;
Let a new world throb and stream,
Seers and makers, build it well."

Strove the cunning men and strong,
But a little and they cry,
"Lord, mayhap we are but clay,
And we cannot know the why,"
And the wise men doubt to-day.

Yet though worn and deaf and blind,
Force and savage, king and seer
Labour still, they know not why;
At the dim foundation here,
Knead and plough and think and ply.

Till at last, mayhap, hereon,
Fused of passion and accord,
Love its crown and peace its stay
Rise the city of the Lord
That we darkly build to-day.

--G.K. Chesterton

Use Poetry to Teach Parts of Speech

Why not use poetry to teach parts of speech?  Many students learn best this way because verse engages them.

What follows is a creative writing teacher's model used to practice the differences between the adverb, adjective and noun clause.

God’s Rain

By Hope Ellen Rapson

When I gaze through windows on a rainy day

        which seems to fill my whole world with

                tears shed by God just for me,

                        I pray.

Where is the gray cloud of sin inside my soul

        which causes You, God, to singly send

                the pattering puddles I see?

                        I ask.

Because I question my self-centered heart

        Which often fogs or blurs heaven’s answer,

                “Only grace and mercy fall here,”

                        I trust.            

An Ethan Seevers Poem

Ethan Seever is my newest private writing student. He shows great promise and this piece gives a glimpse of  some of his thought currents.

Is It Too Late?

Here is the time where we find out we're men

when we can break a heart but not bend

and when we come finally to understand

that when your heart breaks its not the end

though you feel the blow down real low

and it feels like you should curl up and know

it is time to go but

take it slow.

Don’t get caught up in the moment

just like my Pops said

“guard your heart”

don’t give way to sin

because in the end you never win.

You lose.

Why did I choose

not to listen to him

and because of my choice I did not bend.

I broke.

Guess I’m not a real man

but I understand now from this end.

Is it too late to go back to then

before all this crap caused by my sin?

 Can I go back and make sure I win

avoid making the same mistake again

but I’m prone to sin so how can

I ever win?

--Ethan Seevers (Grade 11)

Cain's Murder of Abel

Cain

Abel looked at the wound
His brother had dealt him, and love him
For it. Cain saw that look
And struck him again. The blood cried
On the ground; God listened to it.
He questioned Cain. But Cain answered:
Who made the blood? I offered you
Clean things: the blond hair
Of the corn; the knuckled vegetables; the
Flowers; things that did not publish
Their hurst, that bled
Silently. You would not accept them.

And God said: It was part of myself
He gave me. The lamb was torn
From my own side. The limp head,
The slow fall of red tears—they
Were like a mirror to me in which I beheld
My reflection. I anointed myself
In readiness for the journey
To the doomed tree you were at work upon.


--R.S. Thomas
From R.S. Thomas, Poems of R.S. Thomas (Fayetteville, AR: U of Arkansas, 1984), pp. 74-5.

Related reading:  R.S. Thomas' poem Poetry for Supper

An Evelyn Underhill Poem

MISSA CANTATA

Once in an Abbey-church, the whiles we prayed
All silent at the lifting of the Host,
A little bird through some high window strayed ;
And to and fro
Like a wee angel lost
That on a sudden finds its heaven below,
It went the morning long.
And made our Eucharist more glad with song.

It sang, it sang ! and as the quiet priest
Far off about the lighted altar moved,
The awful substance of the mystic feast
All hushed before,
It, like a thing that loved
Yet loved in liberty, would plunge and soar
Beneath the vault in play
And thence toss down the oblation of its lay.

The walls that went our sanctuary around
Did, as of old, to that sweet summons yield.
New scents and sounds within our gates were found ;
The cry of kine.
The fragrance of the field,
All woodland whispers, hastened to the shrine :
The country side was come
Eager and joyful, to its spirit's home.

Far-stretched I saw the cornfield and the plough,
The scudding cloud, the cleanly-running brook,
The humble, kindly turf, the tossing bough
That all their light
From Love's own furnace took —
This altar, where one angel brownly bright
Proclaimed the sylvan creed.
And sang the Benedictus of the mead.

All earth was lifted to communion then.
All lovely life was there to meet its King ;
Ah, not the little arid souls of men
But sun and wind
And all desirous thing
The ground of their beseeching here did find ;
All with one self-same bread.
And all by one eternal priest, were fed.

--Evelyn Underhill

Sin's Solvent

A High Demand

I looked and saw a Light so true,

  That covered blushes to my face,

And made me cower in the shadow with shame,

  Yea, shame for my sinful race.

It was no maiden blush-indeed!

  My heart quickened it was true,

But it was because the righteous Man I loved,

  His footsteps mockingly saying, “they come not for you.”

I cowered in the doorway,

  Yet snatched His face, and locked it in my heart.

For though how could He love a worm as I?

  My heart so pierced with worldly dart.

But as I lay, in misery,

  My Love did not pass me by,
But drew me up, and smiling said,

  “Maiden, why do you sigh?”

But I sprang from His touch, so gentle and pure,

  Yet burning as if from flame.

For that very reason; His righteousness,

  Kept me from even speaking His Name!

So I whispered, not daring to up look,

  And see His shining face,

But said, in sadness, oh how deep?

  “Oh, sir, I cannot accept Your grace.

For how high a demand, oh yes, how true!

  To offer up my heart so ill,

So scarred, so deep, so black with sin,

  Yet longing to find You still.”

I then dared, to see His face,

  The face I love so well.

And found only pity without contempt,

  And into His lightening eyes I fell.

He spoke of love, so deep and true,

  A solvent for my dark sin,

Healing oil to purge, and hyssop pure;

  His mansion I would dwell therein.

So I whispered to my Love,

  so deeply aware of my sin,

“Sir, to accept You, must not I be pure?

  And if not, could I ever come in?

Mistake me not, Sir, (my Love so dear),

  I would come into Your mansion above,

If a mire of despair and a book of sins,

  Did not overshadow my love.”

But again, I dared to see His face,

  And look upon Those eyes,

That told me that I am welcomed there,

  And to dry my tears and ease my sighs.

He set a crown on my head,

  And His throne He took me to,

But with joy, not pain, I threw down my crown,

 And cried out, “My Lord, it is You!”

--Chandler Hamby

Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer

Here are the words to that great Anglican hymn - "Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer" - sung at the wedding of Prince William and Kate.  Hear it sung here at YouTube.



Guide me, O thou great redeemer,


Pilgrim through this barren land;

I am weak, but thou art mighty,

Hold me with thy powerful hand;

Bread of heaven, bread of heaven

Feed me till I want no more;

Feed me till I want no more.



Open now the crystal fountain

Whence the healing stream doth flow;

Let the fire and cloudy pillar

Lead me all my journey through:

Strong deliverer, strong deliverer;

Be thou still my strength and shield;

Be thou still my strength and shield.



When I tread the verge of Jordan,

Bid my anxious fears subside;

Death of death, and hell's destruction

Land me safe on Canaan's side:

Songs of praises, songs of praises,

I will ever give to thee;

I will ever give to thee.
 
 
 

What Easter is About

The following poem was crafted by two of my students working together.  Sometimes group writing produces good work, and I consider this to be worthy of publication.

Genesis 3:15

Unnatural laws push us

to remember how things were.

Our gloom brings back the Treasonable Trick.

Yet the peace foreseen

is inevitable,

wondrous.

- Dior Hartje and Courtney Rupp

Three Crosses. Three Mothers

Three Mothers Beneath Three Crosses

On Calvary's hill were three mothers who knelt
Where the fearsome great crosses stood,
And three in their hour of agony felt
They were one in their motherhood.

Two wept for the deeds their first-born had done
And the felon's doomed pathway long trod;
One was calm in a questionless faith in her Son...
For She was the Mother of God!

Forlorn and embittered in awe-stricken grief
One heard her son scoff and deride;
One rejoiced to hear Paradise promised a thief
Who found grace with his God crucified.

Sore ashamed, one fled the grim crosses; but there
Knelt the mother of Dismas to call,
First of all earth's children, in confident prayer
On Mary...now Mother of ALL!


Mary Adrienne Ervin, Cyril Robert
Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946.

Judas Looked into HIS Eyes

To Judas (Upon Receiving Thirty Pieces)

Thirty pieces of silver.
Enough to sell the only one who ever cared.
Although I suspect it wasn't for the money,
You managed well, and always saw ends meet.

You had hoped for so much more.
An end to the persecution forever,
At last, we could be free
And victorious in our conquests!

But those were the hopes of man.
And he was different from the men you knew,
One look in his eyes told you that.
One look, and you could not stay the same.

So much potential in this teacher.
So much to offer - the Rabbi - the Messiah,
Our people have watied so long,
Now vengeance is - will be ours!

Except that he mentions nothing of revenge.
No tales of heroic deeds,
No promises of riches to come,
Only a gentle urging to love one another,
And be a servant to all in need.
My God, he sups with tax collectors and prostitutes
And embraces the unclean.
How "unprincely".
Not at all how you would have him act.
Could you have been wrong?
Could you all have been wrong?

One final opportunity in the Holy City,
Surely now was the time for action,
And yet, he lowers himself to wash the feet of others.

What other choice did you have?
Better to end the charade now and cut losses.
"Betrayed With A Kiss", was how he put it.
And even now, as the noose tightens,
      there is justification for every action you took.

But those eyes...those eyes....


-- Ronnie Hicks

Lenten Food for Thought

Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee;
Let the water and the blood
From thy side a healing flood,
Be of sin the double cure,
Cleanse me from its guilt and power.

Should my tears for ever flow,
Should my zeal no langour know,
All for sin could not atone:
Thou must save and thou alone;
In my hand no price I bring,
Simply to thy Cross I cling.

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When mine eyelids close I death,
When I rise to worlds unkown
And behold thee on thy throne
Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.

--A. M. Toplady, 1776

Blessed is the Messenger!

Blessed is the Messenger who came bearing
a great peace. By the mercy of His Father,
He lowered Himself to us. Our own debts
He did not take up to Him. He reconciled
His Lordship with His servants.
Glory to Your Dawn, divine and human!
Glorious is the Wise One, Who allied and joined
Divinity with humanity,
one from the height and the other from the depth.
He mingled the natures like pigments
and an image came into being: the God-man.
O Zealous One who saw Adam
who had become dust and the accursed serpent
devouring him. Reality dwelt
in what had lost its flavor. He made him salt
by which the cursed serpent would be blinded,
Blessed is the Compassionate One Who saw, next to paradise,
the lance that barred the way
to the Tree of Life. He came to take up
the body that would be struck so that by the opening in His side
He might break through the way into paradise.
Glorious is the Compassionate One Who did not use
violence, and without force,
by wisdom He was victorious.
Glory to Your Dawn, divine and human!


--St. Ephraim the Syrian
Hymn 8 On the Nativity 1-5

Caught by the Fisher of Men

The Fisher of Men
Ted McNabb

At the heart of that which love is truly is
Persistence as steady as the stillness
Into which the stars were breathed and have their being.
It is the thin, taut line quivering
With the terror of my having been caught
By the very thing for which I hunger most.
Cast from beyond time into perfect time
Touching lightly the smooth skin of the momentary eddy
In the loud and rushing waters in which I live,
My heart saw and leaped to seize and run
Only to find I had been seized
My inmost being barbed and bleeding
Lashing my life down current
For all I was worth,
Straining against some unseen Master
Holding the other end.
Here pulling me back
And here letting the line run
With my running;
Steady, steady the strong thin line never truly slackens.
The rapid years slide over me
Until I grow blessedly weary
And am gently drawn to land,
Unhooked from the steady line
To be held in steady hands.

Another Poem by Fr. Longenecker

The Unreal City
By Fr. Dwight Longenecker

In a dream I walked though the unreal city,
Down streets that were silent and desolate.
Stone faces gazed on me without pity,
although I was poor and desperate.

They gazed from towers of marble and glass,
and watched as I wandered the empty lanes.
No one restrained me, they let me pass,
and then returned to their flickering screens.

Over the doors were the names of power:
Xanadu Bank, Mammon Securities,
Ozimandius Insurance Tower,
Iscariot’s Purse Global Equities.

I watched the towers grow and multiply,
and rise up in splendid magnificence:
Alabaster palaces in the sky,
for lords of omniscient opulence.

The towers stood--powerful and permanent.
Ageless against the swirling clouds,
their steel and concrete reigned omnipotent
over the helpless, huddled, plodding crowds.

Overwhelmed, I stumbled along afraid,
and came upon a garden in a square.
A lawn was surrounded by an arched arcade,
An ancient stone fountain stood sentry there.

I sensed a solemn silence in the sun,
except for one white bird still singing low.
On the side, a stairway beckoned down
To subterranean passages below.

I stepped into the darkness and I found
a vast vault above a bottomless abyss.
Light filtered in; and littered all around,
were bones and skulls--scraps of human nothingness.

Then looking up, I saw that the vaults,
spreading far and supporting the city floor,
were ancient, brittle and riddled with faults,
undermining what seemed so real and secure.

I saw how the towers of glass and steel
were built on arches of emptiness.
Their glamor and power were all unreal,
like specters conjured from the dark abyss.

Then I felt a tremor, and in my dream,
an earthquake shook the city, and it broke.
Souls fell into the dark. I heard them scream
as the towers crumbled into dust and smoke.

I rose and returned to the cloistered square,
and waited while the dread and terror passed.
I determined to dwell in safety there,
and build a humble household that would last.


From here.

Incarnation
By Fr. Dwight Longenecker

Why should a single object—one small stone,
a rose, a picture or a Chinese vase
summon strong passions? Why should one
child singing high and clear lift you to the stars,
while a leaden sky hurls you down to hell?
How literal.
And yet, what other words
have you? With what language can you tell
of your silent discourse with another world?
And what is incarnation now? If not
one object, then everything. And what
is Resurrection now? Out of the dying
spring all things green against the grey sky—the breeze,
And in the distance the low-lying hills
Crowned with a ring of ancient surging trees.


From here.

My Perfect Neighbor

Alice C. Linsley

Her tightly laced world chokes me.
Her flawless nest ensnares my spirit.
Her dusted god, neatly on display
glares at me from the china cabinet.
Order is her mask,
her grand show.
No ambiguities distress
her tea time pleasantries.
She smiles at my reply
holding back a spearmint yawn
with her tissued hand.
I am here sipping tea from the fragile lip
of this smooth porcelain cup.
I want to flee, but pray for grace
to love my perfect neighbor.