Christ Came Juggling: An Easter Sunday Poem

Christ came juggling from the tomb,
flipping and bouncing death's stone pages,
tossing those narrow letters high
against the roots of dawn spread in cloud.
This Jesus, clown, came dancing
in the dust of Judea, each slapping step
a new blossom spiked with joy.

Hey! Listen -- that chuckle in the dark,
that clean blast of laughter behind --
Christ comes juggling our tombs,
tossing them high and higher yet,
until they hit the sun and break open
and we fall out, dancing and juggling
our griefs like sizzling balls of light.


-- Eugene Warren, from The Risk of Birth, poems selected by Luci Shaw

Sky Crosses: A Good Friday Poem

Sky Crosses

The heavens keep telling
    the wonders of God,
    and the skies declare
    what he has done. -- Psalm 19:1

Silver crosses cross
cerulean southeastern skies, horizontal
at first, then lifting toward heaven's vault with
a roar that rends the air, trailing 
fire and fumes.  Higher the 
crosses soar, almost vertical, sound receding, fading, and 
unholy smoke transforming, as our sins, from
blackness and fury, to white contrails
trailing the cross. My eyes, cast
heavenward, behold umpteen tiny twinkling
crosses crisscrossing  my 
Good Friday sight.

-- Brent Bill, 2013

"The Parable of the Lost Lens": Fifty-acres and a Fool Series

The Parable of the Lost Lens

And, lo, Brent was walking up the driveway when a number of the scribes and Pharisees came unto him, saying, “Tell us, O Brent, the way to see as thou seest, for thou art wise in these ways.”  Brent squinted at them and then said, “One day a farmer went out to mow.  And as he walked out unto the John Deere, he cleaned his glasses and noticed that one lens seemed loosed.  Now these were the same glasses he had laid behind the tractor the year before whilst working on it and upon which his good wife had trod while walking up behind him to see what he was doing and which his daughter who worketh at a place of eye care had repaired, so had hence be healed earlier.  The farmer looked upon the lens, sideways, straightaway, and upside down; and lo he determineth nothing, so he placed the glasses upon his head, climbed uponeth his tractor and mowed the prairie.”

The scribes and Pharisees were enthralled, for Brent spoke as one with authority.  “After mowing the prairie whilst listening to tunes uponeth his iPod, the farmer climbed down to clean the field trash off his tractor and bush-hog and, lo, whilst brushing the trash off the bush-hog’s deck a piece of long weed hit the lens and sent it sailing into the field.  Being a man of exceedingly calm demeanor, the farmer removed his glasses and stared upon them.  He place them back on his head and took them off again.  Lo, his sight was impaired, so he folded the glasses, put them in his coverall’s pocket, and searched up on his hands and knees through the field for the lost lens.  He sifted field trash through his fingers, he laid uponeth the ground and looked for a glint of the sun off the lens, and, behold, that which he sought for was revealed unto him and he picked up the lens with great rejoicing because that which was lost was now found.  Riasing the lens toward heaven, he gave thanks, brushed the dust from the lens, and put it in his coveralls’ pants pocket.”

After putting the tractor in the barn, he went into the farmhouse for his ritual cleansing and, lo, he pulled the lost lens from his coverall’s pants pocket and placed it, rejoicing, upon the Maytag.  Then he reached unto the top pocket for the glasses and they were not there.  Nor were they in any of the other of the coveralls pockets.  Nor were they upon the tractor, the bushhog, the toobox wherein he keeps his pipe (which was in the same pocket as the glasses) and other things.  He wandered out into the field and with wailing and gnashing of teeth, utterances of foul curses, he searched the field to no avail.” The farmer returned to the farmhouse, crying, “Woe is me, for that which is lost is found but that which was not lost is now not to be found.” 

Then Brent grew quiet.  The scribes and the Pharisees pondered his words.  “What manner of man is this that teaches this way?” said one.  Another said, “These are hard things.  What might they mean.”

“Beats me,” muttered Brent walking away.

-       --   from Johnbrent 4:1-27 of the Lost Gospel of the Farmer

This Desert Land ...

This Desert

Joseph Bayly

I said
this desert land is barren
void of life and beauty.
I drive for miles
see nothing
only sand and sage
feel nothing
only wind and heat
taste nothing but spit
dried spit.
He said
have you ever driven
in spring
through this same desert
seen blossoms flower
gorgeous wild?
It's all a thing of timing.
Seeds of beauty
are there now hidden
waiting fall of rain
to bring them life.
Lord send rain
upon my world
my life
I'm tired of dried spit.

Source: "A Psalm in Mojave Desert" from Psalms of My Life

Add your thoughts at inward/outward

Photo by Brent

"... I am not an old man. Not..."

Twilight Comes

by Hayden Carruth

            After Wang Wei

Twilight comes to the little farm
At winter's end. The snowbanks
High as the eaves, which melted
And became pitted during the day,
Are freezing again, and crunch
Under the dog's foot. The mountains
From their place behind our shoulders
Lean close a moment, as if for a
Final inspection, but with kindness,
A benediction as the darkness
Falls. It is my fiftieth year. Stars
Come out, one by one with a softer
Brightness, like the first flowers
Of spring. I hear the brook stirring,
Trying its music beneath the ice.
I hear - almost, I am not certain -
Remote tinklings; perhaps sheepbells
On the green side of a juniper hill
Or wineglasses on a summer night.
But no. My wife is at her work,
There behind yellow windows. Supper
Will be soon. I crunch the icy snow
And tilt my head to study the last

Silvery light of the western sky
In the pine boughs. I smile. Then
I smile again, just because I can.
I am not an old man. Not yet.

"Twilight Comes" by Hayden Carruth, from Collected Shorter Poems 1946-1991. © Copper Canyon Press, 1992. Reprinted with permission. (buy now) 

From "The Writer's Almanac"

Photo by Brent

Boy at the Window

Boy at the Window

by Richard Wilbur

Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a god-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.

The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.

"Boy at the Window" by Richard Wilbur, from Collected Poems. © Harcourt, 2004. Reprinted with permission. (buy now) 

From "The Writers Almanac"

On The Bible, History Channel, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Angels

The B-I-B-L-E

O what have they done to thee?

You used to be the Word of God

And now thee’s bad TV

That’s what I thought last night when I started watching “The Bible” on History Channel last night.  It’s Hollywoodishly dramatic enough that when my good wife fell asleep watching it and awoke during “The Vikings” which followed, she assumed the latter was a continuation of the former and wondered which book of the Bible the producers were mangling now.  Only when a Viking ship appeared did it become clear it was a whole ‘nother show.

Now let me say I am not a Biblical scholar or a literal, inerrantist type of the first order.  But I do have high regard for this sacred text, so much that I have read, studied, taught and preached from it for years.  While the stories in the television show bore some resemblance to the stories in beloved Good Book, the enactment of them was … well, to be nice … a bit of a departure.

I mean mutant teenage Ninja turtle warriors rescuing Lot and his family???  That was my thought, at least, when I saw the scenes of the family fleeing Sodom – a huge Black angel and a shorter Asian angel dressed in armor that looked like the Ninja turtles and hacking all the unbelievers to death with swords and judo style moves.  Gimme a break.  Fire and brimstone from above isn’t enough?  Besides, I don’t recall even an authoritative version such as the Living Bible saying anything about the angels having to fight their way out of Sodom.  That version declares “the angels …rushed them to safety outside the city.” (Genesis 19:14)

And the accents??  “You don't want people talking King James English,” said one of the people associated with the program, but they certainly speak the King’s English.”  British accents dominate (not surprisingly, I guess since many of the actors are British), but to say it’s off-putting is an understatement. 

Then there is the actor’s appearance – English with bad Roman-esque hairdos (for those characters into sartorial grooming) and dirty faces.  Perhaps they didn’t have soap and water in Old Testament times.

The Bible is a powerful text.  Why, oh, why do entertainment types feel the need to soap-opera, action film it up?  I guess that’s what one should expect when this “version” is produced by husband-and-wife team of Roma Downey of “Touched by an Angel,” and Mark Burnett, of CBS’s “Survivor.”  Sigh.

I could only take about an hour of this nonsense.  I gave up and retired with a good book.  I’d suggest you skip watching “The Bible” and read it instead.  In the case of this mini-series (emphasis on “mini” in many ways), the book really is better than the movie.

-- Brent

"Where a prairie creek runs..."

In the Late Season

by Tom Hennen

At the soft place in the snowbank
Warmed to dripping by the sun
There is the smell of water.
On the western wind the hint of glacier.
A cottonwood tree warmed by the same sun
On the same day,
My back against its rough bark
Same west wind mild in my face.
A piece of spring
Pierced me with love for this empty place
Where a prairie creek runs
Under its cover of clear ice
And the sound it makes,
Mysterious as a heartbeat,
New as a lamb.

"In the Late Season" by Tom Hennen, from Darkness Sticks to Everything. © Copper Canyon Press, 2013. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)  From "The Writer's Almanac"

Photo by Brent

After Thirty Years

After Thirty Years

David Budbill

Thirty years in one place.
Thirty vegetable gardens in the same soil.
Thirty woodsheds filled and emptied.
Thirty years through the woods and mountains
on the same trails.

This is an age of frantic travel and people think
I am a fool for never going anywhere.
It's okay. I don't care.
In another time I would have been a sage
for doing what I haven't done.

Source: Moment to Moment

Add your thoughts at inward/outward

Photo by Brent

Little White Church

Little White Church

by Marilyn Nelson

 

               Eaton, NH, 1879

Us Free Will Baptists walked a thin tightwire,
a springing path out over the abyss.
We knew how a sudden April desire to dance
can topple you head over heels into the fire.

We knew how warmth exuded by a youth
singing at prayer meeting in a nearby seat
and inhaled deeply can inebriate
you to the point of renouncing the truth.

We lived repent-now-before-it's-too-late.
We didn't believe God forgives you, once and for all.
We knew how you can just turn around and fall,
of your own free will, how easy it is to doubt.

But there's no Free Willers left around this place
since the Phelps boy come back from Harvard talking 

   about Grace.

Marilyn Nelson is a newly elected Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets. She is the author of numerous collections of poetry, including Faster Than Light (Louisiana State University Press, 2012).

Light, Grace, Need...

Pale sunlight,

pale the wall.

Love moves away.

The light changes.

I need more grace

than I thought.

-- Rumi

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Brent

"Two women with the same claim..."

A Fable

by Louise Gluck

Two women with
the same claim
came to the feet of
the wise king. Two women,
but only one baby.
The king knew
someone was lying.
What he said was
Let the child be
cut in half; that way
no one will go
empty-handed. He
drew his sword.
Then, of the two
women, one
renounced her share:
this was
the sign, the lesson.
Suppose
you saw your mother
torn between two daughters:
what could you do
to save her but be
willing to destroy
yourself— she would know
who was the rightful child,
the one who couldn't bear
to divide the mother.

"A Fable" by Louise Glück, from Ararat. © Harper Collins. Reprinted with permission. (buy now) 

From "The Writer's Almanac"

Quakers Revitalization -- Come Chat About It!

This is a time of renewed interest in Quaker life and spirituality. This interest is shown by the number of Quaker titles on amazon.com (and their strong sales) and through other things, such as Beliefnet.com's "Belief-O-Matic." Thirty thousand people a day try Belief-O-Matic. An issue of Newsweek magazine reported that a "disproportionate number" of respondents to the quiz identified themselves as "liberal Quakers." The article notes that the page on the BeliefNet web site devoted to Quakers has become one of Beliefnet's top fifty links! So why aren't our Meetinghouses bursting with newcomers? Join us at Quaker Center, January 25-27, for a weekend of spiritual reflection around this question and, more importantly, exploring God's future for Friends. It will be a time focused on positive language, idea generation, learning, sharing, videos, and more using interactive techniques and tools. You'll come away from this weekend with a fresh sense of God's working with and among us. Registration is open now for A Modest Proposal: Participating in God's Future for Friends at quakercenter.org. ABOUT THE PROGRAM LEADER: J. Brent Bill is the author of many articles and books, including Sacred Compass: The Way of Spiritual Discernment, Holy Silence: The Gift of Quaker Spirituality, Mind the Light, Learning to See with Spiritual Eyes, and the recently released Awaken Your Senses: Exercises for Exploring the Wonder of God. He also wrote A Modest Proposal for the Revitalization of the Quaker Message in the United States which has been the basis for a number of retreats across the United States. Brent is a Quaker minister, author, photographer, and congregational consultant and the coordinator for FGC's New Meetings Project. Brent graduated from Wilmington College and the Earlham School of Religion and has worked as a local church pastor, yearly meeting staff member, and seminary faculty member. For eleven years he was the executive vice president of, and congregational consultant for, the Indianapolis Center for Congregations. The Center for Congregations is a project of Lilly Endowment, Inc and is dedicated to helping congregations find and use the resources they need to thrive. Brent and his wife Nancy live on Ploughshares Farm, which is fifty acres of Indiana farmland that is being reclaimed for native hardwood forests and warm season prairie grasses. Download Quaker Center's full 2013 program schedule here. Yours in service, Kathy and Bob Runyan Co-Directors Ben Lomond Quaker Center

Quakers and a Jackson Browne Quote that Applies (at least for me)

I'm a big fan of singer/songwriters.  And Jackson Browne's one of my favorites.  Recently I was listening to one of his solo live acoustic albums. When he's taking requests, a fan yells out for "Peaceful Easy Feeling."  Which, of course, is not a Jackson Browne song.  But he's game and gets ready to sing it (after pointing out he didn't write it) and then he says he has trouble with some of the lyrics, particularly in the section that goes:

And I found out a long time ago
What a woman can do to your soul.
Oh, but she can't take you anyway,
You don't already know how to go.

"Well," Browne said, "I flat out disagree with that."

I felt the same way when reading a couples of blogs written by Friends (and friends) the past week or so.  My first disagreement arose when I read David John's Quaker Life article titled "Moving Forward or Circling the Wagons."  David's a thoughtful Quaker theologian and the article has some good points, such as "There are numerous occasions inviting us to examine our identity and our purpose" and "embodying [the Testimonies] means we move as Christ calls us and enter the places where living these convictions takes us."

But when he writes "But one thing is certain: God is not calling us to be Quakers," "Well," Brent said, "I flat out disagree with that."

Strongly.  Perhaps that is true for David and some others, but it's not true for me -- and others I know.  Some of us do feel that God is calling us to be Quakers.  That's why we are Quakers -- we felt called to it, led to it, introduced to a way of faith that spoke to our condition in a manner that no other form of Christianity did.  I grew up a Friend -- but it was in college that I became convinced that this was the faith tradition for me.  And that was not just some intellectual assent.  It felt like then -- and remains to this day -- a call.  I am called to be a Quaker.  I think the RSoF is being called by God to be Quaker.

I do not say that being Quaker is about preserving Quakerism and its institutions, but rather living out a particular faith tradition that speaks to our conditions -- and to which we can invite others seeking for a vital, living faith that has emphasis on both personal encounters with God and practicing the results of those encounters in the wider world.

Another blog (especially the title!) that pricked my spirit was Micah Bale's "Being Quaker Is Not the Point."  "Well," Brent said again, "I flat out disagree with that."  For me, being Quaker is precisely the point.  That's because my understanding of what it means to be a Quaker encompasses embodying "the living presence of his [Jesus'] Spirit."  Again, I am not concerned with preserving an "-ism" or it's institutions, but I think the Quaker message and the way it impacts our daily lives of faith and practice can be a profound experience of faith for those of us who claim to be Quaker and on those who are seeking for a faith that "brings them to Christ and leaves them there," as George Fox said.  Oops, I'll probably get in trouble for invoking Fox instead of Jesus, but heavens to Betsy (not Betsy Ross), what an amazing concept.  Introduce seekers (and ourselves?!) to Quaker faith whereby they experience the life-changing power of the ever-living and ever-loving Christ who can speak to their condition.  A faith that is not some goofy new-age concoction but is rooted in Christian practice and faithful adherence by saints (and sinners) for over 350 years! 

I, for one, want a faith that is both lived in the present condition of my life and grounded in tradition.  And so, for me, being Quaker is the point.  It speaks to my spiritual condition -- and, I am finding in my ministry of writing books about spirituality and at FGC in nurturing the start of new Quaker worship groups and meetings, to others, too.  People are drawn to what the Quaker message and way stand for and so.  So much so that where groups do not exist, they want to create them. 

I find these ideas of not being called to be Quaker or the point is not to be Quaker offensive, hurtful, and dismissive of those of us who have intentionally and spiritually felt called to be Quaker, have made it a central point of our faith, and who have worked to spread that message as a main part of our message.  I find it dismissive of that great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us -- some of whom gave their lives for this message and way of faith life.  I find it dismaying and tinged with a touch of self-loathing. 

While I admit I am quickly approaching geezerhood (if not already there) and more prone than ever to curmudgeonliness, I don't think that's the reason these pieces bothered me.  In fact, I don't mind being bothered, or shaken, or challenged in my thinking.  They bothered me because of the reasons stated above.  If you do not feel that God is calling you to be Quaker or that being Quaker is not the point, then perhaps you're in the wrong place.  Perhaps some new movement based on your interpretation of what God's work in this day and age are is where you belong.  You can root it in your particular understanding of scripture, tradition (well, probably not tradition -- after all, shrines and looking backward are a bad thing), and what the face of faith looks like today.  Burn down the meetinghouses, erase a history of faithful Christians, deny the spiritual wisdom of a collective community that has written spiritually and prophetically for hundreds of years, and spurn authority outside of like-minded others.

"Well," Brent said, "I flat out disagree with that."

Sigh.

As for me, as I stated I do feel that I am called to the Quaker faith and its way of working in my life and the world.  I feel in the deepest parts of my soul that being Quaker is point.  And I will continue to work for the expansion of this way of faith and life.  Not -- just in case you haven't picked up on this, dear reader -- to save institutions or an "ism", but because it is a faith that has changed my life and still has the power to change others.  I will continue to write about the spiritual riches of this ancient/modern faith and its efficacy.  I will support those who labor in the fields which are white unto harvest. And I will go on bearing the name Quaker as a servant of the Living Christ who was not born yesterday, but is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow and continues to teach his people himself.

-- Brent

Shallow Small Group

Now this could be the kind of small group that would actually attract people to your congregation...

The Singing of Angels

The Singing of Angels

Howard Thurman

There must be always
remaining in every life,
some place for the singing of angels.

Some place for that
which in itself
is breathless and
beautiful.

Old burdens become lighter
deep and ancient wounds
lose much of their old hurting.

Despite all the crassness of life,
all the hardness and
harsh discords,
life is saved by
the singing of angels.

Source: The Mood of Christmas

Add your thoughts at inward/outward

 

"Study of a Winged Figure" by John Rush

Gifts that keep on giving...

Gifts that keep on giving

by Marge Piercy

You know when you unwrap them:
fruitcake is notorious. There were only
51 of them baked in 1917 by the
personal chef of Rasputin. The mad monk
ate one. That was what finally killed him

But there are many more bouncers:
bowls green and purple spotted like lepers.
Vases of inept majolica in the shape
of wheezing frogs or overweight lilies.
Sweaters sized for Notre Dame's hunchback.

Hourglasses of no use humans
can devise. Gloves to fit three-toed sloths.
Mufflers of screaming plaid acrylic.
Necklaces and pins that transform
any outfit to a thrift shop reject.

Boxes of candy so stale and sticky
the bonbons pull teeth faster than
your dentist. Weird sauces bought
at warehouse sales no one will ever
taste unless suicidal or blind.

Immortal as vampires, these gifts
circulate from birthdays to Christmas,
from weddings to anniversaries.
Even if you send them to the dump,
they resurface, bobbing up on the third

day like the corpses they call floaters.
After all living have turned to dust
and ashes, in the ruins of cities
alien archeologists will judge our
civilization by these monstrous relics.

"Gifts that keep on giving" by Marge Piercy, from The Hunger Moon. © Knopf, 2012. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

 

From the "Writer's Alamanac"