Holy Triad

       God,
       Yahweh,
       the Divine Nature,
       though One in essence,
       lives in an unearthly, holy Triad
       of Father, Son and Spirit,
       Elohim who said,
      ‘Let us make…’
       Our Image,
       Eikon.

       Ever
       as always
       pre-eternal God,
       mercy, majesty, might,
       He was, He is, He is to come,
       never alone yet ever One,
       Rabbi who prayed,
      ‘As I am in You,
       they in Me
       may be.’

       Gate
       of sheep,
       royal from birth,
       the Triple Will unveiled
       in the beauty of human flesh,
       makes kings, queens,
       priests, prophets,
       lambs shorn
       of death,
       alive.
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Like her

Like Mary of Nazareth,
the Theotokos,
let us live our lives in such a way
that when they look into our tombs,
they will find nothing,
not a trace,
nothing even to show
that we passed this way.

Like her,
we have found the greatest Treasure,
the Son and Word of God,
whose friendship is the greatest wealth,
who clothes us with His righteousness
so that we can claim
absolutely nothing as our own.

Like her,
we have left houses, brothers, sisters,
father, mother, children or land for His sake.

Repaid a hundred times over?
And inherit eternal life?
How can we not?

For He is
eternal Life,
and we are His.
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Gods

Divine humanity, or human divinity?
Which would we rather have?
This is the question that is presented to man
in every generation
from the first to the last.

The first is not in our control,
something we could not even guess at,
something only dreamt of
by those whose hearts persistently seek the Most-High,
wondering what He is.

The second is what we found ourselves left with.
Since we couldn’t discover divine humanity,
we consoled ourselves
by inventing human divinity.

Human beings,
worthy or unworthy,
raised some of themselves to the status of gods.
The ancient heroes of the Greeks,
of the Indians,
of the Chinese,
gods.

The wielders of earthly power,
those in whom their peoples invested
the ring, orb and crown of authority,
lauded ‘guardians of mankind’ and ‘benefactors,’
gods.

Those fools who once graced the courts of kings
with levity to assuage the harshness of our earthly exile,
now electronically glorified,
our entertainers,
gods.

Human divinities all,
they are sculpted images of the human nature,
to be worshipped by their adorers,
or vilified by opponents
who worship not men
but things.

Yet, divine humanity,
after long ages,
He did appear.
He,
the bedreamt of prophets and prophet-kings,
has appeared,
does appear,
and now lives among us.

No sculpture, no painted image
can convey Him to us better than He Himself can,
walking in our midst, as one of us,
though we do not recognize Him
but in retrospect.

He is Divine Humanity,
having taken our human nature
into the fiery folds of His sixfold wings
up to the Throne of the Divine Nature,
making us enter heaven,
and the heaven of heavens.

Making us sit upon His Throne
and upon His Father’s Throne,
making us sup with Him and with His Father
and the Spirit Holy
at the banquet Table,
in the light of a thousand suns.

Every molecule of our humanity
transformed in Him into Divinity,
no particle of darkness remains,
no shadow,
only light, light, wonderous light,
bright, bright, brighter.

Divine humanity,
or human divinity?
Which do you choose?

‘No one lights a lamp to hide it under a bushel.’
‘A city set on a hill cannot be hid.’
‘I set before you life,
And death.’

Inevitable gate

Die at Vrndávan, die at Práyag,
die where Ganga is born,
or where she flows,
or die where she meets her lover the sea.

Die at Makkah,
or at Yerushaláyim,
or in a cave on Holy Athos,
or where heaven meets earth,
a mountain no one can see.

It is only a meeting at the inevitable gate.
He will not carry you away like a thimble tied with string,
for she makes her request.

Faithfulness has its reward,
a power that breaks the claims of Death,
Yama cannot resist, for his prison has been imprisoned.

Lightning strikes, shining from east to west,
returning from west to east,
to earth itself in the soil of the heart,
making holy ground.

To die is different from what anyone expected,
and luckier,
and the place of death
lovelier than any choice can arrange.
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Born blind

We are born blind,
we never had eyes,
we have never seen light,
nor known it,
nor experienced it,
we have no idea even of what it is,
just what others have told us.
But did they have eyes?
Were they born with sight?
Or do they speak of what they imagine but never see?

This is how it is, for us,
for every human being who has ever walked the earth,
but One.

We are born blind.
We hear the world around us,
but cannot see it.
We know it’s there,
we bump into it,
sometimes hurting ourselves,
until we learn how to navigate through the darkness.

Darkness?
Our world doesn’t look dark to us.
It’s light, it’s beautiful,
there’s so much in it to see and experience.
Yes, but all that you say we are seeing,
all of it, my brothers,
is dark and featureless,
as shallow yet as deep as a starless night,
and yet you say you see.

Let me,
one blind man who does not see but feels, tell you
that as wonderful as it would be for a man born blind
to be granted the faculty of sight,
that is how wonderful, and even more, it will be
when we who have been born blind and see only this world
are granted to really see.

To really see,
when we have received our sight,
we cannot remember anymore that seamless darkness
that was what we thought the world to be.
We will be able to close our eyes for a moment—
only the demons are eyelidless—
and see the world we left behind.

And just as we close our eyes to better pray,
so there will we close our eyes for our brothers
who live yet in that world born blind,
which never (since it sold them) had eyes nor sighted birth,
as we intercede without ceasing
for those who await with longing to receive their sight.

And open them again,
to receive Him who was always everywhere present,
filling all things,
the Lord and Creator of Life,
to receive Him into our hungry eyes,
to become what we behold,
finally, finally,
after waiting for what seemed for ever,
waiting only to be fulfilled,
to see only Him.
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He

Yes, I am still alive.
I have to pinch myself sometimes,
just to make sure.

I have to read a word I’ve written,
to make sure I have not gone mad,
or gone missing.

Where am I?
Always and forever, here,
because He is here.

Am, because He is.

Mine,
because He has given me myself,
His gift, once and only,
inimitable, unfeignable,
the same yet different from all His other gifts,
which as they gently fall from His caring hands,
form themselves into worlds,
persons, creations, visible and invisible.

He is Lord,
and we are nothing but praise,
returning back to Him
the reflection of His blessed face,
which He has imprinted in our depths,
singing back to Him the song
with which He sang all that is into being.

Empty,
so that He may fill me.

Silent,
so that He may teach me.

Slow,
so that He may quicken me.

Dead,
so that He may raise me.

O Lord, how wonderous You are among Your saints!
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Day by day

Day by day,
never perfect,
never worthy,
never righteous,
never wise,
but trying to walk by faith, not by sight,
trying to follow the Master whose blessed feet
tread not the tame path of religion,
but get dusty from the world’s roads,
following Him even when it hurts,
even when tired,
even when unhappy,
even when tempted,
even having sinned,
even when accused, judged and imprisoned falsely,
day by day.
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Morning

The morning sun
just rising over the eastern mountains
cutting slices of reality
with its sharp shafts of rose-red light
claiming its share of the white stucco walls
of old Portland row houses,

and the birds strangely silent,
perhaps watching with stunned anticipation
the arrival of another cloudless day,

and I, sitting quietly looking beyond
mere computer screens into the world’s utter west,
populated by trees upon trees,
greens now slowly awakening
to the gold-washed waves pouring over them,
and wondering what the day will bring.

My morning tasks still unformed
in the empty future ahead of me,
one unpleasant task,
the return of a broken-glassed picture frame
that would not yield to assembly.

What treasures will arrive on my doorstep today?
Already they have been piling up
against my unopened front door,
waiting for me to discover them.

Joy, joy, amidst suffering,
blending what cannot be with what is,
and all held in fragile friendship in the hands of God,

who for the love of His suffering siblings
joined them to prove on the battlefield of His body
that victory is at the bottom of defeat,
and that redemption can be purchased
only at a price beyond our paying,

and that of all worlds this one is the best and only,
because our Beloved has pierced our defenses
and shown us the way out,
to perfect freedom,
fearless, radiant, unfleshly
and immortal.

He is glorified by the piping of a solitary bird
that now sings, again and again, the threefold call,
‘Holy, Holy, Holy,’
out of the wooded depths.

Your day, O Lord,
Your day that You have bestowed on us,
grant us to behold Your face in every moment,
and feel Your touch.

Savior, come, and do not delay.
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Trapped in a world without love

Trapped in a world without love,
when we realise this, where do we turn?
To what or to whom?

Nothing worth having is worth having well,
is worth anything unless we can share it.
But whom can we share it with?

This question has driven many to suicide.
Not seeing the Invisible—how can they?
Without faith they are blind—and trusting the visible,
entrusting themselves wholeheartedly to images of desire,
they miss the Beloved as He walks by,
Who is no image,
Who is not what but Whom they were born wanting.

These are not thoughts that can be shared with anyone,
not doctrines that can be taught to anyone.
The Wanted awaits the wanting.
Faith unsprings the trap that ensnares us.

My young friends.
Some of them already broken,
some hoping to be broken no more.
Youth wanting to escape the trap walking right into it.

Life freely beckons as we walk unknowingly
onto its battlefield of justice,
unaware that we either fall in battle slain by our own desires,
or stand alone alive in possession of a kingdom
but none with whom to share it.

Why?
Because we look and look again,
but do not see.
Listen and listen again,
but do not hear.
The chariot driver of our souls whispers to us,
and we pause, then take aim,
and pursue still the objects of desire, but He alone is Lord.

We sleep.
Then we awake.
Alone with Him, walking the long beach
and leaving shallow prints on its glistening sands.

He tells us the truth of all things.
He tells us who we are, why we lived, why we died,
how it is there is nobody here but us.

‘From before the beginning, Beloved,
you were Mine, and I am yours.’

Hidden, always hidden, yet walking beside us,
everything in His hands.
Everything.

The world vanishes.
Trapped in a world without love?
What world?

There always was only one,
one world, one time, one being, one life, one heart, one love:
Yes, only one joy.

We were born wanting.
The Wanted awaits us.
Faith unsprings the trap.
Faith, faith, and more faith.
Only faith has eyes.
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It can only happen

It can only happen, when you give up all.
It can only start, when you have sold all your possessions.
No, not your house, your car, your job, your clothes—
though if you want to leave these to others, you may—
but possessions kept so close, held onto so tightly
that no one but you sometimes even knows they are there.

The ownership of privacy is the root of all evil,
though the love of money can take second place,
but both stop the sun from rising on your neighbor’s field.
To wish for ourselves a happiness that excludes all others,
to hedge about our garden to keep out all comers,
this pride of privacy hides the truth, and mocks the life.

Not only world rulers despoil and defraud the poor,
but meek shepherds lolling in the sheepfolds smiling lies
hoard for themselves not money only, but stranded souls.
Not only vineyard laborers beat and blaspheme the past,
but presently murder the Owner’s sons and daughters,
with stone arrows shot from behind their lookout towers.

It can only happen, when you walk away shaken.
All your pockets emptied, your feet unshod, hands staffless,
heart moved like mountain cast into churning sea,
driven out by the darkness that enfolded you in your tomb,
blasted open with the dynamite of unexpected light,
when you walk away shaken, your eyes and ears, opened.

When you have sold all your possessions,
return and follow Me.
No point in questioning until you want to hear the answer.
Playing a game of rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,
preventing others, by your privacy, from entering in,
stopping all at the gate, demanding what cannot be given,
only your door have you locked and barred
and sealed by unbelief.
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Black and white

My world is not a world of black and white.
My house is not an abode of absolutes.
When I say things,
though I try to mean what I say, and say what I mean,
I yield the floor to the Only Teacher of Mankind.

He alone is the Only Absolute in my life.
He tells me to move, I move.
He tells me to stand, I stand.
He says, give this, I give it.
Take that, and I take it.
Speak, and I form the words.
Be still, and I watch and wait.

His way is the high way.
He shows me the field paths,
and night or day, high or low,
wet or dry, black or white, I follow.

But don't ever take me at my word,
since only He can be trusted,
with you, with me, and with all.

Only He can lead you out of the land of black and white,
of yes and no, of true and false, so just let go.

Let go, let go, O my soul, just let go.
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Just to make sure

Defined by what I don’t
more than by what I do.

I am, or we are, right and everyone else is wrong,
and they’re gonna know it.

I speak up and stand up for what I believe.
Who cares who’s listening.

Who cares if someone’s feelings get hurt.
Somebody has to tell the truth.

I like what you say, but as for those other guys,
they’re just plain wrong, and I don’t mind telling you.

Yeah, you can be my friend, but watch out!
You’re under my gun the same as those other fellows.

If you don’t think like I do, you’ll hear from me.
Though as a Christian man I can’t say this out loud,
‘It’s my way or the highway.’

But God approves, because I’m rightly dividing His word.
If you know what’s good for you, stick with me.

Let’s live by what we do,
not by what we don’t,
just to make sure.
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Midnight of the saints

The day has come and gone.
Uneventful as to massive earthquakes,
the graves opening to release billions of bodies into the sky,
dragging along with them allegedly
a mere two hundred million souls
of those who had not yet been unbodied till that moment,
to meet the Lord in the air
according to words of pure vanity
never written or thought by the apostles
but stuffed into their mouths by teachers of unwisdom.

Fractious, factious, unfriendly, fiery purveyors of fantasy,
egged on as always by the evil one,
peddling dispensations that never were
in the mind or word of God,
nevertheless so sure of themselves
that they are willing to wreck the work of God,
to despoil the vineyard of the Lord,
to hold up to the world’s ridicule
the precious promise of the Christ to come again,
all to succor their own vain hopes,
to exalt their names above the Name.

It is the midnight of the saints,
their time of tribulation, the hour of their testing,
the furnace of their purification,
the deepest darkness
against the bright dawn of the true resurrection of the dead,
but also the time when the angelic hosts offer their praises,
unseen by the eyes of worldly wisdom,
unheard by the ears of those deafened
by the roar of the lies spawned by their divisive delusions.

Yes, we are all still here,
and Christ Jesus is still among us.

Not by us

Not by us, Yahweh, not by us,
by You alone is glory deserved.

Yes, not by us, not by me,
but what is it we do deserve?
What is it?

This morning, though the sun be bright,
is one of those days when everything I do
and am seems dark to me.

On my own, I affirm, I can do nothing.
Without Him, I confess, I am nothing.
It seems believable,
everything my enemies say about me,
if I have any friends,
and I understand in the depths of my bones
that there is no truth in me. 
Why? 

Because the truth hurts.
The truth stings.
Even if it is not
the whole truth and nothing but the truth,
even if it is only a part.

Well does the devil know this,
as he spends his nights showing to each
the sins and faults of others,
their shortcomings,
their imperfections,
their willful selfishness,
while concealing one’s own.

So he laughs us to scorn,
using our lust for glory as his trump card,
breaking us at the very moment
we think we have achieved victory
over others.

On the way to work,
I pass in full, unashamed view the glory of mankind
on a street that claims its fame
from the prostitutes that ply their trade there.
In the morning
one sometimes sees an unfortunate,
having been scooted out of the bed of a one night stand
onto the street
without having had time to tidy herself up,
but not this morning.

Instead,
I pass a group of four or five handsome youth,
seniors probably,
walking their way together to the high school up ahead.
They are all so happy,
friendliness for each other streaming from glad hearts,
oblivious of what lies ahead.

Innocent in his glory,
the nearest catches my eye,
a tall, slender youth,
his mocha face trimmed in scanty, light brown whiskers,
modly bespectacled—qué guapo!
—my soul rejoices to see him
and speaks a blessing on him and his friends,
that their day be bright.

Not by us, Yahweh, not by us,
by You alone is glory deserved.

Aching inwardly,
I feel I could write out my complaint in my own blood,
if I had a pen,
but I am humbled when I remember that
One has written in His own blood
not His complaint against us,
but the whole history of the universe from beginning to end,
and what is my cry against when faced with His,
‘My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?’

I can only continue in seeming despair,
‘How far from saving me the words I groan!’

He has covered all, even me,
with His own vanquished despair and death,
and left me the fruits of a peace
I did nothing to earn.

Along with others, I torment myself
thinking that He has abandoned His friendship for us,
because we sin,
even because we fail,
even when we only think the thoughts
and not do the things that convict us.

But He is nothing like what we think.

Far from punishing,
He stands ready to catch us.

By Your love and Your faithfulness,
by Your love and Your faithfulness.
Not by us, Yahweh, not by us,
by You alone is glory deserved.

Morning anaphora

I want to love you, Lord,
because You love me.
I want to find You, Lord,
because You found me.
I want to hear You, Lord,
because You hear me.
I want to know You, Lord,
because You know me.

How great You are
because You became small.
How strong You are
because You became weak.
How rich You are
because You became poor.
What a God You are
because You became man.

Without Your love
I could not live.
Without Your grace
I could not give.
I thank You, Lord,
with each beat of my heart.
Have mercy, Lord,
and never depart.
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Passion bearers

The victory of Christ was won as He hung, and died,
on the Cross.
The work of Christ is His descent into Hades
and His Preaching to those in prison.
The wages of His work is
His Resurrection.

A passion bearer does not summon himself or herself.
He or she cannot see this path and choose it.
The call can only come from Christ.
The path is wholly unknown.

People look on.
They think about what they see and hear.
A passion bearer, if they meet one, draws out the thoughts
of their heart.

One who loves Christ will look on with wonder.
One who hates Christ looks on in scorn.

Some of those who love Christ are confirmed in their religion,
others are drawn to look at their life in a new way.

The haters and the indifferent,
the world supplies with analysis,
‘masochism, fanaticism, madness’ on their tongue.

A passion bearer is happy where others can see only sorrow,
and persists in pursuing love at all costs,
as a rich man giving alms.

Easy and dutiful and expected,
we move on quickly from His Passion,
we skip through Hades, eyes covered with blinders
to shield us from bright darkness,
and then we reappear,
Resurrected.

Joy
has come
to the whole world.
From whence is it come then?
We look on in wonder, full of Paschal joy,
the passion bearers laud, with them shout ‘Victory!’
while they continue, quietly, to harvest souls
from the darkness.

Yes, the laborers will receive their wages.
Grapes do not yield wine, till they are crushed.
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Waiting for us here

What would it look like,
if we really believed
and didn’t lie to ourselves and to Him?
How would we live, if we knew for sure
we are really His sons?

As I sit here
asking myself and you this question,
I find myself no less than you
a liar to the Father who loves me so much
that He quietly tells me to come with Him
so together we can find and burn
the evidence of my sin.

Although I cost Him very dear,
and lied to make my foolishness less clear,
He saw through all I said and did.
My fear of His anger drew Him very near.

He smiles, and sets us both at ease.
He seems more interested in something else,
not what either of us is so ashamed of.

He doesn’t seem to look
at everything we should have done,
nor does He scold.

Let’s hold fast with unbounded confidence
in His constant care,
for even while we fret for sake of His offending,
we find He’s always waiting for us here.

Version française par Claude Lopez-Ginisty

Who goes there

In a dark world,
Standing guard against a foe,
‘Who goes there?’

Enemies bound by blood,
Converge before a stone,
They say it heals them.

Many mothers ago,
Carried in one’s arms,
That Child heals.

His power resides
Not in feldspar or crystal
And yet they bow.

Neither confess an image
Carved by human hand,
And yet they pray.

In different tongues
But hearts of faith
Their sorrows cry.

‘Who goes there?’
Sentries invisible watch
The beaten path.

A door propped open
Into the abyss of life,
Beckons a rocky hand.

Clay pigeons came alive
In legends told
But here, Life flows.

War, cease from struggle
Before the throne,
Receive His peace.

In a dark world,
A Light enlightens him
Who goes there.

Clean Monday

                    The sound of the tide
                    woke me.

                    Any day
                    can be clean Monday.

                    Any day
                    not too early
                    nor too late,
                    I follow You, Lord,
                    as You walk along the sea.

                    Your foot steps leave no trace,
                    but mine,
                    heavy with the weight of sins,
                    mar the smoothness
                    of the sand of time.

                    Cannot erase them,
                    cannot hide them,
                    the path they trace,
                    where I walked without You,

                    but Your mercy, Lord,
                    Your mercy,
                    blows them away.
                    They vanish
                    in Your wind.
                    Following You,
                    like You
                    I leave no trace.

                    The sea washes away,
                    the wind clears the sand,
                    the wind carries them away,
                    the sun shines softly,
                    lights the beach
                    invisibly through the mists,
                    the roar of the waves
                    carries them away,
                    far as east is
                    from the west.

                    Alone with You,
                    I walk with You
                    along the sea, Lord,
                    and in silence
                    You unburden me.

                    You release me, Lord,
                    and so
                    I follow You.

Happy

                       I am happy with it.
                       I am happy with it, Lord,
                       What You have given.

                       It isn’t what I expected.
                       What I wanted was taken,
                       Is taken, will be taken,
                       Away from me,
                       So that I can live.

                       Live as You would have me live,
                       Live as You live,
                       Aimless, wanting nothing,
                       Wanting for nothing
                       But what You give.

                       Aimless because
                       The arrow is already plunged
                       Deep into the target
                       And has nowhere else to go.

                       Wanting nothing
                       Because having everything,
                       Wanting for nothing.

                       All I have is Yours.
                       All you see is Mine.

                       Glory to You, O Lord,
                       Glory to You!
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How beautiful

Religions and churches can be bought and sold,
but our faith is not for sale.

Ideologies and dogma can be written up and down,
but the substance of faith is things unseen.

Conversion is not the exchange of one currency for another,
as Christ proves by overturning the tables
of the money changers in the Temple.

Sacrifice is not the purchase of a victim
by the work of our hands,
but the purchase of our lives by the death of the Victor.

No one can attain the truth by the acquisition of knowledge,
but the truth walking in a man is unmistakable.

When you have staked all you own in a game of dice and lost,
and then stake yourself and lose again,
what is there left to lose?

Nothing more stands between you and the Kingdom
except the battle against your self.
Will you listen to the Lord,
and slay what was never real
to obtain what can never be lost?

These truths are lodged in the heart of every man
as the hook is caught in the fish’s mouth,
yet both try to pull away,
to break free.

Though the line is strong, it can still be snapped.
Will you be caught by hook, or trapped with many in a net?

Compared with the good news of Christ,
all other stories are like the braying of an ass,
but even an ass can speak the truth.

Yet how beautiful upon the mountains
are the feet of him who brings good news,
who publishes peace,
who brings good news of happiness,
who publishes salvation,
who says to Zion, ‘Your God reigns.’

The freedom of love

                   Our hearts have entrances only,
                   and no exits.

                   Worldly sayings are composed to comfort,
                   but they only rob.

                   Once love has entered the heart,
                   there it remains forever.
                          
                   The beloved is now in our blood,
                   carrying life to us.

                   Always welcome to stay or go,
                   is why love gives life.

                   Trapped and held by greed or fear,
                   love suffers and the soul aches.

                   Letting go does not mean send away.
                   Letting go means set free.

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New managers

They’re trained in such a way
that they march in lock step with each other
across levels and planes.

They’re ready for that moment
when the world blows the whistle and shouts,
‘Now! It’s all mine!’

At that time they’ll close ranks.
No one but themselves fill each battle line,
but there will be no battle.

It ended before the war was ever declared.
They fought it and conquered
for their master.

Their first forays were played
like silly games not to alarm,
yet we knew, and we played.

Dividing us or eliminating us who would not cleave,
their first vanguard itself fell, crushed under its own weight,
hideously unaware of how it had been used.

Now they ride above our heads
on airborne litters of their own conceit,
foreign masters of a primitive people.

Demand their objects,
command us how to achieve them,
little know what these objects really are,
little care what they command us does not produce them.

They force our meeting with them
like a bandit rapes a woman,
or a kidnapper a child.

Colonial peoples are no more than possessions.
They see us without acknowledging us,
they instruct us as if we were dumb beasts,
we can have no knowledge or idea greater than theirs.

‘Let the primitives have their mumbo jumbo,
their weird customs and styles,
we’ll pretend we don’t see them,
we’ll not let them know how much they scare us.’

White skins shine like polished shields under a glaring sun.
They blind our oncoming horses
that plummet riderless to the dust.

White is not a color of the skin but an attitude of right,
that knows it is born to rule and be sovereign
     over many heads,
preferably still on necks, but if need be, at their feet.

Astounded was I how this phalanx of men
made Amazons, but breastless, so easily slices in two
by tethered thorns it never prepares for,

leaving its myriads of shaven armpits
and smooth, athletic bodies with beardless faces
prey to its own terrified eyes,
revealing to them now what they must deny seeing.

Until the shout comes, ‘Now!’ and,
as it closes ranks as it was trained to do,
it won’t have heard the ‘It’s all mine!’
because it was never meant to.

Now back to the jungle, to pound roots
into something that can be eaten, without knowing how.
Colonial peoples are no more than possessions,
it never learned our language.

Use those white skins,
once used to blind the conquered,
now blind themselves as best they can.

The sun grows brighter and hotter than they thought possible,
and their eyelids shrink.
Before they would rather close them,
but now they can’t.

The last of us sank
below their commanding, all-seeing eyes,
just as their master shouted, and they saw us no more.
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Counterfeit of love

War is sweet when brothers stick together,
and bitter, when every man is for himself.

Faith is fake when men manipulate the scripture,
but when they let it form them, firmly fruitful.

This is the proof of scriptures.
What book, when men obey it, brings grace and peace,
but hate and war when they surrender to it all?
Yet either, only worshiped, slips men’s souls.

Beauty, and the body, incite to love
that enters by the eyes and departs the same,
that is no love, but feeling and self pleasing.

Love, and the soul, incite to beauty,
that enters by the heart and does not gray,
that keeps its youth and knows no age.

Lost to pleasure only, enslaved by need,
devouring flesh, burnt up in the fire of passion,
the memory infected yields life for death.

Counterfeit of love, it blinds its victims,
making dark seem bright,
but love, it dies as it is seeded,
and rises to be harvested as light.

Running along behind You

          Running along behind Your followers
          I dare call myself Your disciple.

          Hiding among the baggage
          of Your Prophets and Holy Ones
          I dare say I am a pilgrim.

          Of all that is best in me, Lord,
          I am ashamed, and I am hushed
          In Your Presence.

          My thoughts, words and deeds
          Condemn me for my inaction,
          For only Your thoughts, Your words,
          Are worthy, and Your deeds.

          Look for me, Mother of Christ,
          Among the pilgrim host,
          And finding me not there,
          Seek me again in Jerusalem.

          Even if only in the shadows
          Of the Temple’s copper gates,
          I want to be found hanging
          On your Son’s fruitful words.

          Found hanging, Saints of God,
          With you who hear the call and run
          To the place of your crowning
          And your everlasting new birth.

          To steal the word of your call
          I have been brazen,
          But once stolen, let me keep it.
          Forgive me, commend me to your Lord.

          Running along behind you,
          I dare call myself His disciple.

          Lord, I trust in Your mercy.
          I am Yours, so save me.

Version française par Claude Lopez-Ginisty 

Not a bone was broken

Like the scourged and beaten body of Christ,
nailed hand and foot to the wood of the Cross,
punctured by a lance,
pierced by a circlet of harsh thorns,
left to die for lack of water,
stripped of a robe that would not be rent
but gambled for by enemies,
but of which not a bone was broken,
so are we, His suffering body,
His church.

Like that body lying in the rich man’s virgin tomb,
cold and dark,
waiting to be embalmed by precious oils
that were never to be,
sealed away from the land of the living
by a seemingly immovable stone,
so are we, His body dead to the world,
hidden from its eyes,
buried like seed scattered on good soil,
dying in order to live.

Like the risen body of Christ,
still marked by the sign of the nails in hands and feet,
still bearing the gash in which unnumbered souls
find new birth
and release from the curse,
unrecognizable to its enemies
except by their astonishment and dread,
seen by all eyes from farthest east to farthest west,
so are we, when He comes again.
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Another night falls

              O, for a moment of tenderness,
              of sweet conversation
              with my friend,
              for the battle rages
              unremittingly,
              as storm clouds pile up against the sky,
              hiding the sun
              and weighing down the earth
              with threats, not rain.

              Sullen silence not blessed repose
              suffocates not revives
              the soul of waiting,
              while faithfulness fingers
              the knotted rope of prayers,
              and hope tries to remember
              to feed itself,
              and sleep forgets what night is
              and what is day.

              Time never rolls backwards
              but always marches on,
              never waits, nor slows nor runs,
              and always opens
              to dangerous, unknown lands,
              where we rise or fall, live or die,
              when we find our friend waiting,
              or else no one,
              only cold, stony soil.

Good seed, bad soil

The Sower goes forth to sow.
In the Church we are thinking,
“We have the good seed, we are the good soil.”

The preacher preaches mightily, eloquently.
His youthful vigor alarms us.
We think, “My! How well he preaches!
He is the tallest priest in the diocese too, 
and so handsome.
What a good witness he is.”
Then we settle in to be entertained.
Though bread of the Word is offered,
our eyes ice it, and we eat cake.

Does he realize what field he is dropping the good seed into?
Does he sense that his footprints will leave their mark
only for a moment?
Does his heart really believe what he is saying?
Has he been traduced, reviled, led out to be stoned
for his testimony?
Does he love it, to see the people smile?

The earth has brought forth her harvest,
but there are none to reap.
The crops gathered into the barn
have been sated.
The wedding feast has already begun,
and the doors have been sealed.
Poor unwise unvirgins, tattooed and pierced,
bad soil infertile of the good seed,
abandoned outside.

The Bridegroom come and knocking is told,
“No room here at the inn.”
But for those inside the banquet hall,
frolic and feast, without Him.
Where in the world can He go now?

“Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: 
for my head is filled with dew, 
and my locks with the drops of the night.”

Children

Weep, my people, weep, for your land,
Once a city set on a hill
that could not be hid,
Is now a byword for the nations,
who toss their heads and say,
“If Yahweh is their God,
Let Him help them!”

Land of riches, now despoiled,
Land of sons and daughters,
now defiled,
Land of promise, now defamed,
Land of free men, now reviled,
“If Yahweh is their God,
Let Him help them!”

To the bitter end of your revelry,
To the bitter end, take your pleasures,
No matter your children charred,
Passed through the fire of Molech,
Cry out to you,
“If Yahweh is your God…”

Now is the time of redemption
From the sickening tree.
Now the acceptable day
Of the Lord’s visitation.
He comes in the clouds
Despite the doubt of His people,
“If Yahweh is His God,
Let Him help Him.”

Living ikons of the Son of Man,
Weeping saltwater instead of myrrh,
Tears gushing more plentifully
Than miraculous, healing springs,
Crying out with one inaudible voice,
To lure pilgrimages to their tombs,
Waiting for the venerating kiss,
That dry bones may take on life,
“If Yahweh is your God,
Help us!”
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One only is worthy

One only is worthy,

and we know it,

and we know Him.

So as we go suffering as He suffers,

rejoicing as He rejoices,

let's keep following Him,

and decide to do now and always

exactly what He asks,

no matter what it looks like,

no matter whom it may offend,

no matter what it feels like,

but without malice,

without superiority,

without resentment.

This way is the hardest

because it is the Cross,

and it is the lightest

because it is Jesus.

And to be at His side,

no matter what happens to us by day or night,

is why we live.
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Keep My Commandments

            I wouldn’t call them beautiful exactly,
            but these few lines inscribe my life,
            a life that it’s easy to hate;
            but then I heard it said to me,
            ‘the man who hates his life in this world
            will keep it for eternal life.’

            ‘Remember to breathe,’
            I tell myself each morning;
            ‘Cast your eyes ahead,’
            that voice within me calls,
            and like you, brother,
            though I light no candles,
            my vigils take the place of sleep.

            Lying flat on my face,
            no pillow drenched with tears,
            I watch for dawn’s hint of light,
            and then pray I expire
            before the sun rises;
            no other answer to despair,
            except a kiss whispered in my ear,
            ‘keep my commandments.’
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Outside the world

This is the life we live
outside the world.

We still have to live in this world,
but that world to come
is for us so fully present
that we feel its breezes blowing on us,
even while we walk in this world.

That world to come
is for us so fully tangible
that we sometimes scrape ourselves
on the door jambs of that narrow gate
as we pass through it,
going in and out.

That world to come
is for us so fully real
that we feel truly at peace and at home
only when we are together,
following the Lord,
in this world strangers in a strange land.

Heaven is no more a pious dream for us
than God Himself is,
who is our Father, Friend and Guide,
who welcomes us into His presence beyond all worlds,
and sets our feet down in heavenly places.

This is the life
we live outside the world,
which is so rich that we are willing
to leave all behind even before death’s door,
to inherit the world to come,
prepared for us before the foundation of the world.

Glory to You, Christ our God,
for You have made mere fisherman wise
by sending upon them the rain of fire of Your Spirit,
as You said,
‘I have come to bring fire to earth!
O, that it were ablaze!’

We follow You, Jesus, in this world,
and You refresh us in the world to come, even now.

Barukh ha-ba ba-shem Adonay.
Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord.
Barukh ha-olam ha-ba.
Blessed is the world to come.

Brethren,
this is the life we live
outside the world.
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During the night

It’s a strange thing, at times almost beautiful
though amidst a scene of desolation, the peace
that descends in all quietude on the place
where once a great house stood
that has gone up in flames during the night,
leaving whisps of smoke curling to a soft morning breeze
and, underfoot, littered invisibly
among charred, fallen timbers, glowing embers.

Or as Job, having finally fallen asleep
where he lay alone in the ash pit scraping his sores,
abandoned there by his faithless wife
who had mocked him, ‘Why persist in your blamelessness?
Curse God, and die!’ is suddenly awakened
in the dark night by the almost inaudible voices
of argumentation going on somewhere
in the blackness above him
between his advocate Yahweh and his antagonist,
one claiming to be a son
(or could it have been a daughter) of God,
‘No! He only serves You
because You supply all his needs!
Desert him, and see
how he will curse You to Your face!’

What must be fulfilled will be fulfilled.
The fruit of pride, rebellion and apostasy
remains on the tree a little longer.
Then, without warning, for not having been harvested
its loathesome weight bows the tree down
until finally it splits, exposing light, living wood
within the fissured bark
of the ravaged trunk and branches.
The tree will be cut down, savagely,
by a relentless axe, neither the evil fruits
nor the pain of wrath will be remembered henceforth.
Only the fresh, hopeful sprigs arising
from the otherwise barren stump will bear witness
to what could have been,
will follow the sun in its course,
as He draws them up to Himself.

Saviour of fugitives,
Christ our God,
have mercy on us!
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