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!
x

Vox populi, vox Dei

Election Day
in one of the world’s oldest republics,
and the spectre of democracy
is allowed to raise its head
for one intense and momentous day.

The Revolution
swept away the bulwarks of monarchy
with all its powerful magic,
never to let it again steal the voice
of the people,
but perpetuating and extending
that voice from sea to shining sea
and to the ends of the earth
till the end of time.

Glorious in aspect,
and fearful, now the will of the people
would be the same as the will of God
—as long as the people were under God,
who alone is their King.

This was the vision,
a first enfleshening of the promise
that God will live among men.
‘And the Word became flesh,
and pitched His tent among us.’

The powerful magic
of monarchs, which let one rule
in the name of God
to the good or ill of the people, is gone.

Now we have
no one but ourselves to praise or to blame
if we set up princes
to rule us in their own names,
who give not the honor and glory
back to the One who alone
sits on the Throne.

Democracy,
even for a moment,
can be a dreadful thing,
or a blessing.

Pray, brethren,
that what our people conceive this night
is not the child of lawlessness, born of adultery.

Pray that the fruit of our tree will be good fruit,
because a tree can be known by its fruit.

Pray that we are still found
to be a good tree bearing good fruit.
‘Yes, even now the ax is laid to the roots
of the trees, so that any tree
which fails to produce good fruit will be cut down
and thrown on the fire.’
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Advice to preachers

We don't come to church to hear funny stories.

We don't want to be entertained.

We don't need to know the cultural context.

We're not interested in what the Bible scholars say.

Hebe and Greek us when it deepens real meaning,

but don't do it just for self-display.

We know you've been to seminary,

but we don't care who says this or that.

We want to hear the Living Word you're supposed to carry.

We want to hear it simple and direct.

We want to know what Jesus can do with us,
       if we'd just let Him.

We don't want you to ‘should’ us, or put us in your debt.

Just speak the Word of Truth that feeds the children,

that we all are before the Father's throne.

We want to grow up in the Master's image.

Just plant the seed the way He wants it sown.

Don't hurry if the Spirit wants to tarry,

don't drag it out if short and sweet's the Word.

Open your mouth to preach what you do practice.

We can see through rhetoric more clearly than you think.

Why waste our time, and God's? Stay on the level,

since every hill and mountain He'll lay low,

when He comes back again to pay His servants.

You don't want to join the goats when left they go.

Version française par Claude Lopez-Ginisty