seven::thirtyone

Where are the folks in the camp?
Where are the ones waiting at their tents?
For whom am I pleading?
Might I ever teach,
and what ways would I speak?

Be merciful, Lord.
I need that hope for mercy.
Though I am not, I feel alone.
I probably need this time,
preparing for something and someones.

(Exodus 33:7-11, 34:5-9, 28, Psalm 103, Matthew 13:36-43)

seven::thirty

Coming down from the mountain

the sight of gold causes my heart

a writhing pain.

I was up there for only a short while,

but the clouds were enough to change my mind.

But for days now

I've been treading among herds of gold,

the smell of field patties

causing my nostril to flare,

putting a glare in my eyes.

And I'm so tired.

I long to be a bird that can rest

in the bush of a mustard plant,

that simple life,

not worry free,

but without all the false necessities.

Yet, I'm among the much, the gold,

the shrines to nothing.

The words I brought down with me,

they are shattered now,

so now I begin my plea:

This land of gold, no, not even gold any longer,

but a faith in lies and slander,

deceit, a murderous, warring god--

give me a chance to speak to it.

I'm not much good for talking,

so provide me the libations,

the fruit to address.

Send those winds and clouds from the mountain

to the valleys and roadways I'm learning to roam.

(Exodus 32:15-24, 30-34, Psalm 106, Matthew 12:31-35)

seven::twentynine

Teach me again how to pray.
I was remembering.
Time hearkened me to forget,
to look another way.
I ceased to look inside
and began to see again the world.
A burden has fallen upon my shoulders,
one that I cannot bear.
Knowledge of the distress,
of the evils in Gomorrah,
and I am phased
such that I fail to beckon for the innocent.
I call not even for destruction
to come upon the heads of the evil ones,
but to not come into a time a trial,
on either side of the decision.
I want to forgive,
to break through those hardened hearts,
but mine is slowly freezing again
without the warmth you filled me with.
I ask not rhetorically,
"How much more will my Father in heaven
given those who ask for the Holy Spirit?"
I am not sure if I must know,
but I would like to taste the answer,
and feel it in my veins,
not this bitterness,
not captive by this sense of impending destruction.

(Genesis 18:20-32, Psalm 138, Colossians 2:12-14, Luke 11:1-13)

seven::twentyeight

The weeds and the wheat.

Sown together, grown together.

Together they rise.

Together they come out of the ground.

One to the furnace

to help transform the other

into edible loafs.

For a few days,

after the sixth day,

following the third day,

in those days,

you could gather from the ground

the fruits for the day.

Wheat without weeds.

Not now, however.

Not after stealing whatever imagined,

and ever more than could be.

The Lord's name, vain, now,

fabricated into spoken, false images,

the shape of money.

Clever, ephemeral bondage.

If it wasn't enough,

the actual stuff being made

is only taking away

the life it was supposed to fill.

That's rough, say the ones with stuff.

But, we'll swim in our filtered water

until the sewage muck spills in.

Somehow, we are to sing.

To the somehow or someone we will sacrifice,

knowing we've owned nothing.

This is not somehow spurious, though,

a whispering to guardians of lies,

but it brings us back to the source,

where and how truth births itself.

Before you die

try to rest, leaning on the pillars,

upon the markings of the covenant.

And drink from the bowl

shared with the rest of our populace,

the sufferings no longer hidden,

a taste of bitter rest, not sweet.

God, we are wandering,

our seed is spread in places infertile,

but you still are everywhere,

even where they've tried to drive you away.

Nothing being ours, take us in your arms,

with our weeping hearts,

to be fed and renewed and planted again.

(Exodus 24:3-8, Psalm 50, Matthew 13:24-30)

six::twentyseven

I wish there was understanding and room for people to reap from the Decalogue. But the soil has been eroded all over the earth. There are some who remember the body-deep dirt, but they will soon pass. I didn't even know to look for it until a year or so ago. Too little, too late, they say, whoever they are. Parables are difficult to touch when their metaphorical force has been vacuumed out, thrown to the desert winds, tossed in the combustion engines rapidly driving the world mad, emaciated.

Among the billions, yet, there is hope. Where, I'm not entirely sure, but I'm wanting to look. Will someone help me search? We must rest for the work, for the travels inside and out, and we are with more than enough, even when everything around is being plucked from the ground, being disappeared. We may never gain the deep soil back, so Spirit, please sow deep in our hearts the will and the way to still follow the intended path.

Forgive me now before I fail, if that is what I am to do. In the meantime, speak soft and kind, hard and true words through me, with caring hands and understanding eyes to accompany any following corpus.

(Exodus 20:1-17, Psalm 19, Matthew 13:18-23)

six::twentysix

There's fire coming down on the mountain,
billowing smoke, baking covenant bread.

Fire from the word of God

spoken in thunder.

And the mountains have been tumbled,

though not all walk on the new path formed,

that path paved by Golgotha's quakes

and the upper room's winds.

That's the fire on the mountain

knowing people wanted to see but could not, yet.

Even now many don't see, sadly,

with broken minds,

childlikeness forgotten,

filtering out the blue,

beauty never to be grasped.

"Why do you speak to them with such stories?"

If they wanted to know, they would ask and be ready.

But it's easier to hold onto things for comfort,

when comfort is the familiar project

thought to be our own.

Nothing is ours until we realize that it is so

and beginning them we can share,

share a beautiful vision

and listen with graced ears in partnership

hearing the symphony of the healed heart.

I'm waiting to see the mountain with fire,

yet not consumed.

In the clouds, in the words,

may I be found,

with blessed eyes,

and blessed ears,

and a blessed heart.

(Exodus 19:1-2, 9-11, 16-20, Daniel 3:52-56, Matthew 13:10-17)

seven::twentyfive

Why do I speak? I speak out of belief, out of faith, out of hope that what I say has meaning. I'm trying to die, not an end to my earthly existence, but to my meaningless desires. It's a long, hard death, but it is full of life.

Upon dying I shall return rejoicing, alive and well. Many would not have understood and I don't foresee a future recognition. For the few or some that do see, what wonder. We will drink sweet wine, rejoicing, everything shared.

I am dying because the rulers of the world refuse others' life, taking futures away from families and lands. Yet, it has always been the ones who no longer hold onto their own lives that overcome the violently powerful. Among the people of the Kingdom of God, there is to be no violence or hope for power (though some have lied their way in, perverting the minds of some masses). Power in the hands of mortals tries to drive away the Spirit of mercy. But mercy will endure. The strength of sacrifice endures beyond the false security of power and authority.

As such, I am hoping to die, to live more fully.

(And I recognize that this life of death is further away that I probably realize, for as much as I aspire to a life of sacrificial love, I find myself often grasping onto things of that false life I want to leave behind.)

(Feast of St. James the Apostle, 2 Corinthians 4:7-15, Psalm 126, Matthew 20:20-28)

seven::twentyfour

Yes, the blood-thirsty eventually drown, tumbled and tattered by crashing seas, eternal and short-lived. And others will willingly follow, and some will cheer on the shore. I am not neutral, but I neither follow nor do I cheer.

The day approaches when the lands of freedom shall freely show their oppressive souls. Vapors will emanate throughout the landscape. The name of God will be spoken. It will be cursed. And it will be blessed. Unlike now when it's cursing is draped with lying praise, etched on stitched banners of life taking colors. Tanks and tombs and unmanned aircraft, blood brothers.

And who is mother, brother, and sister? The ones who listen to the will of our Father in heaven. The ones upon whom martial law will be wrought. The ones sitting with Christ, the lowly. The ones not calling for God's silence and blindness to their murderous intentions, but the ones maintaining vigil, alive throughout their selves though death lurks in the throes of power.

The drowned will be drowned, though I hold no staff. I think. I know not to cheer. I'm learning to not fear for myself, but I do hope to weep for brother, sister, mother. It is sickening, the smell of rot and sulfur, so I close my nose and dream of frankincense and myrrh, not to be ignorant, but to taste the truer scents of eternity.

Forgive them. Those words will be hard to speak thinking of what I see happening. They know exactly what they mean to do and are doing and have done, with a Pharaoh's heart of straw bricks. And, yet, I know, too, what I do, and I need to be forgiven. So I do not cheer. But I am not neutral, for joy still touches me.

Can we be at peace? Dear God, I hope so.

(Exodus 14:21-15:1, Exodus 15:8-10, 12, 17, Matthew 12:46-50)

seven::twentythree

What signs do we want today?
The death of an enemy is no longer a sign
but a fact of life
scrolling on the bottom of a news channel's portal.
I shiver thinking of the years, though,
when such deaths were still signs
and Psalms were chanted
from the Exodus and the Psalter
from the lips of western powers.
You were never enslaved
except by power.
Israelite demand of a sign.
The Assyrians saw and wept.
The southern queen conceived her sorrows.
Something greater than victory is now.
It is fermenting and active
and death no longer feeds its life.
We can even escape the enemies reach
without their own demise.
If you would, listen,
No sign will be given
except that one that already has.
You people of the Southern states, listen,
and the North, open your bloody hearts.
The sign has already been given
and your buildup is simply
your destruction and crying over death in the desert.
I shudder for judgment
and so I don't pronounce it,
yet if I could be a mouthpiece,
if I could be your sign,
for your life,
I would.

(Exodus 14:5-18, Exodus 15:1-6, Matthew 12:38-42)

seven::twentytwo

I'm taking a break today. I wish it was because I'm like Mary, but actually I've been in the kitchen all day like Martha. Maybe some more unexpected guests will come today.

(Genesis 18:1-10, Psalm 15, Colossians 1:24-28, Luke 10:38-42)

seven::twentyone

Lead me out,
among the reeds.
Away to peace,
away to trust,
and know mercy.

(Exodus 12:37-42, Psalm 136, Matthew 12:14-21)

seven::twenty

The day to mark all others by would come on a day where routine was profoundly unnoticeable. The grass blows in a regular way. The people walk on the street and do their chores. Children play, priests and widows pray. Inconsequential day, yet by this day nearly all future days will be measured, and past years will be remembered anew. For on this day, mercy could and was shown, the greatest desired act, not sacrifice, that way that was never meant to be. Blood was never meant to be spilled, but to be a maintaining life force. But this intention was forgotten, however, now, mercy is to be the rhythm and when folly might call for faulting our hands are called instead to pass peace, to turn away the desire to condemn. It's fairly easy to imagine a world where everyone acted orderly, well, for me I can dream of such a world, but sadly this seems to only be able to be a dream. Mercy is a step, however, towards the world we would dream, envision. May that day be today or tomorrow, if that would be better.

(Exodus 11:10-12:14, Psalm 116, Matthew 12:1-8)

seven::nineteen

Let me go to the desert

to close my eyes,

to open my eyes,

to see the way I was meant to.

A burden can come in many forms,

and one will find me ever so often.

I must go to the mountain

to hear a voice,

to be given a voice,

to know voices and words.

A name can possess numerous themes,

I hope for mine to move from Man to Peace.

With grace I enter my heart,

to find the light,

to become a light,

to contemplate light.

This burden is worth considering,

another carrying it along, humbly.

Unburned and fiery branch,

send me to the sands

and upon a tall rock,

to be introduced to a heart,

my heart, made to be silent

and orate in turn by the Spirit.

(Exodus 3:13-20, Psalm 105, Matthew 11:28-30)

seven::eightteen

Today, I am supposed to be a child. Not to think like a child or act like a child, but to be teachable like a child, to have ears that wonder and listen with a fresh sense of awe. Today, I would not have seen the burning bush had I walked past it, my vision cast away from that place in me that was becoming childlike. I looked away from the flame what was guiding me, not thinking it would allow me to grow up or grow wise, but I simply lost sight.

Lord, lead me out of the land I chose to enter becoming stuck behind its borders. Pardon my iniquities that I might know your ways. Guide me to the mountain of your vision, the mountain of promise and vision. Help me to look within, again, otherwise a dark cloud will cover my skies, and though we could use its rain, I would still be in a valley plagued with drought. If I need to tend to a flock, send your fleece covered gathering, to do the work of a servant. Locate me in a place to hear.

Though you are sluggish today, my soul, bless God. Though you have forgotten today, be made to remember, spirit made alive with Spirit. Though sleep crowds my mind, may I be raised up with the Son, raised again like a child, learning and listening, being given a language to communicate the reality around me.

(Exodus 3:1-6, 9-12, Psalm 103, Matthew 11:25-27)

seven ::seventeen

People of Bethsaida, of the sea,
of the land touched by miracles
wondrous and simple.
The people of a promised presence
which you have known
but ignore, reason away,
denying its release,
please offer an ear, a second glance.
See, floating in the river,
among the lily pads and rocks,
a voice,
a whimpering child of a voice.
It was heard once,
but it forgot how to listen,
but years away were to train it,
to give words through a brother,
the breath of God in the air
and freedom on the sands.
The river, flowing into a swamp,
between pyramids and obelisks,
monuments to impressive,
yet torturous and fruitless labors.
Oh, you people,
you believe you are on safe waters.
Be no longer deceived.
Assume no longer your comforts,
no longer a cool breeze.
This land has forgotten,
has forsaken,
taken in vain lives,
miracles, simple and profound,
and in turn drowned
the healing vocabulary of sorrow.
For sorrow turns to joy
when taken into the heart,
into the fabric of the days garment.
Yet you point at the sad estate
of others you will not touch
or approach in kindness.
Will you not turn,
people next to the waterway,
the procession path to the alter?
Please, in silence, listen.

(Exodus 2:1-15, Psalm 69, Matthew 11:20-24)

seven::sixteen

The prophet's reward, the prophet's reward,
cisterns, and deserts, people's scorn,
the sword.
"I have not come to bring peace,
but a sword."
Not one to kill,
but one in turn turned back,
not in suicidal wish,
but by the way of the world
where all is on its head.
Love is hated
and brick upon brick,
steel beam teamed with steel beam
building nothing but prisons
for the days remaining.
And a sword of revolution,
not bloody, today,
but throwing down the bricks
that block our hearts
from the love of God,
the love of God in a neighbor.
No, I'm sorry, they will not understand.
The prophet's word is never understood,
but it is trampled upon
if ever heard.
Yet, it remains,
in the crimson stains
in the soil,
the remembrance of the knowing smile,
a sign of joy in the midst of burden,
with eyes raised to the heavens,
and lowered to the ground.
Be not on the mind of kings,
in their favor or debt,
but perhaps in their dreams.
And dream, too,
of the rush of waters
that have passed over,
not drowning.
Sit still, and speak, whisper,
the name of the Lord.
From your tongue to your mind
deep into your heart, gently beating,
through your veins and being.
Walk in the desert,
in the vast array of dryness,
the reward of faithfulness,
with a peace somehow coupled
with a sword,
the prophet's reward.

(Exodus 1:8-14, 22, Psalm 124, Matthew 10:34-11:1)

seven::fifteen

The air is charged with the statutes of the Lord.

You need only breathe them in, the breath of God,

the wind of the Spirit's word,

the delight of life.

The life lived in God's law is an image

of the invisible beauty delivered throughout the creation.

The powers believe they rule with law.

They lord over and walk past those weak,

and they kill to maintain the facade of strength,

but they are passing,

their glory old, and never vital to begin with.

Love is the command and the gift.

Love, it is the only law.

( Deuteronomy 30:10-14, Psalm 19, Colossians 1:15-20, Luke 10:25-37)

seven::fourteen

I don't know where I'll be buried or who will bury me or with whom I will be buried. I wonder if I should think about such things. I know God knows when a hair of mine is laid to rest. But that thought leads me to not worry about my passing. Life ends an I will return to dust, eventually dust risen. Now, I want to familiarize myself with my surroundings and know the peace possible here. And I want to know myself, even as God knows me.

I am no greater than that which masters me. Lord, you transform the heart shaped from dust and spirit, making me of one mind with a single direction. It is not that I have no concerns, I do, but they are to be shaped by faith, not left to themselves to fester causing me to lose focus.

Focus my attention on a life lived well. Death will come, but it is not my worry, only life and remembrance of God.

(Genesis 48:29-32, 50:15-26, Psalm 105, Matthew 10:24-33)

seven::thirteen

Step now into the fleecing,

your wooly layers will go to the wolves

even when you are silent and smart

with a healthy spirit raised inward,

listening to visions seen in rest.

Go there, where want for nothing is known

yet, your spirit groans to make requests.

As you step out, the words will come,

for the stepping out is a stepping in

in order to release the self to the world

in need of the grace you will speak

when the moment comes for conversation.

Those moment will be needed

for tides od exhile and hatred are rising,

but they will not be able to enslave you,

try as the might.

God is in you,

in your heart made whole.

seven::twelve

Would I accept a position from Pharaoh or Caesar or the President if offered one? If protection for my people, whoever my people are, was offered, would I sell myself for a place at the power's table? I haven't a reason to anticipate such an offer; why would I be in such company? And yet, I imagine one day will come when folks like me, Christians who profess no faith in the kingdoms of this world, will be asked to pledge allegiance to such foreign powers, even powers we seem already to close to by default of our place of birth.

Numerous others have already pitched their tents in the power's camp, raising star-spangled banners high in front of their church buildings, before the cross. They've been teased into positions of authority, and yet the bread they eat at Caesar's table is poisonous and stinks of death. They may think of themselves as Joseph, son of Jacob called Israel, but they are more like Judas.

Church! No longer grovel at the gates of the White House. Lay down your weapons purchased in fear. Take down your flags, those banners displaying no mercy, stitched with shrapnel and greed. Shake of the dust from your feet, for you have neither spoke the message of Christ nor was it been accepted.

But, Joseph, if you are hiding there, be revealed. Judas, admit your ways. I, too, once help my hand to my breast and spoke apostasies. Now, I pray, help me stand fast, You who remained silent before the governor and the priests. May I too know myself in such a way to remain true to my Lord, even in the face of blood, bone, and blue steel.

seven::eleven

Christians have forgotten that they have been given names and been listed among the saints who rely upon the words and message of Christ, "The kingdom of heaven is at hand." Instead, they have opted for an earthly kingdom in which to amass wealth and false abundance with a diminished, ethereal heaven somewhere in the clouds which has no force but to be hung over the heads of others in an attempt to scare them into a diminished view of their being and the universe. I don't want an ethereal heaven nor an earthly kingdom. The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Now. Right here. Not in the clouds, though I suppose it is there, too, but not only. The kingdom brings the land of the living and the land of the dead together and they are all with names.

We have sold our brothers and sisters and ourselves into slavery, and so we are forced to grovel with the princes and principalities. But anything that is forced upon us is something that we need not accept. We too can buy our brothers and sisters out of slavery when we cease to grovel, cease to place ourselves at the foot of power, the throne of wealth, and seek the intended way of humanity, life lived in the love of God and love for and with others.


"The kingdom of heaven is at hand." Forget the other kingdoms, though the taste of their fruit lingers on your tongue. Drink the new wine and remember the call of a loving God.

(Genesis 41:55-57, 42:5-7a, 17-24a, Psalm 33, Matthew 10:1-7)

seven::ten

What man do I wrestle with if not myself? I believe that I am trying to see myself in the face, and most days my face does not cause me grief. And yet I do not dare to wrestle with others, to contend with them nor hit them in their hip, for I know that I too hobble and wish that upon no one else.

But is this cowardice? Or is it a trust like that of the psalmist who pleads for the shelter of God's wing?

I wrestle with myself and invite others to wrestle with me, but not in such a way that we are fighting nor making enemies. I know that some will not want or be able to see this, and as such misunderstandings will transpire. It is then my prayer that I will be able to look in the other's face and say, "Today, I have seen the face of God." The tongue will be loosed and words of praise and friendship will be on lips.

(Genesis 32:23-33, Psalm 17, Matthew 9:32-38)

seven::nine

On first thought, conceiving of God as localized, as located on a rock, that particular place where a dream with a voice occurred, I am convinced. Why should God be relegated to a single pebble, a river rock pillow. Then I begin to wonder, should God be everywhere? Not that God is Nowhere, but should a marking be placed in the aisle of, say, a retail store? (Though, certainly, such would be a good to remember God and leave.)

There must be some places that are more holy than others, places where God is more fully known. A mountain top. A riverside. The reconciliation with an enemy. In the eyes of a handicapped person. The hand of a loved one. A reservoir of tears released. A moment of healing. Here, even without stones, monuments are built. And from those places we know God is with us. We become a presence of God.

We must remember to remember, to constantly be reawakened to the knowledge of the presence of God. The mind is freed from wandering, yet free to wonder, to explore the mysteries of God, for the imagination needs to be reshaped, else we continue to be cast in the role that the world has made for us in it poor mimicry as creator. In the hand of God we are given a true identity and as we find more holy places, we bare the marks of their stones. We begin to walk with the one who can stop the painful flow of blood, and can take the hand of a lifeless child as see her rise. See her rise. And so we rise and go, walk from the holy place with a God not localized, yet particular and distinct.

Lord, grace me with sight that sees you anywhere in particular. Yet may I also know to mark the places you most intimately make yourself known, in the silence and in the breeze, in a house of worship, even in the company of others. And may the people grow quiet with the news of your work distilled throughout the lands you tend to.

(Genesis 28:10-22, Psalm 91, Matthew 9:18-26)

seven::eight

It is at hand, the nursing, the Kingdom,

Mercy's lap is at hand.

Having grasped her hand you will go and speak.

Words have power and they have feet

and they hold the hand of the Kingdom,

hold the hand of Mercy.

So speak, and dream with graced thoughts,

the nourishing milk of a Mother's love.

She has given you a new birth,

a birth that continues to birth,

to then coddle tenderly

the transfigured virtuous children of the Spirit's wind and light.

Mark the truth on your body,

mark it with your body,

the mark of kindness

that leaves the scars of beauty,

the present sign of healing

in a land still dust.

With dust, speak, if you must

but it would be more becoming

to speak in silence,

in that tone of still calm.

Your friends may forget when you try to remember.

Think of them again as brothers and sisters.

And when their spurn grows like weeds,

be a grass providing shade,
muting their scorn to wild flowers.

The waters may be dried for a time of passage,

but their rushing life will flow once again

sending you the clouds you will need

to veil your words,

to speak only the verse of a new creation.

Rest now in the Kingdom.

Rest in her, Mercy's, lap.

Hold her hand.

(Isaiah 66:10-14, Psalm 66, Galatians 6:14-18, Luke 10:1-11)

seven::seven::seven

How sad to be a man deceived, blinded, on the death bed by a second son. And decades ago a father raised a knife above your throat. Oh, Isaac, how sad you must have been in your days, even with a name meaning laughter.

And Laughter. You must belong with sadness, and together, begetting dull and cunning offspring, you leave your promised mark on the world. What is the burden of a legacy, even one you must leave trusting in your feeble hands and cataract eyes? I wouldn't know to laugh or cry, in the end, feeling that nothing was up to me any longer. Still, I admit that I want to leave this life with something to be remembered, be it a child or an encouraging and challenging idea, something that leaves the world better.

Yet, that seems so impossible and fleeting. Not that this earth will only get worse; but better, how can I know or measure?

See, it is best to seek the beautiful rather than better, though I know I am apparently assigning hierarchy here. But the beautiful is beyond hierarchy, an institutionalized concept. The beautiful is even beyond laughter and sadness, though it may evoke both. The beautiful is the good, the end, the telos, to those who seek to concern themselves with the Kingdom of God, that reality which enjoys new wine in fresh skins and bottles. The beautiful preserves itself. Though I have not yet found Beauty, I know when we one day meet, she will keep me, and her words will rest on my lips in silence.

Laughter, in your blind sadness, wake up and seek the beautiful, even in your final moments before the forever evening-morning rises. Be no longer deceived, but find yourself in the will of God, which is good and beautiful.

(Genesis 27:1-5, 15-29, Psalm 135, Matthew 9:14-17)

seven::six

I am ill today in my stomach and head, having perhaps consumed foods my body ought not have consumed. Ans so now everything aches and I want only to rest or be able to eat, but nothing now seems good to digest. As such my vulnerability and weaknesses make themselves apparent. I don't entirely bemoan my ailments for they are a touchstone of the Gospel: "The sick need a physician, not those well off." Christ calls the sick and sinners and makes them whole. He lifts up those who show mercy to others, not sacrificing them for their own benefit. In the hours off ill feeling, may I not curse but remember God's mercy with wholeness being make real in me.

(Genesis 23:1-4, 19, 24:1-8, 62-67, Psalm 106, Matthew 9:9-13)

seven::five

"Get up, you are healed. Your paralysis no longer binds you, and now you may lean on me in freedom and trust. Go now, you are made well."

The powerful words of Christ, God in flesh, flesh in God. We listen to his words and are strengthened and weakened at the same time. But the weakness is not a weakness that causes us to whither. No, it merely causes us to look ourself in the eyes, a practice the self-proclaimed strong are unwilling to do. They look into a mirror and see not themselves but a world to be conquered, or others to have dominion over, possessions they would never give up.

But the weak, they recognize they have come into this world with nothing. They can only form eternal relationships, become bound with the community of humanity, recognize their self in Christ and the other. They can give up the things that leave them paralyzed: fear, possessions, power. When we lack power, we are given strength to trust in God. When we give up hold of our stuff, we are held in the sustaining hands of God. When we relinquish our selves of fear, we are given freedom to love.

"Why do you harbor evil thoughts? Let your mind be freed, your disposition to be one of trust. You are healed. Get up, walk, go. You are made whole."

(Genesis 22:1-19, Psalm 115, Matthew 9:1-8)

seven::four

Ishmael, come home, my boy.
Forgive me of your departure, for it distresses me so.
Your mother is a wonderful lady,
and this one I am at home with,
this woman of promise,
she bemoans anything that finds her ill at ease.

Ishmael, come home, for I love you.
You are now a wondering ass of a man,
sophisticated in your wild ways,
and if I were to think I'm not crazy,
I'd be crazier still.
But have I set you free?

Ishmael, those who seek the Lord
want for no good thing.
So cry out loud, God hears you.
Cry out of your need,
for those with will be without.
Seek your father in heaven, for I have failed you.

(Genesis 21:5, 8-20a, Psalm 34, Matthew 8:28-34)

seven::three

Someday, I will see not with my eyes but with my spirit. I may even be coming upon that day, or perhaps have had it pass me, and shall find it again. This sight is more than belief in our contemporary arrangement of that word. It is an entire disposition, and entire arrangement of life, and as such cannot be relegated to the non-thinking mind, for it is a new mind, a renewed mind, a mind that means to unite itself with the mind of God while all the time knowing it is below that, yet seeks still. This mind does not need to stick its fingers in the side of Christ, for with eyes closed it sees. It believes. It be-lieges, that is it pledges allegiance to Christ, and sets itself to the task of the Apostle's teachings. This sight, this mind, I desire.

(Ephesians 2:19-22, Psalm 117, John 20:24-29)

seven::two

Destruction is being wrought all over the face of the earth, but the lords of nations would not listen to the voice of Abraham. And so what then of the lords who use the name of the Lord, a name that by their actions they piss upon, sleeping in mansions while the Son of Man, unlike the bird and her nest, has no place to rest his head? God covers iniquities, he does not perpetuate them.

This morning I was surprised to find a cucumber growing in a crowded tire next to forming crooked-necked squash. This evening, I will eat a straight-necked squash. Water and soil lend to growth which leads to growth. Slow is the growth, as is God's anger, and so I can breathe deep a taste of life, a reminder of grace.

I do not have a view from the mountain top, above the cities of the planet, though I am here in hilly East Tennessee. Mainly, though, I simply read of the powers and taste of forgiveness. One day I may move to a place offering a different vantage point. But today I recognize that I do not rule over any lands, yet I must come to hold steady my heart, this sad little kingdom within, that the Spirit fortifies. And the lords of the earth have no place in this kingdom, nor I in theirs. But my heart might melt in love with yours, my brother or sister of land, and we can join together in finding that no-where place to rest our heads.

(Genesis 8:16-33, Psalm 103, Matthew 8:18-22)

seven::one

Life in the Spirit is free. It is also disciplined. But most of all, it is life lived in love.

This life of love allows us to move beyond ourselves. It draws us to rest in God. We may even be shaped in such a way that others are drawn to us and us to others.

For freedom we have been set free. To love we have been placed in the life the Holy Spirit, the life of the church of Christ. May we find ourselves in the love of God, our portion, our redemption, our love.

( Kings 19:16b, 19-21, Psalm 16, Galatians 5:1, 13-18, Luke 9:51-62)