Shining Spirit

May I feel the movement of angels
around me this day.

Sometimes it seems that life is
coasting in neutral.  Seeing turns
to glazed stare.  Hearing shuts off
like having plugs in my ears.
Then,
without fanfare or flourish,
you appear in a translucent moment,
the almost of transparent clarity.
A beautiful moment.
You sing the song of a bird.
You paint the sky with sharply etched clouds.
You fall upon me like rain washing
and cleaning all it touches.
And in your appearing, you remind me
that I am alive,
that to be alive is to see creation
with your eyes and to pronounce
it holy and sacred.

For all who wait for you,
praying for awakening —
come and fill hearts with love.

Today I will feel the fluttering of angels
around me.
I know it.

May the living earth blossom today as
A gift of gracious beauty,
A peaceful setting for surprising joy,
A reminder of courageous hope,
A moment of deep calm in a
jagged world.
May I have the stillness to see.

My friend asked me this morning about a way to
illustrate the concept of  resurrection to young
children at our church.
So, we talked a while about new life, about
things that blossom from little seeds
planted in the dark earth, about the
realization of opportunities and new
possibilities.  All sorts of ideas come
to mind when we try to translate a religious
term…resurrection…into everyday language,
especially the picturesque language and
imagery of children.

So, within hours of that morning conversation, I went
home to work on a backyard project, and there
was New Life right before my eyes.
Squint a little and you can see them both
in the photograph.

Post-Easter, we begin to let the marvel of it all slip away.
For me, the central meaning of the Gospel is the
choice between the old and the new,
what was and what can be, a life
merely lived or a life that is
mostly miracle and mystery.

If they could speak our language, my little friends in
the garden would probably admit that everything
looks strange to their adolescent eyes, all
new, perhaps a bit scary at first.  Fundamental
change, resurrection, is like that.
“Behold, the old has passed away,
the new has come.”
In that in-between zone, when we dare to step
through the door, dare to throw the window open
to a fresh breeze, let hope and courage guide us
into a new light…in that often hesitant “yes”
to resurrection’s invitation, we find the
mystery of mysteries…there is
a Presence that really knows
all about resurrection,
One who waits to
help us unfold
this thing
called
New Life.

“Come,” we hear, “let me teach you to fly.”
That’s the way it’s supposed to be for my two
little garden friends.
That’s the way it’s supposed to be for me
and for you.

The perfect Easter morning.  Gray, overcast skies.
No hint of glorious sun.  A fitting metaphor for
the world these days.  Rather grim.

And yet in church parking lots, on grassy hillsides,
in public parks people gather to sing about an
event they remember only in story.  An ancient
story that unfolded in a very different culture,
in a very different world.

But now, in spite of gray skies and the absence of
radiant sunbeams, they smile, greet each other
with more than a casual “Hello”.  They listen
again to the retelling of the ancient story as if
for the first time.

The last song sung, the final work spoken, they
pick up their lawn chairs and go home.  The sky
is still that lifeless, steel gray color, overcast and
unremarkable.  Not a single sunbeam is in sight
as the last car leaves the lot.  Only the birds are
left to sing.

Bystanders ask “why?”  The point in performing
this annual parking lot ritual?

It’s the story.  The story’s the thing.  If the gray,
overcast sky is a metaphor for the assault of
gloom in the world, this story is the chronicle
of new life, new vision.  It excites a feeling lost
in the overcast.  A love story with a bad ending
and a great hope.

And so they drove home from the parking lot
having remembered the story, shared it again,
and drawn from it a sense of hope about life…
even under gray, overcast skies.

Excuse me, sir.  I’ve a question please.
Have you ever heard of a singing tree?
A decidedly common and everyday
bush that sings in the mornings and
simply won’t hush till folks walking
by in a late-to-work rush give ear and
applaud the sweet sound.

Well, let me think for a moment please.
Have I ever encountered a real singing
tree?  I’ve heard a horse whiney, a
moon struck dog howl, a lion in the
zoo give a terrible growl, but I’ve 
never been stopped in my tracks by
a tree that offered Bocelli or Elton to me.

Well, here then, my friend, is an offer
to see the remarkable gifts of this
curious tree.  Just stroll down my
street when the sun’s on the rise,
be prepared for a shock and a jolting
surprise, the melodious sounds of
this glorious tree.

(I haven’t the heart to tell in in words
that all he will hear are the songs of
the birds.  But that’s not bad!)

I really do have a singing tree!

“in the night also my heart instructs me.”   Psalm 16.7

When the sun has begun her slow descent
and darkness waits impatiently in the wings,
the bedside candle flameless and
covers pulled chin high,
a lesson is about to begin.
School is in session.

Sometimes in the early morning hours,
after a few nods of sleep,
I sense my heart speaking of the
day just done:
remembering and reminding,
consoling and confronting.
I hear the voiceless heart murmurs
in my soul, feel the tension
between love and indifference,
honesty and deception,
trust and betrayal.
The night’s lesson is both
a challenge and a caress,
always wrapped in love.

My mind asks gleefully to join the
conversation, ready with caveats
and excuses.  But minds are
not enrolled — too adamant,
too defensive.

Perhaps one day the night
lessons will end.  Course complete.
Graduation.  I doubt it.  Life won’t allow it.

Roger Pierce

“They are like trees planted by streams of water,
that yield fruit in due season, and their leaves
flourish; and in all that they do, they give life.”
Psalm 1

I rejoice in the Source of my strength,
the Quiet Stream that feeds the roots
of my trust and hope.

May the Healing Stream enter my body
and my spirit, find its way to all the arid
corners of my soul, and turn my dryness
into the delight of new life.

May all the leaves and blossoms that I
produce, the experiences and expressions
of my self, life moments, become examples
of the Creative Stream’s infilling.

And for the blessing of my nourishment,
may I walk gently shoulder to shoulder
with Kindness;
may my small voice join all who
lift songs of Peace;
may I stand arm in arm with Justice
as she speaks Truth to the universe.

May it be so.    In due season.

(Inspired by Psalm 1 in Praying The Psalms
by Nan Merrill)

We share the pain of our friends
when suffering comes.
“What horrible thing has happened
to you?”  He stood silently.  No response.
“What savage attack have you
sustained”?

Fixed on the jagged wound,
I sat by his side in painful silence.
Soon a playful wind invited the leaves
above me to dance and as branches
swayed with the celestial music, little
healing droplets of sunshine fell upon
my shoulders, gifts from a brilliant blue sky.
In the midst of it all, a faint soul whisper
rose in my saddened spirit.
“See with your heart.”
A transition from mind to heart, an
intentional shift from thinking to being.

Heart vision doesn’t change the object
seen, only the one who sees.  Heart vision
reformats the world and in that world I
float in the exhilaration of living rather
than sitting trapped in the suffering of
brokenness.  In the Heart World birds build
nests in his strong arms.  Lovers sit in the
cool shade of his glorious emerald canopy.
Winter snows wrap him in brilliant white
robes, and he laughs when the wind tickles
and teases.  With the wound and in spite of
the wound he lives.

He stands in his brokenness not with
resentment but with a resolute determination
to be, and all the while the universe applauds.

Sometimes in life,
often when least expected,
a technicolor day shows up.
A rainbow day just after
the storm when the clarity
of the arched ribbons of
luxurious colors hurts your
eyes.  An artist’s palette
day rich in texture and
shimmering in glorious
colors splashed onto the
world from the heart of
Imaginative Love.

So it was today.

As I rest my head on the
pillow, I find it difficult
to release the day.  Neither
of us wants to say goodbye.
Night is almost here, but he will
not be able to cloud my
sacred memory nor diminish
the joy that has burrowed
deep into my soul.  The brush
stroke of the One who paints
the day is gracefully indelible.

(On the occasion of celebrating
50 years of ordained ministry.)

My Friend reassured me:  “even though you get
lost in the darkest, deepest canyon
I will find you.”

Don’t worry.

I told my beautiful child:  “even though you make
mistakes or use poor judgment,
I will never stop
loving you.”

Be yourself.

My wife said to me:  “even though you left your
dirty socks on the bathroom floor, forgot to pick
up the cleaning, and overlooked the flashing
yellow warning light on the dashboard,
I’m stuck with you.
I love you.”

It’s all about “even though”, isn’t it;
and,
Living from a deeply spiritual place is all
about “even though.”

Even though…
–the mountains rumble and roar, I won’t be afraid;
–the day is filled with reports of suffering and
injustice, I will work against them;
–I question some of my long held beliefs
and traditions, I will trust;
–I wonder about the future,
given the present,
I will hope.
–I feel so unloved and unlovable,
I am loved.

It’s all about “Even Though”, isn’t it.