Within Thy Wounds Hide Me

Good Friday Haiku

A nailmark, a palm.

Enter through these narrow gates,

from wounds to wonders.

From Dirt to Dirt

I remember years ago, my theology professor was explaining the significance of doctrine creatio ex nihilo, which states that God created the world out of nothing and wasn't hindered by pre-existing material like we are.  He illustrated the concept with a story about a man who was frustrated with all the suffering and evil in the world.

The man went up to God and said, "What kind of show are you running here?  There's so much violence, injustice, ignorance, suffering, and evil in the world."
"Do you think you could make it better?" asked God.
"Absolutely," the man said, to which God most charitably and politely responded, "You're welcome to try."
So the man rolled up his sleeves and reached down to the ground to start making some bricks and God said, "Nope, stop.  Get your own dirt."

So of course the man realized if he was going to remake the world, he was going to have to use God's dirt to do it.

"And the LORD God formed man (h'adam) of the dust of the ground (h'adamah), and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living soul." (Genesis 2:7)

Now imagine this whole business about salvation. God looked at us and, in the words of Wordsworth, his heart was grieved by "what man has made of man."

 So God effectively said, "What kind of show are you running here?  There's so much violence, injustice, ignorance, suffering, and evil in your souls."
"Do you think you could make them better?" we asked him.
"Absolutely," God said and naturally we offered, "You're welcome to try ..."
There's a stillness in the air and then with something like a knowing wink, we tacked on, "... but get your own flesh."

So of course God realized if he was going to remake humanity, he'd have use our flesh to do it.

"And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1:14)

During the Triduum I look at all the wonders he did with the meager flesh we gave him back at Christmas.  God's a minimalist who knows you can always do more with less.  Look at how simultaneously rich and spartan the New Testament is.  Think about it, flesh and blood, bread and friends, water and wine, wood and nails were all he needed to save the world.  He even used the fallenness of our flesh, which tempted and ultimately betrayed him, as the means to save us.  To look at what he did with what we gave him, turns the question back on us.  Now that we see how in the right hands the world can be remade simply using "flesh," what are we doing with all our closets, pantries, homes, libraries, forests, friends, talents, wealth, intelligence, health, suffering?  What are we doing with this "dirt" he gave us?

An Acrostic For April

April is a way for

A wood to awaken

Awarding awe and wonder to those who

Await this arborescence since

Autumn’s absence.

Pascal pelicans peer with peaceful

Percipience toward people

Pricking themselves in their own peccability when

Rain reigns and ricochets like

Rickety rickshas riding

Recklessly over our wretched and

Restless rambling.

Imbibing this invitation

Inamorata and inamorato inevitably

Inspire in each other

Intimate intuitions and invoke

Love as they lie with long legs

Laughing at luncheons on luxurious lawns.

Looking at laburnums and labruscas and

Lacking all lachrymosity as they

Linger until the light also lies down.

Time for Frühlingsfest

We drank Bier by the liter,
because we're burly Mensches.
We ate Wurst by the meter,
and danced on the benches.

I remember that day,
when we sang songs we can't explain;
when we never wanted to say,
Auf Wiedersehen.

Airports

Three hour layovers
are themselves vacations
in the rural town of
Transition where
the longer you stay,
the less of a local
you are.

Everyone in the food court
seems to be at home
in the bustle and stress:
walking with sack lunches
bearing blazing logos
and clear water bottles,
holding twisted refractions,
looking at glowing screens
or glossy magazines,
which like those who read them
are merely passing through.

I catch the eye of a guy
mummified in a business suit
taking a drink of pop from a straw
and with a glance he seems to say
"You're not from around here, are you?"

I'm sitting across from a kid
too young to read the glossy pages
too young to own a phone
filled with friends not calling.
He's even too young to
buy the emblazoned bags
or the twisted bottles,
though he watches his parents
flipping through phones and pages.

We catch eyes and seem like friends
sitting on dry rocks watching
all the restless water rushing around us,
and seem glad to share a moment
of peace in the sun, while fully knowing
this stream might also sweep us away.

Hebel Hebelim

Breath of Wind, O Breath of Wind ...

All is the Breathing of Wind and Spinning of Air 

(Ecclesiastes)

There are sometimes when I remember all I ever wanted to do growing up was to draw.  Those days are Saturday evenings, when I turn on the radio's folk music, voices and stories.  When I set the light on some common and neglected part of my life.  A few hours and a pair of sincere eyes are all you need.  The secret to good art is just paying attention.  In those immediate moments, I'm that younger me, with scribbled leaves of paper lying scattered all over the living room floor.  I always dreamed of being an artist when I was older (My middle name is 'Ward' and that's just 'draw' spelled backwards).  But when I went to college, I stopped studying art.  I traded my studio for a study.  I moved on to the more reliable and lucrative profession of theology (God's a great boss, but there are some who pay better; not that it really bothers me).  But really how different is studying the Creator of art from studying the art of creation?  Paying attention is prayer.  Being able to appreciate the gift your eyes are giving you in this moment is grace and ευχαριστω.  Pencil marks and paper might not be the shoes themselves, but they aren't meant to be.  The articulations of theology are not God Himself, but they're not meant to be.  Rather sketches and theology are invitations of perspective: Look at these shoes how I do.  Look at Him how I do.  I may have volumes riddled with marginalia or lecture notes on my desk, but Saturdays remind me that no matter how many people (if ever) call me 'Dr. Granger' or how far I seem to have come, I am always still going to be that little kid with scribbled papers falling to the floor as he slowly learns how to pay attention.

Luminous II

Aqua lateris Christi, lava me.
Sanguis Christ, inebria me.

Everyday our souls are wed
but it's so hard to celebrate
when we're all so poor in spirit
and the wine so often fails.

The joyless evening's emptiness
does not even offer distant walls
against which our frail voices
might find an echo.

But instead our cries are drowned
before they leave our mouths
and the silence seems to pour in
to fill our throats and hearts.

In these muffled moments
we can do nothing, but clutch
our fingers around rosary beads
as the backdrop of the evening
smothers our sorrows like
the folds of Our Mother's robes.

She turns to her Son in our stillness
and, with us, He tilts his head back
to drink those last lonely drops
lingering in His also-empty cup.

We are jars of clay filled to the brim
with water so pure, simple, and clear,
with water so obvious, boring, and mundane.

Water for washing, but not for a wedding
which calls for spirit and fire,
which calls for wine and dancing.

He draws from our mundane moments, a memory,
a single drop between our thumbs and forefingers,
and tells us to squeeze until it bursts like a grape.

He says,
Remember the face
of someone you love,
someone vanished into
the silent smothered past.

Remember how they shine
as clear as water all the way
down to your gut where all
memories and emotions are
trampled underfoot,
pressed and fermented.

How often do
the little things they did
pour out rich and burning
as wine through your eyes?
How is it that in our tears
water can burn so much?

It's been a while
since life tasted rich with mystery
and every hour seems to stretch out
like a transparent and obvious sea.

But remember every moment's vintage
calls to be uncorked, poured, and drunk
in the aromatic Now.
For the simplicity of life
is daily aged in love's fires.

Let your prayer come out
of its lonely longing
into the First Miracle
where it's raining wine
and our laughter echoes
from the bottom of our glasses
in joyful disbelief at the fact that,
He has kept the good wine until now.