The Sighing

The Sighing

by W. Thomas Edwards

I think today I may have seen the Breath of God.
It moved across the mirrored lake in little
Waveletines – a tiny ruffling puff
That shook the image of the cloud-shot morning sky
Reflected in the crystal plate-like face of polished lake.

The ducks could feel it, turning heads
To face the little whiff
And breathing in the subtle little stirring thing.

If my shy soul is like that lake
Reflecting back the grandeur of the Godhead’s face,
Then when the Holy Breathing moves across it
Why is that image blurred?

It has to be the livening force of living grace
That stirred those twelve to speak in tongues
And change the shape of God’s creation’s knowing of
The Breath
That ruffled up and blurred all human time
And life.

Feast of the Holy Innocents 2006
Oakham, Massachusetts

Tom Edwards came to St Paul’s In 1990 first as a long term visitor and later as part of the community. He sings in St Paul’s Choir and is leader and founder of the Schola Cantorum Sancti Pauli, our Gregorian chant group. Tom is a devotee of the works of Thomas Merton and is an Associate of the Order of the Holy Cross. He is also a practicing physician.

Later in Lent

by Stephen Crippen


Later in Lent

I’m out of breath. I’m panting, even.

I thought I was in better shape than this.

This isn’t a desert. It’s a forest wilderness.
I can hardly see everybody else.
I keep getting tangled up in branches,
branches with annoying little thorns, ivy, bramble.
I keep tripping on rocks and roots.
I think I hate that most of all.

No, I hate the heat and humidity down here.
My socks are around my ankles.
My pants are dragging and sagging.
I’m disheveled.
I feel like maybe I’m making progress,
but who knows.

They say forests need to burn every few years
to restore the ecosystem,
to keep the whole thing healthy.
I say, pass me a match.

It seems like other people are handling this better.
They seem to be walking more freely.
I console myself: I just can’t see some of their branches.
Maybe the others are also bound (and gagged?)
by their own
little demons.

(True confession: I hope so.)

They say we’re going to make a
”new fire”
that will be a festival of
dazzling light
luscious warmth
new life
everyone at the table
everyone pulling a piece of bread
from one warm, fragrant loaf.

I say, I hope I have sense enough
--when the fire is blazing—
to take off my shoes

and breath enough
to stammer out the word—
”Alle—“

I’m out of breath. I’m panting, even…


Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog on his website, here.

THE TRAVELLERS

by Sharon Cumberland

THE TRAVELLERS

They appeared on the brink of Judea, like the pluck
of a tuning string: Gatháspa, Melchias, Pudizar,
their shared language astronomy (unscrolling their charts,
gesticulating at the sky). It wasn't luck
that brought them together in the desert,
but the quality of their separate magic.
Truth to tell, the ushering star
was combined with the old constellations,
and when wind whipped clouds through the chilly night,
they couldn't see anything very well.
Until they found each other they had begun to doubt
they would find anyone, much less a monarch
nobody knew about.
But now they were three: a Babylonian mage,
a Persian seer, and from the land of Ind
a wizard who could derive gold from the ores of Malabar.
Now they had their triple art to take them
toward the thing they sought: a Hebrew king
in the nest of Rome.

Then imagine their alarm
when they found the king a newborn
in a lean-to of date fronds and olive branches.
How quickly they erected an incense altar
to ward off the seven evil demons!
How they sang incantations, wove spells against Pazuzu
who brings contagion, and Lamashtu
who poisons breast milk. They tried to explain,
through clouds of myrrh and cinnamon,
which rites the baffled parents should perform.
But the girl and her old spouse seemed as innocent of danger
as the infant son, or the sheep and mules
they sat among. Gatháspa pressed an amulet of gold
into the father's fist: Keep it no matter what
he insisted in his tongue so that Namtaru
will not take him to the underworld!
They left the parents plenty of resins, oils,
and frankincense to burn, though doubted
they'd comply with instructions.
Each magus thought sadly, turning back to the East:
This poor little king will die. May the gods hide his name from the evil ones.

Sharon Cumberland is a member of St. Paul's and an Associate Professor of English at Seattle University.

Gifts

by W. Thomas Edwards


I got a free banana once.
Some pointed thing had stuck it in my cart,
And when the lady saw its skin
“No need to pay,” she said, and plopped it in
Amongst potatoes, oats and milk.

I took it home, and cut the end off, there,
Just where the skin was pierced.
I sliced the skin and peeled it back to show
The tender fruit within.

And then I thought how like God’s gifts to us
This gift banana was.

The gift of Faith that comes wrapped up
In different colored skins, and shows us how
The meanest broken things can point the way to God.

The gift of sight that Jesus gave
The man who had not ever seen.
A gift like Faith, not asked for - freely giv’n

The gift of God in human flesh
Wrapped up in trappings simple and serene,
The bread and cup Our Saviour gave us - life sustaining.

But then I thought God’s gifts so often have these little strings.
The “Talents” thing, you know,
Where using it should make it grow.
We cannot take the gifts and bury them unseen to be returned,
But use them must, and in the using to be drawn to union
With the One who gives the gift.

Most often we’re not told why gifts are given us.
Nor are we ever asked “Is this a gift you really want?”
I, for one, am not so sure I really want to be propelled
Through healing’s gift to rush about among the sick and weak,
The poor who have so little but their skins
and that not all too well.

Sometimes I wish I had been called to sit upon a pillar Stylite-like
And make pronouncements morn till night
For all to follow and make right the ills of all mankind.
But I must make the small and steady steps to teach
And in the teaching reach both those I heal
And those whose hands I teach to touch the hurting ones.

See, there’s the string. It’s hidden underneath.
The gift is grand, the string is hooked upon the heart.
And if I try to cast it off, it drags my heart away from me
And pulls me once again into the center place
Where gift, the Giver God and I may be as one.

Tom Edwards came to St Paul’s In 1990 first as a long term visitor and later as part of the community. He sings in St Paul’s Choir and is leader and founder of the Schola Cantorum Sancti Pauli, our Gregorian chant group. Tom is a devotee of the works of Thomas Merton and is an Associate of the Order of the Holy Cross. He is also a practicing physician.

The Advent of a Haiku

By Lynn Adams


“The most meaningful gifts are made by hand.” –Lynn’s hereditary credo


“What can I make for these dozen loved ones requiring minimum expense and time for maximum charm, starting December 10th?”

– thought I had


Five Simple Elements for an Ornament

Circle
Crosspieces
Panes
Dots
Hanger

Supplies & Equipment

Wire
Felt
Circle cutting aid
Glue gun
Beads
Buttons
Thread
Fabric

Instructions

1. …with great enthusiasm
…
11. … anticipating total delight

“This design could be made in quantity for the native journey giveaway next summer.” – thought I had

Went to Joann’s…

Things I learned in the 1st Prototype:

Rotary cutters will not cut felt
Cutting circles causes back strain
My eyes are just barely capable of stringing seed beeds
Beads on wire do not want to lie straight
Wire does not want to lie in a circle
Pearl doesn’t stick

“The overall effect will probably be ‘funky’.” – thought I had

Instructions re-imagined and re-ordered

Things I learned in the 2nd Prototype

Glue is unruly
Wire is stubborn
Tools are noncompliant
Thread is uncooperative
Beads are picky
Buttons are deceptive
Needles are elusive
I need new glasses


“I’ll be lucky to get six done.” -- thought I had

“I think my first prototype is cute enough to give.” -- another thought I had

Instructions irrelevant

“Maybe I should stick to haiku.” – thought I had


it’s all connected
thunderclap and nematode
you dear one and me


Advent blessing to all!

Lynn Adams is a longtime member of St. Paul's.

Lost and Found

By Martha Wakenshaw

Lost and Found

I lost my faith, but I'll have to check my back pocket
because I may have stuffed it there absentmindedly and
when no one was looking.

I may have put my faith in a file drawer
to be pulled out later or in the dog's bowl
by accident or the old leather messenger bag
hanging on the wall.

I feel faith trying to find me, tugging
at my sleeve like a small child.

I hear faith crying out in the wilderness in
that wild and wonderful place of unknowing.

I see faith shy and hiding in the shadows
afraid to look up.

I smell faith in the incense thrown all around
like a foggy autumn morning.

I can almost touch faith, brush my cheek
against it's warm body.

Faith plays hide and seek with me
now seeking me, now calling out
"you're it."

Martha Wakenshaw is a member of St. Paul's, a writer, and a psychotherapist. Her website can be found here.

Wilderness

by Alissa Newton

“A Course in Creative Writing”
by William Stafford:

They want a wilderness with a map
but how about errors that give a new start?
or leaves that are edging into the light?
or the many places a road can’t find?

Maybe there’s a land where you have to sing
to explain anything: you blow a little whistle
just right and the next tree you meet is itself.
(And many a tree is not there yet.)

Things come toward you when you walk.
You go along singing a song that says
where you are going becomes its own
because you start. You blow a little whistle

And a world begins under the map.

Mother Melissa ended her wonderful homily yesterday morning with the poem above. She spoke about the wilderness of transition - that place that occurs over and over in biblical texts and resonates so deeply with the reality of human life. It's the moment, or hour, or month, or year(s) between letting go of what was and the arrival of what is-to-be and it's a terrifying time. We traverse there everyday in some way, between sleep and waking, between leaving work and coming home, between meeting someone's eye and deciding to smile, or not to. And there are bigger moments. The four years of college are such a wilderness - not yet really grown-up, but certainly not still a child. The years after college are even more wild, for some. Being engaged to be married - not single but not married yet, that is a wilderness. Being unemployed, about to move, applying to grad school, pregnant. All these come to mind when I think of the wilderness of transition in human life. Even more the big losses - divorce, death, separation. Those are the places we really never want to go, but, as Mo. Melissa noted in her homily, sometimes we find ourselves there despite all intentions.

I'm scared of transition. I can freely admit that I am all about what is and ever planning for what might be but it is hard for me to think about the in betweens, the letting go of now for something that could be better. Maybe there's a land where you have to sing, to explain anything... This is faith, I think. The belief that in this frightening wilderness there might be something magical, adventures and learnings that cannot be planned for but nevertheless should be met with eyes wide open, and hearts hopeful. What would happen if I could embrace the unknown with joy instead of anxiety? What would happen if St. Paul's could? This Advent that lightness, that vision of the world under the map - that is one thing I am waiting for.

Alissa Newton is Jr. Warden at St. Paul's and the editor of the parish blog. This entry was adapted from her personal blog, which can be found here.

Advent: Sweet Sorrow

by Stephen Crippen

I’m one of the people who loves Advent. The deepening darkness, the silence, the sense of longing and expectation. Readings on Sundays are bracing: warnings of end times, commands to stay awake, to keep the watch. But they are also exhilarating: a young woman is told that she’s pregnant, and that her child will bring hope and salvation to her people. All of us who are waiting—and who isn’t waiting for something?—hear the Angel’s words of encouragement: “Rejoice, favored one! The Lord is with you.”

So like all great seasons, like all great celebrations, Advent is all about paradox: in waiting, we are fulfilled. In watching, we find the face of the other, gazing back at us in the darkness. In grieving, we are comforted. The light shines all the brighter because of the deep darkness around it. I’ve been reading poetry by the 13th-Century poet Rumi, and I like how he talks about grief. This is for me an Advent poem:

I saw grief drinking a cup of sorrow
and called out,
It tastes sweet, does it not?
You have caught me, grief answered,
and you have ruined my business.
How can I sell sorrow,
when you know it’s a blessing?

I’m a therapist who works with people on relationship problems, grief, and coping with change. So I know how sorrow can be a blessing, how a cup of sorrow can taste sweet. My clients (like me) usually learn the most about themselves—and grow the most—during times of sorrow, struggle, and challenge. This season doesn’t banish the darkness, or deny the sorrow that human beings experience. Advent helps us see how our sorrows and problems transform us, and strengthen us. It sounds weird, but I’ll say it anyway: may you be blessed with sweet sorrow this Advent!

Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. His website is linked above, and you can find his personal blog here.