Shape and Substance

meditations on faith and church

Category: Uncategorized

Love in the Time of Corona

with apologies to Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Raise the yellow flag that marks disease.
This lonely ship will not soon come to rest
in port of comforting communion, or cease
to sail. We berth on isolation’s breast
and pray for peace, though at a frightening cost
we’d have been wiser not to pay. The rest
you know. Too many years like waves have tossed
us to and fro to break now with the lie:
“’Tis only ‘til we’re finally across
this yawning chasm, this darkening divide
that makes us a society of strangers,
closeted ‘til viruses subside….” 
And then? Shall we then brave the dangers
that drift malevolent, like random microbes
or evil humors, insults, sudden angers,
in the daily current? ‘Twill not be so.
This boat’s no recent shelter. Here’s the tragedy:
we booked our passage on it long ago.
Social distance is the commended remedy
for illnesses that take their mortal toll.
But social distance is also the malady
that keeps the body well but kills the soul.

Forty Years

Today is the 40th anniversary of my ordination to the Ministry of the Word and Sacrament (or “Ministry of the Word” as we called it then in the old PCUS). Rather than pride, I am mainly surprised I am still here.

I’ve been thinking lately about the church, aware that the church I serve is not the church I intended to serve, nor would have chosen to serve if I could have predicted the future. That’s just as well. That church belonged to the past. The jury is still out on the question of whether I belong in the future.

I have been inventorying my theological commitments of late, and fewer of them than I thought “bring me joy.” More than a few notions that used to be central confessional commitments now seem, at best, adiaphora, or at worst, irrelevant. I don’t care much who is saved or who isn’t, or if anybody is or isn’t. I don’t know (and don’t particularly care) whether Christ was two natures in one person, and certainly don’t understand the mechanics of such metaphysics. I don’t know whether God’s eye is on the sparrow, but I have the creeping sense he isn’t watching me. I don’t doubt the reality of God, but I also don’t trust that God is in any meaningful way “personal” (let alone that “Jesus is my personal savior”). Curiously, I am daily more convinced that John Leith was right when he taught us about the persistence of sin in the life of the redeemed. Or at least about the persistence of sin part.

I enjoy the struggle to answer disputed questions, more for the dispute than for the answers.

Poetry has given me language that could never be spoken on the floor of a presbytery in an ordination examination, though perhaps it should have been. It has made me want to say the unsayable. It continually surprises me to discover through it what I trust and what I don’t. It has also deepened in me the yearning to come to font and table, to approach the ineffable by way of the tactile reality of water, bread, and wine. It is the rock in the darkness, the first and final thing I “believe.”

I find myself preferring silence to the noise of public prayers (including my own), singing to speaking, and solitude to the company of assemblies. Reading Robert Frost or Wallace Stevens of a morning on the back porch, teacup on the table beside me, seems to me an act of worship. Working the Times crossword puzzle is a spiritual discipline.

I no longer care if I contradict myself.

Like Pilate, I wonder what is “Truth,” or if it should ever be capitalized.

That said, I am not quite yet ready for the glue factory. There are more questions to ask, more classes to teach, more sermons to preach (although I can’t imagine why anyone would want to listen), and more poems to write. There are students who still need something I have to offer (I think), and I still have energy to offer it. I am still enthralled by the possibilities of wonder and mystery.

And I am still here.

Food Groups

Tea and chocolate
make me wonder
if the world
is as safe a place
as it appears to be. 
Steak and eggs
prompt me to fear
that the circle
though it turns
is not unbroken. 
Wine and cheese
make me think
more highly
of myself
than I ought to think.
Whiskey and water
help me trust
that the day’s trouble
is sufficient
for the day.
Toast and coffee
persuade me that
the fires of nightmares
are extinguished 
by controlled burns.

The Theologians Awaken After the Storm


He awoke to the discovery
of holes in the roof above his bed.
Rain was dripping slowly, rhythmically
in great droplets on his head. 
All his life, through flush and thin
he had trusted in this shelter
against the storm. It had been
security and comfort. He felt it
like a blanket, wrapped around him.
Yet now there was no room for doubt:
the weeping gods had found him
and would force him out
of bed. Insistent tear!
He thought of turning on his side
but that would only fill his ear
with heaven's outrageous tide.
Get up and find the pitch and patch the hole
that threatens peace;
it might just be good for the soul
to soil the hands in grease…
…On the other hand, a moment to reflect
is always wise. 
Less work means less one must correct
or others criticize. 
Soon enough the rain will end
and then what use will be the patching tar?
Do the holes not finally portend 
a clear though narrowed focus on the stars?
Best to bide the time and see
what clouds the wind will blow away or keep.
Decided it was wise to let it be.
Pulled up the blanket and went back to sleep.

She woke in wonder.
Thunder, lightning, 
steady rain, a cataclysm in the night,
tore holes in the roof, peeled it back
like opening the doll house of her childhood
to rearrange the helpless little lives.
Gods make such cruel use of wind. 
Spent the night in a closet
safe enough, she prayed.
But in the vortex safety is an illusion; 
rather, trust in luck. And she was lucky.
The wind blows where it will, she remembered,
though having heard the sound approach, 
she thought she knew both whence and where.
Luck is a relative thing:
it offers and it snatches away
breath in exchange for breathing’s reasons,
heartbeat for habits of the heart.
Not much left of furnishings, assumptions;
find the clock in the neighbor’s yard,
the notebook come to rest just down the block.
Nothing left to do
but change her state of mind.
No time to mourn what wind has torn away.
She breathes, and gathers up the remnants
of her thoughts. Other storms
are forming on the far horizon.
She finds a pen, sits down, begins to write.

How Wide the World

The world stands out on either side/No wider than the heart is wide. 
—“Renascense” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
How wide the world?
“No wider than the heart is wide.”
Enough to gather in the storm
that tears not merely roof from hearth 
but soul from soul as well?
Enough to bind the wounded orb
bleeding from every pore
weeping in every chirp and howl?
Enough to reach between nailed palms
opened  out in love’s embrace,
‘til they circle ‘round the realm of pain.
How wide the heart?
As wide as all the world is wide. 

In the Morning Mist

John 21:1-19

In the morning mist, along the seashore
boats return from evening’s labors vain;
 “Cast your nets in waters yet uncharted;
trust in me with faith now unconstrained.”
Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep.
Those he loves will his commandments keep.
Asks the one who breaks the bread at fireside,
“Simon, do you love me more than these?”
Asks the one now broken on the table:
Will you take your cross and follow me?
Feed my sheep. Tend my lambs.
Love is your commission from his hands.
Learn his way, this watcher from the shoreline,
while the paschal fire still sheds its glow.
Other hands will soon lay hold upon you,
take you where you do not wish to go.
Do you love? Do you love?
Pray that love through all your pulses move.

Jesus’ Dream

Mark 11:12-24
Tuesday night.

He listened while they yammered about the fig tree,
the money changers and the animal sellers.
It was apocalyptic talk, they said: 
a fig tree cannot bear fruit out of season,
a temple cannot operate without 
tradition, and surely mountains do not fly 
into the sea.  He closed his eyes and yawned.
They argued on. He fell asleep and dreamed
a little dream. No heaven-rending vision;
just ordinary faces in the crowd: 
a child whose upstretched arms begged to be held,
a woman merely asking to be healed
a leper yearning only to be whole.
They did not ask so much. He saw each one
while dreaming of an ordinary world, 
the slow, patient turning of day to night,
the whisper of a breeze to lift the heat,
the juicy, sweetmeat taste of figs in season.
He listened to their ordinary prayers 
as though there was an altar in his heart
and he the priest. He smiled, and mountains flew.

The Wasp

Mark 11:12-14
On a normal day a fig tree is just a fig tree.
Middle Eastern Ficus carica
grows wild where winters aren’t so bone-deep cold 
and summers linger long and hot and dry.
Blastophaga psenes—the female fig wasp—
bearing pollen from a distant tree, 
crawls inside the seed pod, tearing off
her pollen-laden wings, the mortal price 
of fertility. She lays her eggs
and dies. The eggs birth larvae, male and female,
who dance time’s ancient dance there in the dark,
after which he dies, and she emerges
to pollinate another tree. Spring comes.
Without the sting there can be no sweetness.
This was, however, not a normal day.
That is, it was normal in every way—
the sun was climbing high above the hills,
the ancient sign of nascent summer nearing, 
the dream of wasp and pollen, seed and fig—
a normal day it was…until he came by. 
En route to other errands, he was hungry
but there were no figs. It was said 
he cursed the tree. But tell me: was he not
a wasp to pierce the seed pod’s tomb-like darkness, 
and spread his wings and die and leave behind
an altogether different sort of pollen 
that yields a sweeter sort of fig? Spring comes.
Without the sting there can be no sweetness.

The Room Where Nothing Happens

Nothing happens in this room.
That is why we come.
Pews have ceased to creak beneath their burden.
Elders summing up the worth of lives, 
exhausted careworn parents, antsy children—
all gone now. A gasp escapes an organ pipe.
Like a canyon breeze, it serves to warn
the pilgrim of a fast-approaching storm.
We walk in holy canyons before a rain,
before the drowning torrent washes clean
the remnants of unsanctified terrain.
This is the honest hour, when all pretense has flown.
Nothing knows and nothing is unknown. 
Holy words may yet be said, holy music sung,
holy food broken and poured in holy ware.
Nothing makes them holy, and makes us one.
Beyond the reach of prayers for grace, surpassing
justice neither blind nor balanced true,
solace trickles down in wordless blessing,
like drops from canyon walls after a deluge,
oblations to the god whom none can claim,
who obeys no law, and has no name. 
Nothing happens in this room.
That is why we come. 


I said, “I am old.” You said,
“Do not say that. You’re not old.”
You’re right. Age is, as they say,
just a number, and sixty-five
is the new forty-five.
I have no idea what that means. 
Here is what I mean: I mean 
to rid myself of pretenses I have shouldered
since my youth: that I have power
to change the world, or, for that matter, anyone.
I mean to leave behind the selves
I have worn like someone else’s clothes. 
I mean to grope my way into the shining darkness.
I mean to climb like Moses up the clouded mountain.
Somewhere in each day, there is an old man.
He smiles and puts a finger to his lips, 
reminding me that I should exhale wisely,
that breathing is a finite, numbered rhythm 
and climbing mountains takes a lot of breath. 
He’s right, of course, and so are you. 
Age is just a number. Like the number 
of times I have exhaled as I wrote this poem.