Longing; a meditation from Psalm 84
My soul longs
for the courts of the Lord
where you are extolled
and i, am not.
one small ration
called hope...a flame.
alight in me
sets hope to dancing
on the walls of the world.
In her book, Dear White Peacemakers, Osheta Moore includes in her description of white supremacy, the unwitting agony for one white, of striving to live up to a certain standard of excellence derived from skin color alone. And that without knowing that one is carrying this weight about on her back. Conversely, for one of darker-hued skin, there is constant pressure to prove that one’s humanness is more than painfully perpetuated untruths about color. Either way, we are all left striving to prove our worth.
In the courts of the Lord, all this striving falls away – eyes glued to our Creator, Provider, Healer, Messiah. Corporate activity is just that, pointed toward one end. Meditating upon Psalm 84, imagining the atmosphere of the ‘Courts of the Lord,’ the activity that is ordered there, has provided immense relief to me as I continue to wrestle with questions of racism, human worth, and how we live together on the planet.
My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and flesh sing for joy to the living God. ESV
My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God. NIV
Peaceful - Psalm 84:5
i enter your courts
buoyed by rest
and my small ration of hope.
'Zion' is worth the trek.
Though the valley be dark
it is, in fact
Sometimes i am blinded by your light
unwittingly linger; choose the dark—
even Moses benefitted from
the cleft in the rock.
i enter your courts...quietly
bathe in Your
Dear Reader, Choosing to follow Jesus on pilgrimage is a big deal. There are so many uNeXpecTeD places he wants to take us – adoption, service, submission, risk. Think about it – Heshares his inheritance…! I am convinced that one of the greatest challenges the Messiah ever faced during his time on earth, was to preserve our freedom to choose—whether to follow him, or not. An alternative would have been so much easier. In the whole broad realm of mental and emotional health, the ability to choose ‘peace’ remains, at times, relative to one’s circumstances and well being. This poem is not intended as admonition – rather invitation, and admission: some moments are easier than others, to choose the goodness of Presence that God offers. Blessings…j
rejoicing day 3
i come to you rejoicing, Lord
having breathed the delight of
your goodness falls like rain
oft on some distant plain
cataracted eyes must peer
through cloud, smoke,
the staggering lightning of loss
to confirm that you are here.
i come to you rejoicing, Lord
having breathed the delight of your goodness
where i have been?
I lay it down—
unlikely gift, this surrender,
to take up the dance of rejoicing.
one dwelling where greed
is not a shame.
Scriptural context: Psalm 84 - the courts of the Lord. I've been hanging out here for months:
"How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts! My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord." <a href="http://"Psalm 84 (ESV) - To the choirmaster: according to." Blue Letter Bible. Web. 1 Aug, 2021. http://"Psalm 84 (ESV) - To the choirmaster: according to." Blue Letter Bible. Web. 1 Aug, 2021. <https://www.blueletterbible.org/esv/psa/84/1/s_562001>.
Capitalization is intentional to reflect something of one's journey toward confidence, it's resolution, and where it ultimately lies.
'Rejoice' by Monica Stewart is one of my favorite paintings. Due to copyright - I can only nudge/NUDGE you to visit her gallery to see her full rendition. Rejoice! | (monicastewart.com)
Finally, I should note that the broad expanse of my life has been filled with blessing - thanks be to God.
The past 7 months have been filled with anguish – like I have been floundering in some raging socio-emotional current, washing up in tatters from time-to-time on unfamiliar and desolate shores. Depleted. This week, God has mercifully filled my cup anew, like the long-awaited rain that is at this very moment beginning to patter. I extend this prayer to you, not because “I am back,” but to share my small ration of hope in the waiting. jfig
Prayer of returning...day 2CuppedJesus, i return
to you, this morning
small gift of hope, cupped
in upturned palms
like a bird, ready
For you...i offer
it back—this infant gift
to scatter like seed;
it lies safe in your benevolent hands.
My heart rests—abandoned
to you...dawning revelation of all creation.
I wait peacefully
If you'd like a scriptural context, Isaiah 8:20-22 speaks of anguish. And Isaiah 9, the revelation of dawn.
time studies us intently
a thoughtful potter
slowly moving clay
who holds the minutes
and the clay, and
each of us?
surely only a grasp unbreakable
can fashion porcelain
I saw friends today, and last week - some of whom I hadn't seen in a long time. We are all different, never going 'back' to exactly the same. Old benchmarks of our knowing one another will be important in allowing us to catch-up quickly. So will listening, really listening, to where each of us has hung out and taken sustenance through these long seasons of 'social disconnect.' It feels important, as this poem hopefully indicates, to know how we are formed, and reformed throughout life; to have this grounding knowledge of oneself, and be able to articulate it in a way that allows others to know us, too. I hope, that in addition to being emptied out, you have been filled up during these long months of processing grief and uncertainty and probing questions of justice. I hope you have been filled up with the life-giving sustenance of that which matters. The theme keeps coming back - of all the things that matter, one of the most essential, is you.
In the waning light of hope,
you are seen...
Growing up in the treed hills of western Pennsylvania, with two loving parents, my farm-based childhood was anything but oppressed. My father was present every day, and my mother, at 89, still lives a determined life of empowering others, though no one ever called it that, way back then. I have been slow to add my voice to the out-cries of women oppressed, though I feel its alarm bells viscerally. Now it is Holy Week 2021. I walk the stations of the cross, neither scholar nor historian, but a disciple, like so many others. I am startled at what is whispered, the juxtaposition of Jesus' statements in the following verses, echoing even now, with great resonance. Mine are just one pair of ears, but with grateful heart, I share it here - the utter compassion of a Savior who invites us to 'keep watch' as he re-writes history. In his own darkest hour, he keeps watch himself; and continues to do so while we wait, between the cross and His resurrection of life.
As he was drawing near—already on the way down the Mount of Olives—the whole multitude of his disciples began to rejoice and praise God with a loud voice for all the mighty works that they had seen, saying, “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” And some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.” Luke 19: 37-40
Then he said to them, “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me.” And going a little farther he fell on his face and prayed, saying, “My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will.” Matthew 26: 38-39
And there followed him a great multitude of the people and of women who were mourning and lamenting for him. But turning to them Jesus said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. For behold, the days are coming when they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren and the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!’ Then they will begin to say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us,’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us.’ For if they do these things when the wood is green, what will happen when it is dry?” Luke 23: 27-31
In the waning light of hope,
women wait, bewildered
A few dare to believe—
the probability of change
Resolute voices cry Hosanna
but palmed branches bend
serrated question marks lying in the dust.
History has not been kind
Does anyone know? Does anyone care?
Jesus falls on his face
Do his fists pound the earth?
If it is possible—TAKE THIS CUP AWAY
love poured out, to the
Over his shoulder
'Women, do not weep for me,
but for yourselves...your children.
You are seen
in my very last breath.
You are seen
In my very last breath
hanging between sons' choices gone awry.
Love poured out, as
thieving Satan steals.
You are seen
in my very last breath
as humankind betrays its own flesh
again and again and again.
Women, do not weep for me
History continues to be unkind
will ream the linings of your hearts
You are seen—when do the stones cry out?
When do the stones cry out?
You are seen.
Straight and narrow:
it seems we have been advised
It should not
that life's journey
braves the thicket
and the swamp
the deep, dark womb of forest
where the seeds of living are formed.
Straight and narrow
climbs the cliffs
hanging on in terror
to feel oneself sustained
again, and again
by the wise, tenacious
love of God.
Do not skirt the thicket;
its briers frame
this fierce, improbable beauty:
the God Who Loves'
Dear Reading Friend,
A sharp contrast was drawn for me this week, between the orderly neatness of having it all figured out, and the messy struggle of ever-clambering to keep hold of the shirttails of God. I felt, deep in that place between stomach and gut, that I would rather choose messy; continue to sport all the scratches and mud splotches evident of the potentially infectious encounters of pursuing God wherever he leads, than wear the polished veneer of having stayed behind. I’m sharing these poems to invite your pondering, but perhaps also to bolster my resolve. Godspeed, Jfig
For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.
i did not anticipate messy
mountains of laundry
the stain of anguished tears
for there are some that drip from a mother's heart
that stain one's shirt forever.
i did not anticipate seeing
when we each vowed, "I do"
sullen dark corners inside the hallways called me
no solvent could touch,
messy, this creosote
of banner borne, blood yet fresh
on the beams of his cross
my need sticky, with
splinters and nails
little did i imagine
his agony of stretch
nor such tedious debridement;
things Creator would not
have me (w)bear
chafing - cautious dismantle
to recover image;
emblazoned on my heart.
Those Who Make Room: I admire those who, like Barbara Brown Taylor, can give their full attention to sacred ritual, and still abide in the real world of laundry and garden chores. About Ash Wednesday, she said that she felt a sudden urge to ask for more, more ashes; only to realize that it was not yet her turn for a full taste of death. Apparently, like Paul (and you and me), at that moment she still had work to do. She juggles perfectly, though. Ashes applied, she notes that she still has time for the common courtesies of please and thank you, between her and her God. Only a taste of death… How can I sustain reverent regard while keeping pace with dirty dishes and dirtier socks; Please and Thank you, and Yes, Lord, all in one breath?
I want to give Lent my attention, to recognize that something deep and personal, and earth-shattering is happening in the church calendar of life and death and legacy of sacrifice. I do not want a gimmick—because faith is much, much more than gimmick for getting through our days. I remember the time astute Aunt Ruth, at 89 years of age, told me that she no longer felt it necessary to give up chocolate for Lent. Coming from her, it was delightful discernment, besides the rescue of chocolate! Holding reverence feels less like giving up something, and more like opening up to something, so that whatever matters settles deeper, and whatever is unnecessary falls away from dis-use. Like so many religious observations, perhaps Lent raises more questions than it answers. Sometimes Suffering is one of my questions.
might be invitation
NOT to be minimized—
but perhaps made more
by what it costs to enter in.
Pain and sorrow
weave a surprising Hora.
'Havah Nagilah;' ribbons of intimacy spool
in and out the Godhead
as life and death tell their story
of who God is.
might be invitation
And we are invited to hold the ribbon?
strips down the bark of our defenses.
lay to rest
our ill-conceived notions
and cling to what is real.
jfig March 2021
Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World, HarperCollins Publishers, New York, NY, p 77.
Wikipedia references Psalm 118:24 as inspiration for the lyrics of Hava Nagila; but the whole of the psalm resonates with the intertwining of life and death.
And because it feels scary to leave you with suffering wide open – Blossom
slow seasons of steady nutrition
infused through slender stems.
Blossom may mean wait,
and while you wait
hold open your heart.
Your petals will take on
"Winter" may ask you to suffer
hardship of storms
attrition: leaves lost to blight
infringement of priorities.
Take in the pale delicate notes
of that which gives you life.
This is my prayer for you.
Suffering is not easy—in any form.
In its season you have yet to bloom.
Permit me, Lord
Permit me to love you, Lord
in spite of weary, bedraggled form—my own.
Permit me to love you, Lord
in ways that stretch the narrow, fearful hardenings in my heart.
Stenosis of dismay
temporarily halts my pursuit of holiness.
Help me to run—swift pursuit;
your open arms stretched wide
between twin pillars of Christ's Kingdom,
righteousness and justice never failing.
May incense arise, my known 'poor spirit,'
bent now to pour oil
and light the flame.
Reverence and need entwine, curl heavenward
their soot a cure for my unknowing.
I exalt your holy name,
my Lord and my Redeemer.
“Blessed are the poor in Spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 5:3
Do you want to be a wise-man
behold the light
that marks Christ's coming?
Dare to migrate...
Do you want be a wise-man
pursue the One
who brings the light
first spoke it into being?
So you want to be a wise man???
Summoned before the face of oppressive power
choose to depart by a different way
choose to be governed by justice and righteousness?
Might I be a wise-man
Believe you are who the prophets foretold.
Oh, Holy Prince
your peace transcends temporal security.
we kneel at your cradle of wisdom.
May we be wise—and willing
journey far to rejoice in the light of your presence.
"Opening theirtreasures they offered Him gifts..."
Grant that I might unwrap such gold, this frankincense and myrrh
'Knowing You to be immeasurably who You say You are.'
Might I, newly wise
knees to earthen floor
and worship the newborn King.
Last week, the song ” Do you Want to Build a Snowman,” from the movie “Frozen” kept popping into my head. Followed by the wise men. Surely one could find more fitting comparative verse for the Prince of Peace! But the real question of this poem points toward a place of child-like longing that lingers forcefully in many of us, What part do you want to play in the story of Jesus? And the morechallenging grown-up question, What relationship with him, do you wish to have?
The content of this poem is carefully gleaned from Isaiah9:1-7 and Matthew 2:1-12. It stops me in my tracks to read the prophecy of Isaiah 9 moving toward conclusion with, “Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end…to establish it and to uphold it with justice and withrighteousness from this time forth and forevermore.” ( emphasis mine) To not only end there, but to start there; to uphold there. What do you think establishes peace and why?