30 Days in Gennesaret: Day 27 Greyscapes

RW pic grey

RW pic grey ponder

Greyscapes

There is a grey space

murky before the dawn

where questions abound broad and deep.

 

Then and now

is there broad definition— heal

measured not in limbs and cells

counted and recounted

but in communion

weighed in hours spent

cloistered in the sanctuary of suffering

naked need – that seed of knowing?

Did God intend that we not know evil

but embrace knowing him?

 

Then and now

which ones fisted the hem

and did not let go

escaping the mortal bounds of earth

for the expanse

of eternity?

Leaving our hearts

half in Gennesaret

half in heaven.

This pain knows no bounds.

But

God’s love cannot

be removed

that which he births

remains.

 

Then and now

now that we have seen Jesus, scourged and resurrected, we

live in a land where it is not the certainty of knowing—

outcomes veiled

but the certainty of journeying

face to face, heart inside of mortal heart

is this healing?

 

“What’s next?” The world is in a situation where this has become almost a universal question? Although I ask myself, has Covid19 really changed anything for those who daily try to survive the extremes of poverty and vulnerability to secondary infections? When my oldest daughter was working in missions, she said to me, “I don’t know why they call it a mission field. In a field you can see a long way. They should call it the mission forest…” This poem is about that – the ‘what next?s’ of Gennesaret and now.

There is a grey space, murky before the dawn, where questions abound broad and deep, but without the insistence of daylight that one discern an answer. It is a safe space in which to contemplate. Space in which Jesus might ask a few questions of his own. The story of Gennesaret whispers a couple of those questions. I do not have the answers. Original sin was seduced by this slithering lie, ” you will not surely die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” We don’t have to know all the answers, though I might try some on for size, to see if they fit. The trick is in remembering that the answers have to fit Jesus, not me. He is the one with the healing robe.

jfig     4/2020

Jesus, we love you, for having held our questions for literally centuries, gracing us time  to wrestle, and the offense of misinterpreting/maligning your intent time and time again. There is a hunger deep inside, to know you and have our ‘needs met’ not by what we want, but by who you are. You are the dawn we seek, Holy One. Amen

 

Fissures

Sometimes life quakes, unsettling all our ground, even destroying things we thought were safe. This is a reflection for those times. jfig

fissures 1

 

Fissures

 

My earth splits and shifts

Gaping at awkward angle as splinters race along the fracture lines.

From aerial view, it might look like arteries

On my heart, if the lines rived in anatomical places.

 

What will grow in these at-first unnourished places?

What will grow?

Drip, drip, drip – water oozes into the painful space

left by what blade knifing into my hope and expectation?

What will grow?

In what fertile valley shall I plant my next hope, and the next, or next?

How many plantings will it take?

What will grow?

 

As I let the fissure breathe, moss grows green against the someplace rusted stone.

I can only breathe a few days at a time.

Let it breathe…

Living water trickles, chill lavage

Rearranging mineral deposits

In the rust and stone and green of my heart.

 

Oh, God, that I could feel the green

And somewhere in a far-off spring, the moss spring forth a gentian bloom

Feel the spring: the water spring… and the growth

The widened fissure breathes. New life. New hope. Altered sculpture of my dream.

Breathe

fissures 2

 

jfig 2015

Isaiah 30:19-26