To dwell in eternity

To dwell in eternity                                                                           

Don’t worry, be happy, said my Lord.

In this fretful, tragic world. 

An effort, perhaps, to keep daily

propping up our faithful view,

contrary to our witness, of the world as a dream.

Invulnerable, immortal beings (not creatures)

are we, far removed in reality

from its chaos, threat and drama.

To train our minds upon the truth

we cannot see and do not live,

returning solely, doggedly to it

and to His eternal promise and solace,

this is the heart of our renunciation.

The cloistered life amidst the scrabbling despair

of the market place, the dens of iniquity,

the overrun and abandoned temples.

This is our meditation,

the venue of our remembrance,

the bread we are daily given,

calling us ceaselessly, silently,

to guide us through our frightening,

obscure dreams into the final (we pray) clarity. 

O child of God, the choice we have if any

is to dwell in the world or to dwell in eternity.

The cup

The cup                                                                                                   

Not my will, but Thine, said Jesus in Gethsemane.

Interpreted as:  I yield my personal will to God’s.

But perhaps Jesus was saying, my will is not mine.

Or saying, my will and God’s are the same. 

Or saying, there is no will but God’s.  Never was.   

If the cup had been taken from Jesus

or He cast it down himself,

fleeing from the garden into the night

that, too, would have been God’s will.

What happens and doesn’t happen

inside and outside ourselves is always –

has always been – God’s will.

Jesus didn’t ignore himself to give God room,

He vacated the premises or perhaps

He was thrown out into the street

and found He was God.  Had always been God. 

Was nothing but.  Nothing but God from the first. 

I and my Father are one, He said. 

And He lives consciously and unconsciously

with that Reality before and ever after.

O child of God, your pen name is an apt compromise

between Who you are and who you take yourself to be.

Call me down

Call me down                                                                         

Call me Zacchaeus in the sycamore tree,

a small man keeping myself above the crowd,

asking God for a glimpse only

of the One among the multitude,

that striding flesh of love and purity

ever beyond my outstretched hands.

I have attained this reasonable height

by effort and cleverness.

Hidden among the foliage to pray

with as much heart as I can muster –

come by me, Lord, and call me down. 

Address me this day or any other

and lead me home along Your route

to bless it beyond my understanding.

O child of God, the ancient path, says Meher,

is a circuitous one, leading back home.

Stone bearer

Stone bearer                                                     

I am sometimes shamed by my caustic tongue.

Often I do not suffer fools lightly

which is a great sin because

there are so many fools in the world,

especially those arrogant ones

who have not yet learned to suffer fools lightly.

It’s hard for me at times to embrace

my (human) family because I refuse

to set down the stones I bear in each fist.

Stone bearer, stone caster.

Whether with words, thoughts or deeds,

I chunk those bruising missiles

to relieve the weight of my own burden

but immediately find myself armed again,

ever on the ready, never letting it sink in

that it is the weight of those stones

that keeps me yoked and grounded

to this dark, dark earth.

O child of God, where did you ever gather the notion

that compassion makes you vulnerable?