God’s Realm is like someone who scatters seed on the ground. Night and day while they sleep and rise, the seed sprouts and grows, how, they do not know. The earth itself produces first the stalk, then the full head of grain. Mark 4:26-28
How have you received and celebrated the sacrament of today?
Sacraments are not magic.
They are majestic, messy and,
at their core, mysterious portals to the eternal.
Prolific though they be,
we just don’t see what we won’t see.
In the face of resurrection’s springtime release, how blind can we be?
Pollen to irritate the eyes,
perfumes and bouquets resplendent
to overwhelm the senses.
And still the miracle fails to arrest us,
draw us out of our own heads,
teach us humility, and school us in awe.
This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dry all at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.
But first, we must be freed
from fractious fears,
and self-preoccupations to become self effacing.
For every day is Earth Day,
when we open wide the soul’s window,
let in the bird-song Psalms,
and intentionally practice that holy communion
first and final sounds we ever make.
In the face of our original inhalation,
and in the wake of our ultimate exhalation,
surely all else pales.
Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living.
It is all we can offer in return for the mystery by which we live.
I went one day
for a walk in the woods,
and time lost track of me.
So, on I amble and sometimes stumble,
knowing less and less about anything,
but more and more sure about everything.
Don’t we need to lose sight to regain vision?
Knowing our blindness might cause us to reach out
and lead us into the path of another’s pain.
Amidst the meditation of mountains, the humility of flowers –wiser than all alphabets— clouds that die constantly for the sake of God’s glory, we are hating, hunting, hurting. Suddenly we feel ashamed of our clashes and complaints in the face of the tacit glory in nature. It is embarrassing to live! Abraham Heschel
In all this wildly
wonderful and woeful universe,
love alone endures.
We understand this best
in the act of letting-go
what and whomsoever we have come to love
For we do not manufacture compassion.
We only welcome it,
make room to receive it, and express it with abandon.
From first breath to final,
this is our sacramental mission,
love is not attachment; it is release, outpouring, falling, letting-go.
How strange we are in the world and how presumptuous our doings!
Only one response can maintain us: gratefulness for witnessing the wonder. For the gift of our unearned right to serve, to adore, and to fulfill. It is gratefulness which makes the soul great.
Just to be is blessing. Just to live is holy. Abraham Heschel