Happy are those
Who do not follow the advice of the wicked
Or take the path that sinners tread
Or sit in the seat of scoffers

In the beginning
I held high a palm
[Am I doing it right?
My arm is getting tired.]
In springtime cool weather

A proud child
Celebrating Palm Sunday

With others
I sang and swayed

Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord

As we processed
Into church
Celebrating
Palm Sunday

Decades of life later
I held high a sign
[Hell no, we won’t go
Bring our boys home]
In springtime cool weather

An angry college student
Protesting war

With my friends
I sang and swayed

We shall not,
We shall not be moved

As we were
Carried off to jail
Protesting
War

Decades of life later
I held high a sign
[They called B.S.
We betta listen]
In springtime cool weather

A retired professor
Protesting gun violence

With thousands
I sang and swayed

We shall not,
We shall not be moved

As we moved ourselves
Marching for our lives
Protesting
Gun violence

One morning later
I held high a palm
[Jesus silent before Pilate
Emma silent before crowds]
In springtime cool weather

An uncertain Catholic
Celebrating Passion Sunday

With other worshippers
I sang and swayed

Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord

As we processed
Into church
Celebrating
Passion Sunday

Signs raised in protest

Palms raised in hope

Echoes reverberate

Growing stronger

We shall not,
We shall not be moved
We shall not,
We shall not be moved
Like a tree planted by the waters

Which yield their fruit in its season
And their leaves do not wither

We shall not be moved

The wicked are not so
But are like chaff that the wind drives away…

For the Lord watches over the way of the righteous
But the way of the wicked shall perish

As the final hymn begins
I leave church,
smiling at John,
our friendly and familiar usher,
to hurry to the car
to pull it up near the door
so my almost 94 year old mother
won’t have too far to walk.

I back out of the parking space
and pass the parked cars
of those still singing the final hymn together
as I drive forward
away from the exit
towards the door,
lowering the visor
because it is a sunshine soft spring day.

My mother, who has walked part way to the curb,
stands leaning on her cane,
her face lit with joy and laughter
as she talks with a little girl
and her toddler brother
who buzz around my mother
like bees around a bent sunflower.

I sit quietly for a moment
watching my mother,
my white, deep South, segregation,
Jim Crow born and bred mother
laughing in the sunshine after mass
with two small black children.

Big things are still wrong
with the church and the world
but this morning I am grateful
for grace
in sunshine
in a new memory,
an outward sign
of God’s presence and power.

“…Christ Jesus who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself…” Philippians 2:6-8

The sweet spot of revenge
Is power reclaimed
I am better than the other

The sourness of revenge
Is power abused
I am just like the other

The sweet spot of forgiveness
Is pride reasserted
I am better than the other

The sourness of forgiveness
Is pride abused
I am just like the other

The sweet spot of Christ
Is forgiveness
Without pride
Without power

I am who am
I am just like the other

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down

Cheering for basketball shooting
Crying about school shooting

Bread and circuses
Religion and media

Heavy hearts and light distractions
Outrage and powerlessness

We need not ask for whom the bell tolls
Or for whom the shooter aims

But why are the heavens still above
Why does the center still hold

When we know the rough beast
That has slouched to our schools

Again and again
Guns

All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God

Bitingly cold
Mom moves even more slowly
Than usual

Afternoon mass
In a nursing home’s
Round meeting room
With large windows
It’s light and warm
Even on this freezing day

The priest waits quietly
On a folding chair
At the altar’s side
Small portable altar
Small portable keyboard
Small portable lectern
White linen cloth over the altar
Paten and chalice
Water and wine
Hosts and linens
Candles and altar book
All in place

A simple mass begins
We sing We Three Kings
Everyone stays seated throughout
Mostly elderly residents
Some with family members
Walkers and wheelchairs
Cracking, catching voices
Wandering attention
Long lives lived
Who knows how
To bring them here
To this home, this time
This mass, this community

Mass continues
Readings, prayers, familiar hymns
Then the words of consecration
“This is my body”
Elevation of the host
Someone coughs
“This is my blood”
Elevation of the chalice
The highly polished gold chalice
And I see
I see the room and the people
Reflected
Reflected on the cup of the chalice
Like a wide angle lens
The chalice captures and holds us all
Together
Imprinted shining
On the golden chalice

We are so lucky
We do not have to follow
A strange star
To an unknown destination
God comes to us
Where we are
Gathers us in
A shining community

A reflection
A revelation
An epiphany

In a big blue Dodge pickup in front of me
I can see the back of his black baseball cap
Her blond ponytail swaying
He reaches over and tickles her neck
She squirms
I can’t see the smiles, can’t hear the giggles
But I feel it, I know
They lean together and apart
Moving like young people
Like young people in easy love
Then he runs a red light

[In memoriam: Sandra Annette Bland (February 7, 1987 – July 13, 2015)]

I can feel her
Doing what she can
To fight the depression
Defy the discouragement
Control the rage

She takes a job in southern Texas
Southern Texas! Saints preserve us
Almost there and she is pulled over

Pulled over for no good reason
And one bad one
Told to put out her cigarette
Her cigarette in her car

I can feel her
If I let it start, it will never stop
No, just no

I can feel her
Ordered
Threatened, grabbed, thrown down

I can feel her
Defiant
Protesting, screaming, crying

I can feel her
Scared
Then in a cell
Dead

I can feel her
Remember her
Mourn her
Though I am white

Every time. Every time
I change lanes without signaling
I think, “Sandra Bland”
And then,
“I am white though.”

Arrowhead spruce
Pointed to pierce heaven
Frame a pyramid mountain
Enticing but unchosen
Not our destination
As we drive the gray road
We follow directions
With clear intent
We will stop at our friends’ home

But this world pays no attention
To our puny plans
God-made and human-made
Equally ignore us
Conspire to stop us
Fallen trees and power lines
Turn us back
Forcing a retreat