We,
who once discovered
in a flood that swept away
our self-hatred and alienation,
who now know that being ‘Beloved’
requires the rending
of all our sacred skies—
We,
who were driven into the wilderness,
who learned truth from wild creatures
and spiritual beings— Continue reading
Sculpture by Ken M. White
Winter gloom and darkness
turn the heart.
Blow Lent’s trumpet if you must,
and tremble.
But before you mourn in solemn assembly
remember
that these ashes
were once profligate palms
that welcomed Love.
Huddle in your prayer closet
marked with ashes as you may,
Love will see you
and prick your heart.
For February’s snow wraps the earth
as wanton Love embraces all its inhabitants.
Speak to me with an ordinary voice
Ashes to ashes
dust to dust
You are dust and
to dust you shall return
Ashes to ashes
dust to dust
My life is ashes.
My world is dust.
I seek a gracious one
the self-giving one
the forerunner
crying my wilderness.
I seek the washing flood
the clear liquid pool
a new water
cleansing my nakedness
What leads me to contemplate Lenten disciplines? My religious heritage is Anabaptism—the radical left wing of the reformation about as far from high church as possible. I didn’t grow up with it—indeed, my culture was suspicious of anything remotely Catholic.
My queer proclivities lean away from S&M—not that a cute guy in leather will turn me off. It’s just that I’d prefer to take the leather off him and cuddle on the way to sensuous mutual play.
But my seminary training and syncretistic incursions of the liturgical year into my Mennonite tradition of late make me very aware that this is the time for ashes and spiritual discipline. Continue reading