"Turn these stones into bread"
I will turn this bread into flesh
"Turn this water into wine"
my hour has not yet come
My hour has come
this wine I turn into blood.
The steward's voice still echoes:
You have saved the best ‘til now.
The Last Supper
They are assembled, astonished and disturbed
round him, who like a sage resolved his fate,
and now leaves those to whom he most belonged,
leaving and passing by them like a stranger.
The loneliness of old comes over him
which helped mature him for his deepest acts;
now will he once again walk through the olive grove,
and those who love him still will flee before his sight.
To this last supper he has summoned them,
and (like a shot that scatters birds from trees)
their hands draw back from reaching for the loaves
upon his word: they fly across to him;
they flutter, frightened, round the supper table
searching for an escape. But he is present
everywhere like an all-pervading twilight-hour.
Rainer Maria Rilke
On seeing Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper", Milan 1904.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
"If you are the son of God, command these stones to become bread."
I will turn this bread into flesh.
Turn this water into wine
("woman, my hour has not yet come")
(my hour has now come)
this wine I turn into blood.
can you hear the steward's voice?
again, you have saved the best wine until now
("you shall not eat, for in the day you eat of it, you shall die")
a new commandment: take eat
drink this, all of you
I am the bread of life
...then again, reviewing what's been posted lately,
there is always this for a sermon illustration
"Unless I wash you, you have no share with me"
let us grow old together
you and I
as winter comes to me
for you a summer's eve
no longer remembering
both of us, we may look
and just forget until He
who holds the fullness
remembers both and gives
new life
you remember me
and I you, as you
were meant to be
(I believe in the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come)
Just playin' around with words for a moment.
The connection between Down syndrome and Alzheimer's disease is complex. Studies of the brains of people with Down syndrome reveal that, by the age of 40, almost all develop the brain changes characteristic of Alzheimer's disease... info
I'll be about 75 when SJ is 40. God willing.
I've been asked to write a prayer for parents facing difficult prenatal diagnosis. It is a difficult thing. It is difficult to write such a prayer; it is difficult to hear such news; it is difficult to pray at such a time.
When the prayer is written, I'll post it.
Matthew 6.26:
Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
FOR the last century, serious poetry has been largely secular. Literary types see religion as something literature has gotten over. Poets who fail to vanquish any Christian spirituality beyond what is quaint are usually condemned to "inspirational poetry," except poor old T.S. Eliot. But it's his angst that people take seriously, not his prayer.
LA Times
I have several unsupported and false theses:
a] there must be people whose calling is to be both poet and Christian
b] they are not on the best seller list in the local Xian book store because sometimes poetry requires work on the reader's part
c] if the church were more familiar with poetry, we would have more depth in our reading of scripture
d] the church has conceded the arena of the arts to the "secular", and chooses to engage only in the realm of science and "facts"
e] if the church does engage in the arts, it is mainly to force the arts to be a supporting argument for a theological position (a liturgical dance showing the badness/goodness of my cause)
Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
John Donne
Holy Sonnet XIV
A scribe on his way to Jerusalem
thought his words were sure to bamboozle them.
for the metrical word
has never been heard
since the age of the blessed Methusalem.
Joseph Walker
Holy Limerick I
(on second thought, I think I've just proven that I am not this generation's answer to the question; although the article offers a few authors for your consideration)
A number of years ago I was attending a retreat with some colleagues at Star of the North - a local retreat center. It was a good event, and during one evening session our speaker brought up the book Adam: God's Beloved by Henri Nouwen. It is the story of Nouwen's time of accompanying a young man with disabilities to the time of the young man's death.
At the time of the retreat Alisa was about 3 months pregnant, and we were looking forward to a younger sibling for E.G. I was fascinated by the "role" that Adam played in Nouwen's life - joy and sorrow and learning from one who could not even speak, and seeing Christ in a way which cannot be described, but only lived. As the speaker was concluding his talk, a thought was gathering momentum and presenting itself to my mind.
"This child is your Adam".
Every time I visit that place, I hear clearly the memory of that thought, that "voice" if you will, still speaking to me. It is full of the memory of a truth which is lived, and which is full of joy and sorrow and learning and seeing Christ in a way which cannot be described but only lived.
Sarah Joy was born on July 29, 2001.
Sometimes I look at the statistics of life expectancy for persons with her disabilities and medical conditions,
and I think about how old I am,
and wonder if I will bury her
and though there is a kingdom in this world
there is freedom in the next
I've heard
(he said)
that they are very happy and content children.
Yes, yes they are.
For the most part.
(I've been in the trenches 4 years now - I consider myself a veteran.)
but when they are not, they are inconsolable,
for they cannot tell us where it hurts or why
perhaps they themselves do not even know.
Some folks write about the resurrection from the dead wrought for us by Christ, and what it means to them.
I have not lately considered what it means to me.
Rather, I find myself thinking of what it might mean for her...
Greetings, fellow Christians.
I was recently involved with a ministry at the “Edmonton Max” prison.
I was given the opportunity to speak to a room full of murderers.
(glancing to the cross, and then out over the congregation)
I did not think that I would have the chance to repeat the experience so soon.
Amen.
This lent I examine my sins.
I am profoundly jealous of people who write poetry.
I love to read it;
to eat the fruit of those who plant words.
Once, I tried
to write such things,
but ended up like
Peter, rethinking baptism.
(do I journey as the crow flies
as the cock crows?)
listening for sounds of water, laying on my bed
and he is gone (or was it I who fled?)
thinking on the rain that falls outside.
Suddenly again I am a rock upon the river
and know in time, his washing-over-me
will shape and carve this stone.
Looking up from underneath
it seems to me transluscent now.
through it
I can see the sky
and almost touch
the heavens.
Craig Romkema lives with his family in a log house in the Midwest. He types his poems on a computer, with physical support to stabilize his body. After graduating from high school with honors, Craig spent a year writing, and is now attending college part-time.
In this collection of poems, Craig Romkema describes the daily journey of an individual whose body is encumbered with the symptoms of autism and cerebral palsy.
Alisa is using Craig's poems to teach her grace 12 English class about words.
Encounter
“Answer!”
I told my mouth
but the message
froze,
while seconds dragged into minutes
and the restless woman
said fast
goodbyes
swiftly dashing
assumptions of
intelligence
behind her.
Words are
power;
speechlessness,
an endless abyss;
garbled speech,
a target for dishonor;
persistent rotten storytelling,
a huge annoyance;
boring tapes that demean my image.
You whose language flows
coherently,
whose ideas sparkle like wine
on the tongue,
remember your gift
and use it well,
for me.
From the collection "Embracing the Sky: Poems Beyond Disability" .
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