Galilee:

His Name is written everywhere here, even on water, as it is elsewhere, but perhaps the font is larger or just bolder here. Or the Voice is nearer the Source. Or the ripple is more a wave. Jesus hometown region. His zone. His cousins seem still around up here!

Regardless, the pastel ink of galilee is His Peace. The stones and tiny boats here recall often. And it’s very easy to still hear into the present, His Voice on the waters even before things were written down.

Easy to hear Him talking from Capernaum, walking backwards in her synagogue, as we do in holy places, eating at Peter’s house, or talking at cross roads, or out here even on the sea, when all is silent at dawn, the waters still, still. It’s easy to hear Him here on the sea of Galilee, still talking.

He walked around here, talked to His friends, ate fish, taught and did miracles. This was his hometown. He was also a man, Galilee says this morning, so we can be actual friends. People still tell stories about Him. How quickly the stories traveled from here. They were in Ireland by night when i first heard them. The stories went everywhere, but here it feels like just yesterday when he was here. At least from the water.

She is like a mother and lover at once to me.
Once you encounter her, she never gets out of your skin.
You hold up even a postcard at sunset before her, and squint, and it melts
into view before You.
I missed you in my core. My bones have been magnetized towards you
since we met long ago, and perhaps forever.
I missed you pronouncing my inner name though.
The way you whisper is loud in me. Back then,
I used to wander for days with no destination
but to know you better. Slept on rooftops, parks
wherever you were. Lived in hostels, left you my best marbles, and never wanted to leave. I had to, to finish my story. Sorry. Parts of me surely
regret ever having left. Especially this evening as you say yes
to me again.
I wanted to know each veil of you. I never came close.
I was inadequate to behold you fully. I think i got
to maybe 13 back then, i know there must be at least 613. but i imagine more,
as the prayers continue tonight. Our loud attempts to reach upwards
through you.
I slept everywhere all these years,
but always with you. When together I worked in your markets,
in whitestone alleyways, not knowing each stone well then. I taught your children my
language, and tried to love them into place. But…
Even when away, i was always sleeping
with you. All the other nations i fell in love with
paled in your light. What was hovering inside you
never wavered in me.
Each city i lived in was a tent in your hair. A chime
hanging on you ears… But,
none of them compared, Love.
And just so you know
i wasn’t interested in many others
It was always you I saw in everything Jerusalem.
The rest was comparison. You have been my pattern.
To return and hear men singing in chants and prayers and readings tonight- each
evening, to me is an obvious attempt at loving you, brings joy to me. Just that we
try to express what you contain. Yet…
We fail to express you well. We stutter, even in loving the nations.
Yet, that we try, somehow, still must bless you.
You are the endless perfume on all our skins
I don’t worship places, but of these two Jerusalem’s you are!
I pick you both to know. And if I die into you, or somehow inside of you,
that you know you are seen loved adored,
would be enough for me.
And it’s just so good to see you again friend.
Friendship has no distance. I held you inside
as long as i remember now. I sheltered myself
in your cacophonous evening song, until
I knew my name. And once i did
i decided to return and say thanks.
So henini, here i am again, offering what i have left of my love
to you, Jerusalem—you fragrant carousel of all being.
You exotic grounded lover and namer of us all. You heart of the Father of us all.
You home.
It is like when you have been married a long time on earth
and meet that person in heaven-that look you exchange of knowing
is what i feel most towards you tonight, Jerusalem.
So, here’s my postcard of you
I hope it melts into you
and brings you glory.
I always wanted to be a postcard
sent from all nations
to you, maybe with a funky font
which brought you unexpected joy;
and together we may still become incense
at midnight, wafting upwards as a pleasant
fragrance to Father. With an unseen stamp
which reads Yes and Peace
in the ink of Love.
And I know you are just a city (and i love that part too!)
and yet you’re more. And we all know it.

If my gifts, strange as they are, can keep one person from feeling suicidal tonight—that would be my version of success in life! I have no brand, my brand is Life! Let’s give Life to one another friends. It’s short, and so very beautiful! Life’s a gift. Happy to have helped someone walk, or at least, step towards it today.

Distracted by Grace today!

Forgive me for being distracted by Grace! It happens to me often, when talking to folks, or even considering myself.

She’s just so beautiful! Sometimes, it’s good to be interrupted from your own program or programing, by the Presence of Grace towards us all. So kind, gentle and caring. And so full of Life for us each.

Eventually, we become more useful, by becoming useless; as we get out of our own way, and let something Higher shine through us. Daily death and entering into lived Sabbath is the practice of becoming useless and therefore useful. Are you willing to become useless in order to become more useful to Love. To lose yourself to find your Self, in other, wiser words. To take up our cross, among other things, is to dissolve and be formed and named and nuanced by His. Lose yourself, to find it. Find our true selves, by losing ourselves in His Life. Find our names by allowing His to eclipse, and therefore reveal ours. That’s the most basic way of finding identity.

how long
your poem goes
is less important
than it’s portent-that is
what it carries of Life beyond you
for others.

“Art without soul is like prayer without conviction.” Motto for Bezalel school of art.

Incarnate art includes brokenness and suffering and redemptive hope. Good art and living should have both complexity of suffering and light. Like gospel music or even the blues, or nearly all of David’s poetry. Authentic meeting between humanity and heaven. Where earth heaven meet there is loving friction. Art should reflect that friction.
This is the beauty of a storm. That’s where great art occurs. We are overhearing moments of transformation. Where the imperfect meets something higher. This is why an AA meeting is often more beautiful than many church services. They reflect the manger’s way, more honestly—the way of God coming as a child in an animal stable.
My own generation nearly demands it to be real. We want to see the seams, and the brokenness, then we might encounter what is making things less broken. “To see God, i need to see you, more as you actually are-broken like me.” Good art helps us see more truly, both how things are, and how they are being made to be.
Without seeing the fracture, we don’t trust the cup to hold water or something refined like wine, as one friend put it.
It’s not just that my generation wants to know the narrative. We also want a transparent story, so we can see light in it.
Authenticity is a pre-requisite to both good art and real spiritual transformation. Jesus cannot enter until we say that we are sinners.

A friend today…

“I just need a day to recover and be myself again and then i can serve endlessly. I really need a tangible Sabbath.” My friend said to me today. He continued, “I know it’s not just about being away from people, it’s deeper. I need a place to remember my name.” Nice definition of Sabbath—a place to remember our names.

I relate to that. I told him he could come stay in my trailer if he needs an escape from his roles (sometimes we just need a mental escape from the roles we play) and things he’s caught up in. Just to be himself again.

Aren’t we all just trying to be ourselves again, daily…..

This is why I think Sabbath is the most neglected practice in our times. To actually rest in Being. Or however you name it. To be yourself (outside your tasks, masks, or previous accomplishments) for a moment, still matters. To not just be defined by what we do, but who we actually are, and rest in that space and place, still matters!

Poor Father, He kindly waits for us to enter His rest, so that we know ourselves.

Sabbath is a part of Himself, we resist, but is the home of our identity! His rest in himself, is our rest in who we really are.

The mandate to pause was for our own good and health. The bread that came on the extra day was the bread of life.

That place is a real space we desperately need daily. Yet, we are afraid of resting in Him and being ourselves!

To be fully ourselves, means we actually believe we are loved, even adored, seen and named.

To enter there, requires us to be nakedly ourselves which we afraid of.
Yet, He edits us as, and when we do, step forward in that transformational trusting of stepping towards His Rest in Himself; for, Love is His underwriter. And we, His potential poems find ourselves in His Rest. Sabbath is about developing trust to become!

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. (Nice translation–direct! The other, i like, translates it, “I lack nothing that I actually need today!”)
Finding what we actually need, is usually about finding what we are truly being given each day! Nice morning meditation! Finding today’s manna….
It’s not about His inability to give us daily what we need, but more about our inability to discern what is being given and receive it in thanks, in short! At least that was my take away from this morning’s devotion!