an odd kind of resentment

sometimes i resent the stubbornness of faith and hope.

it is always so tempting to wallow. but no, there is that fragile yet steely green shoot, poking up from the rich soil made from the compost of dead dreams. faith and hope insist on their existence, like a an elbow nudging you in the ribs.
when i'm in this mood, when life gives these circumstances, it is hard not to begrudge hope and faith their worth and goodness. but somewhere deep down i know i'm grateful for their companionship...even if at times i'm too weary to admit it.

b

rilke is the bees knees

i really should read rilke every day, like the bible. but i don't, i go away for a while and read other things, and then when i come back to rilke--find a poem scribbled in my sketchbook or trip over the book of hours in my room...i fall in love all over again.

one of my favorites:
(forgive the line breaks, i'm sure i've got them all wrong)

I come home
from the soaring
in which I lost myself.

I was song,
and the refrain which is God
is still roaring in my ears.

Now I am still and plain:
no more words.

To the others I was like a wind:
I made them shake.

I’d gone very far,
as far as the angels,
and high, where
light thins into nothing.

But deep in the darkness
is God.

Rainer Maria Rilke, the Book of Hours

and the glory of God...

...is humanity fully alive
(irenaeus, i think.)

i was walking home in the heat and the sun, the sweat and the grime, and my head starting putting these words together:


sometimes I feel heavy with life
saturated
the way a girl dancing in a thunderstorm gets soaked
or the way a soft rag sinks into hot, soapy, sweet-smelling water.

full to the brim, and spilling over, with life
all of it
deeply aware of the wounded-ness of humanity, the wounds that have torn down deep in every single soul
and simultaneously
deeply aware of the countless beauties this world unceasingly flings into the air, the countless moments of holiness contained in each person’s breath-in, breath-out.

so deeply aware, even if I tried to close my eyes against it all, I would see it—life.
life, with all its paradoxes:
in which every genuine smile is precious
in which volatile tension and potential violence pulses in the air between two angry men
in which a woman realizes she must love herself before she can fully love her loved ones
in which another woman, once strong, is now at the mercy of her confusion, grasping onto others’ words or ideas as anchors in a bewildering sea of reality and non-reality
in which a little girl’s chestnut-colored hair fluffs and floats in the wind she creates by determinedly charging through the hot summer air.

this fullness is one of the most significant blessings I’ve experienced
more than any academic success, more than any man’s love, more than the joy of wrestling reality into words, more than the pleasures of oil paint on canvas or light hitting unexposed film, more than the bundle of chaos-love that is family, more than any happy memory or hope for the future
more significant than these things, or perhaps, the culmination of these things,

is the weighty realization of being wholly and fully alive.

QUIXOTE!

Most of you who read this little thing have heard me rave about Broad Street Ministry before...
and I want to let you know about an awesome new project (and ask you to spread the word!!).
QUIXOTE is a site-specific theater piece inspired by BSM and Cervante's Don Quixote. It is written and directed by two talented and award-winning visionaries and the cast is an eclectic mix of professionals, amateurs, and first-time-performers: some professional actors from NY but many participants from the community of BSM itself.
It promises to be entertaining, inspiring, and a revolutionary piece of art. Come out and remember what it looks like to hope.

More Information:
http://www.broadstreetministry.org/news_calendar/quixote.php

Tickets (buy them now, they are going FAST!):
http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/64119

Recent article in the City Paper about us & the project:
http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2009/05/14/don-quixote-broad-street-ministry

peace, hope, & courage,
b
o

lost & found

all hope is lost
sounds so dramatic
we reserve the phrase for heartbroken romantics, upturned hand resting on furrowed brow.
no, losing hope is a more absent-minded kind of thing.
true, there are moments when hope flies dramatically from hands-clutching-hands
when the diagnosis falls from the doctor’s mouth, quiet, and heavy.
when the nurse hands you a plastic baggie, wedding ring and watch inside.
but more often, hope just kind of slips away, unnoticed

as cynicism begins to make more and more sense, disguising itself as realism,
you loosen your hold on hope
and eventually misplace it
among the spare papers and receipts, the textbooks and dirty laundry
it just kind of slips away, unnoticed.

unnoticed, until that day when a sadness
or a memory, or a loss, or a failure
monumental or miniscule
finally breaks your back
and that handy cynicism only helps your back crumple in on itself

and so you remember that sometimes hope used to help
used to hold you up under the weight
used to make your blood pump with conviction through your veins, determined to keep living, and live well
and you reach out for hope, wondering why it’s not in your hand anymore
and it’s not there. your hand comes back empty, clutching air.

all your hope is lost.

your cynicism won’t help you now
and with hands empty and back broken
your fragile fingers start searching, slowly but with urgency

and the funny thing about hope
is that just ‘cause you lose it doesn’t mean it’s gone

it’s right where you left it, waiting, hoping you find it, hoping you find hope.
unlike joy, which bubbles up effervescently
unlike love, which makes itself known through touch
unlike peace, which settles down deep in the gut
unlike faith, which wiggles its way into you and fills your lungs with new air
hope is something steely, and solid, resilient.
it is not easily killed, indeed, it fights the fiercest fight to remain alive.
hope is something that exists even when you can’t see it
even when your hand has forgotten what it feels like to hold it.

it exists. and its patience is infinite.
it awaits your searching fingers,
fragile though they may be.


R.E.B.

street-psalmists

the prayers that are shared from week to week are so incredible.
please read & pray alongside us:

http://broadstreetministry.blogspot.com/

peace&courage,
b

but present too is love which tends

I didn’t realize until today how well the text of this hymn went with my sermon…it was suggested to me; I scanned the lyrics briefly; and I agreed. Singing it today was powerful. Here, in a much more succinct and poetic fashion, is part of what I felt called to say today:

“We Cannot Measure How You Heal”-John Bell

We cannot measure how you heal
or answer every sufferer’s prayer,
yet we believe your grace responds
where faith and doubt unite to care.
Your hands, though bloodied on the cross,
survive to hold and heal and warn,
to carry all through death to life
and cradle children yet unborn.

The pain that will not go away,
the guilt that clings from things long past,
the fear of what the future holds,
are present as if meant to last.
But present too is love which tends
the hurt we never hoped to find,
the private agonies inside,
the memories that haunt the mind.

So some have come who need your help
and some have come to make amends,
as hands which shaped and saved the world
are present in the touch of friends.
Lord, let your Spirit meet us here
to mend the body, mind and soul,
to disentangle peace from pain,
and make your broken people whole.

comfort in the meantime

We gather here for a myriad of reasons--some of us just like the music, some of us want a break from the outside world, all of us need each other, whether we know it or not...
some of us come to be comforted and some of us come to hear a word from who we understand God to be.
Regardless of why we come, life often feels like we're fumbling along in the dark--& the dark can be both beautiful & terrifying, but occasionally a flash of light pierces and we feel certain of something for a moment.
I wonder if this certainty is like comfort--that being sure of something, even for a moment, soothes a troubled soul, or gives strength to our joy.
Know that the God who accompanies us in the darkness also abides with us in the light, offering comfort in the meantime but dreaming intimacy and resurrection & redemption for us in the end.
Let us worship this God now.

(acknowledging god's presence, bsm, 3/29/09)

nonexistent certainty

" 'Yeah. Maybe so. Nothing's so simple, is it? I don't know who to be,
how to judge anything. I can't come to easy solutions. There's always
someone or something in my own life that contradicts any judgment I
ever make.'
She began to weep, silent, the tears flowing silently down
her face. She didn't raise her hand to wipe them. She just sat, head
straight, looking at the road ahead, weeping.
'What do you do when you love everybody on every side of the war?' she
asked in a low, low voice.
'Oh, my dear.' Teresa said, her voice low and husky too, her eyes
filled with tears. 'I don't know.'"
-paula gunn allen, 'the woman who owned the shadows' (read it).


this quote makes me cry, sometimes. other times it just feels real and raw like touching that delicate skin around the eyes (that thin skin that turns red and burns when you cry too much) with your fingertips, touching so lightly. real, like that.
what do you do when you love everybody on every side of the war--the loved ones who hurt you but are still lovable; the way you can be at war within yourself and yet still love yourself...
sometimes i really wonder if i'll ever be sure--deep down in my bones sure--about anything.
and then i start to think about faith and what that has to do with surety.

"when you do not know, you know
and when you know, you do not know
and when you think you do, you die
and when you do not think, you grow..."-mason jennings, 'jesus are you real' (listen)

sometimes i wonder.
and other times i shrug my shoulders and hope that i'm not making too many mistakes.

b

learning to see

some of what brian andreas writes literally feels prophetic to me...challenging, in a Jesus-like way.
like this poem:

Beautiful People
I have a friend who reads people's
auras. He sees all sorts of colors like
green & red & purple. He says anyone
can do it. All it takes is forgetting
everything you think you know & just
looking. I've tried it & even though I
haven't seen any colors yet, everyone I
meet looks so beautiful when I stop
knowing everything, that it's pretty hard
to go back to the old way.

re-member us, oh quilter god

(acknowledging god's presence, bsm, 03.08.09)

our hearts are like large piles of colorful cloth squares & we scatter ourselves often--loving a person here, investing time & energy in a place there...but if we keep throwing out the confetti of ourselves we begin to forget who we are. God is like a maker of crazy-quilts--stitching us back together with crazy-quilt stitches, squiggling here & there--re-membering us w/gentleness.
know that our quilter God is present now, ready & willing to work alongside us as we stitch up the parts of ourselves back together.

bsm shout out

friends,

we're doing some cool stuff w/the BSM blog...and i hope you'll check it out:
http://broadstreetministry.blogspot.com/
come and read, reflect, and pray alongside the family of Broad Street Ministry.

peace, deep peace,
becca

i will

i'm still cheating (ie this isn't new writing, as i keep promising)...i wrote this about a year ago...but i still like it, and hey, it's valentine's day.
know that we all deserve the opportunity to make these promises as well as the opportunity to receive these promises from another's lips.
and, as i re-read this, it strikes me again how much loving other people is bound up in how i love You.

happy valentine's day
i wish you love, love, love, any and all kinds
b


I will cherish
that sleep-sluggish time when the sun shines pale on the wall, when your eyes reluctantly blink open.
meal-after-meal-after-meal with you, food for our bellies and hearts and minds.
shared laughter, in all its forms, chuckles and giggles and belly-laughs and happy tears rolling down.
standing next to you, solid and firm, singing praises, together, whispering prayers, together.
dancing, laughing, running, skipping, playing, a childlike joy in our hearts.
loving you, body and soul--dancing--with you and against you and for you—day and night and morning-time, too.

I will delight
in your eyes, the planes of your face, your eyebrows, your lips
in your ears, the slope of your shoulders, the strength of your arms
in you, warm solid weight of you, a place for my shoulderblades to rest against
in your mind, a canyon that I will spend my life exploring
in your heart, a small fragile thing that I will spend my life cradling in my hands
in your soul, a song that I will spend my life singing.
i choose you, just like you have chosen me.
just like the way You did, You who chose me, first.

i believe in the night

i keep promising writing and i haven't delivered...
but i keep reading awesome poets and falling in love with them all over again.

From Rilke's Book of Hours
I, 11

You, darkness, of whom I am born--

I love you more than the flame
that limits the world
to the circle it illumines
and excludes all the rest.

But the dark embraces everything:
shapes and shadows, creatures and me,
people, nations--just as they are.

It lets me imagine
a great presence stirring beside me.

I believe in the night.

bring all of you

(prayers of the community, bsm, 2.1.09; theme of sermon/scriptures was 'anger' and appropriate expressions of angry feelings)

oh dear lord
we are angry
sometimes we don’t like to admit it and
sometimes it bubbles up on our lips
& we can’t hold it in anymore.

we are angry w/the state of this world
we are angry with those who abuse the earth,
abuse the powerless,
those who enact violence. we are angry
that social and governmental systems continue
to oppress countless men, women, and children.

we are angry w/those who are in relationship w/us
angry that they’ve hurt us, manipulated us
we are angry that they’ve been careless
with our hearts and bodies that they hold
in their hands.

we are angry w/ourselves, for swallowing whole
the lies that tell us it’ll never get better
lies that tell us we’re unworthy of self-love
others’ love
Your love.
we are angry that we make the same mistakes
over and over again.

lastly, and we say this with trembling lips, sometimes
we are angry with You.
when we feel like we need You
we can’t see You
we can’t hear You
when we feel most alone, You seem absent.
we get angry with who You are not
because You do not wave a magic wand.
no, Your healing comes through blood and tears and sweat and hard choices.

and yet You still bid us come.
You tell us, Come, Yes, bring your whole selves, broken and aching, consumed with holy or hurtful anger, it doesn’t matter, just bring all of you, I want to share my healing with your whole self.
You tell us, I will help you channel your holy anger into wise and transformative action.
You say, I know it seems I’m not there.
You say, I’m sorry the world has hurt you, I’m sorry for all the hurt you’ve inflicted on yourself. I want you to be at peace, not angry with yourself or me.
You say, I’m trying to show you my love for you.
You tell us, keep looking to the one I sent, keep listening to the stories about him, keep surrounding yourself with people who live like him, for surely as he walked the earth two thousand years ago, he walks beside you now. he taught you to pray these words, and he prays them with you now when we say together

our father, who art in heaven
hallowed be thy name
thy kingdom come
thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
give us this day our daily bread and
forgive us our debts
as we forgive our debtors
and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil
for thine
is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory
forever and ever.
amen (let it be so).

recognition

i'm writing a paper...so until it's done, here's something that's inspiring me at the moment.
peace,
b

The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

prayer-poetry

i posted this on BSM's blog, but i just love it a lot and want to put it here, too.

O God of Wisdom We Come
by Jan Richardson

To your table
you bid us come.
You have set the places,
you have poured the wine,
and there is always room,
you say,
for one more.

And so we come.
From the streets
and from the alleys
we come.

From the deserts
and from the hills
we come.

From the ravages of poverty
and from the palaces of privilege
we come.

Running,
limping,
carried,
we come.

We are bloodied with our wars,
we are wearied with our wounds,
we carry our dead within us,
and we reckon with their ghosts.

We hold the seeds of healing,
we dream of a new creation,
we know the things
that make for peace,
and we struggle
to give them wings.

And yet, to your table
we come.
Hungering for your bread,
we come;
thirsting for your wine,
we come;
singing your song
in every language,
speaking your name
in every tongue,
in conflict and in communion,
in discord and in desire,
we come,
O God of Wisdom,
we come.