Voices of Change

            Poets met at Trinity Church, Collinsvillle, on a very cold Saturday (8 below zero when we left our homes) to consider being Voices of Change.  We explored how the culture is changing around us, how we, the church, are changing with our culture and that we may need to just recognize, ‘Change is.’

            Aldon Hymes starts us off here with his Lenten discipline of focusing on creating and appreciating creation.  He is writing a poem a day.  The Rev. Jim Bradley explores the world of the creed and what he believes about God.  He presents us with different images and watch very carefully the portrait he draws of the edges of God, perhaps those parts of God which touch us.  It’s images of God you may be fruitfully spending time with now.  The church is also changing so I spend some time expressing what might be some of our anger and fear while also staying with the Old Testament lesson I read in church on Ash Wednesday.  It is good to spend time with Isaiah.

Peace, Barbara A. Campbell, Connecticut’s Diocesan Poet

A Lenten Discipline

by Aldon Hynes

Grace and St.Peter’s Church, Hamden

02/21/2015

This year, I will focus on creating
and

appreciating creation.

It is too easy to be morose,


to think about our frailty and failings,


both individual and collective.


We are reminded of this


on the incessant evening news.

Three young Muslims were killed today.


A tank car carrying crude oil exploded.


The cease fire is not holding.


Congress has reached an impasse.

The soundtrack of human suffering


plays on the car radio


as we commute to and from


the daily grind.

The numbed mind doesn’t see


the beauty of the young deer


foraging for food,


nibbling on branches


in the waist deep snow.

The numbed mind doesn’t see


the high five


the homeless man gives


to his buddy


who just got a job.

I will remember moments in nature


walking home alone


beside the frozen stream


and pausing to look


at the perfect pattern of ice


jutting out from a rock.

I will remember visits to the museum


walking reverently


towards the masterpiece


and standing to soak in


all the beauty someone else


had managed


to mingle with paint


and adhere to a canvas.

I will remember the cathedral moments


of childhood;


transcendence, and wonder,


of something greater than myself


in crowds of people


like me and yet not like me.

I will remember quiet moments


of childhood;


when I was hurt


or failed
and someone said,


“I love you.”

This year, I will focus on creating


and appreciating creation.

CREDO

by The Rev. Jim Bradley

Rector Emeritus

St. John’s Church, Waterbury

I believe in the Edges of God.

Truly, that is my limit on the whole question of Creed.

I don’t believe in a God storming out of the clouds

and smiting me to smithereens if I am bad.

I don’t believe in a God who would wake me up,

pin me to my bed and give me bleeding sores

on my palms and my feet,

much less my side.

(Explain that to your general practitioner!)

I don’t believe in a God who would instruct me

to slay infidels or displace peaceful people

so I can have a Motherland.

I don’t believe in a God who has nothing better to do

beside visit bedrooms around the globe

uncovering (literally) illicit love.

I don’t believe in a God who frets

about who wins the next election.

I don’t believe in a God who believes in ‘abomination’.

I believe in the edges of God—

the soft parts, the tender pieces—

the feathers and the fur of God.

I do believe in the ears of God,

which stick out-cartoon like-on the edges of God’s being.

I, myself, listen and listen

and then listen some more

for the Still, Small voice.

I believe in God’s nose-prominent and distinctively

Jewish in my belief—

I smell trouble from time to time

and imagine God sniffs it out too.

The toenails and fingernails of God—

there’s something I can hold onto,

if only tentatively.

Hair, there’s something to believe in as well.

God’s hair-full, luxurious, without need of gel or conditioner,

filling up the Temple, heaven, the whole universe!

I can believe in God’s hair.

God’s edges shine and blink and reflect color.

God’s edges are like the little brook,

flowing out the woods just beyond the tire swing,

in what used to be my grandmother’s land.

God’s edges are like the voices of old friends,

old lovers, people long gone but not forgotten.

God’s edges are not sharp or angled.

The edges of God are well worn by practice

and prayer and forgotten possibilities

about to be remembered.

God’s edges are like the wrists of someone

you don’t quite recall but can’t ever remove from your heart.

God’s edges are rimmed and circled

with bracelets of paradox and happenstance

and accidents with meaning.

God is edged with sunshine,

rainbows,

over-ripe, fallen apples, crushed beneath your feet

and the bees hovering around them.

God’s edges hold storm clouds too—

the Storms of the Century coming fast,

tsunamis and tornados, spinning out of control.

Blood from God’s hands-now there’s an edge of God

to ponder, reach for, then snatch your hand away.

God bleeding is an astonishing thought.

God bleeding can help my unbelief.

And most, most of all,

the edges of God are God’s tears.

Tears of frustration, longing, loss, deep pain,

profound joy, wonder and astonishment—

tears that heal and relieve and comfort...

and disturb the Cosmos.

That’s what I believe in:

God’s tears.

What did Isaiah say?

by Barbara A. Campbell

Connecticut’s Diocesan Poet

February 2015

We are an amorphous bunch

   in Church

here for scores of reasons:

   It’s my duty.

   I’ve always come.

   My mother made me do it.

   It’s tradition.

And then there are fewer of us

   in Church.

   Soccer got blamed a lot,

   and the weather

   and maybe it really was the New York Times

   or just sleeping in.

But now we need to reconsider

   Yes, it’s nice for each of us to have our own pew.

   Yes, we can say we know everybody

      and know all our quirks and agendas.

but there used to be more of us,

   there always was more of us.

What to do?

If I become a more obvious Christian outside

   and wear those ashes,

   am I a marked woman?

If we feed and warm the homeless,

   I’ll be learning new names

   understanding new situations.

What if  things need to be done differently?

Who adjusts?

If you are in my church, why am I adjusting?

How much do I really own this space?

What am I supposed to be doing here

   in Church?

Why do I come to church?

Did Isaiah really mean:

   loosen the bonds of injustice,

   share bread with the hungry,

   free the oppressed,

   house the homeless.

   clothe the naked?

Why am I just sitting here in a nice warm building

   listening

   praying,

   receiving the blessings of Communion

   singing

and hanging around for a cup of coffee?

Let me check Isaiah again.