Consider the lilies of the field: Okay, what about them?

I am not in the pulpit Sunday. We have a guest preacher, none other than David Poist, our Rector Emeritus.

This is the first time he's preached since my "institution" in 2008. I hope you will come. He will be preaching at 8 am and 10 am.

Our friend Karen from Tennessee sent this along, a beautiful poem that riffs off the familiar saying of Jesus "Consider the lilies of the field" in Matthew 6:25-33. Well, OK, what if we consider the lilies of the field?

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Camas Lilies
By Lynn Ungar


Consider the lilies of the field,
the blue banks of camas
opening into acres of sky along the road.
Would the longing to lie down
and be washed by that beauty
abate if you knew their usefulness,
how the natives ground their bulbs
for flour, how the settlers’ hogs
uprooted them, grunting in gleeful
oblivion as the flowers fell?


And you — what of your rushed
and useful life? Imagine setting it all down —
papers, plans, appointments, everything —
leaving only a note: "Gone
to the fields to be lovely. Be back
when I’m through with blooming."


Even now, unneeded and uneaten,
the camas lilies gaze out above the grass
from their tender blue eyes.
Even in sleep your life will shine.
Make no mistake. Of course
your work will always matter.


Yet Solomon in all his glory
was not arrayed like one of these.

Photo: Camas Lilies in a field, by Bill Stevenson.

Poem for your day: Celebrate this unlikely oracle of Spring

Yes, it is snowing again, and I must admit I am a bit weary of it. I can ski only so much down our little hill. Spring is around the corner, or so I am promised by the Virginians.

In that spirit of hopeful promise, here is a poem sent earlier this week by our wonderful friend Karen in Tennessee. Blessings to all...

Groundhog Day
By Lynn Unger

Celebrate this unlikely oracle,
this ball of fat and fur,
whom we so mysteriously endow
with the power to predict spring.
Let's hear it for the improbable heroes who,
frightened at their own shadows,
nonetheless unwittingly work miracles.
Why shouldn't we believe
this peculiar rodent holds power
over sun and seasons in his stubby paw?
Who says that God is all grandeur and glory?

Unnoticed in the earth, worms
are busily, brainlessly, tilling the soil.
Field mice, all unthinking, have scattered
seeds that will take root and grow.
Grape hyacinths, against all reason,
have been holding up green shoots beneath the snow.
How do you think spring arrives?
There is nothing quieter, nothing
more secret, miraculous, mundane.
Do you want to play your part
in bringing it to birth? Nothing simpler.
Find a spot not too far from the ground
and wait.

What is salvation? Ask a poet

We soon enter into Holy Week, with the events of betrayal, crucifixion, and entering into Hell itself. At the end comes the startling celebration and declaration of Resurrection, new life, Easter. And as Dan Edwards, the bishop of Nevada, suggests on his terrific blog, these events raise the question: What is salvation?

The apostle Paul attempts to answer that question in his many letters, but even Paul admits we "see in a mirror dimly" (1 Corinthians 13:12). Many a theologian has since tried to define salvation and/or the mechanisms of grace. Complicated scholarly constructions and volumes of paper are created in the task. Thomas Aquinas finally admitted that his efforts amounted to little more than a "stack of straw" and he never wrote another word.

I rather think that the poets may have a better grasp of this, or at least a better grasp at expressing the meaning of salvation (regular readers just knew I'd end up at a poem, didn't you?). And so it is that our friend Karen in Tennessee sent a poem yesterday that took my breath away. Here it is:

Salvation

by Lynn Ungar

By what are you saved? And how?
Saved like a bit of string,
tucked away in a drawer?
Saved like a child rushed from
a burning building, already
singed and coughing smoke?
Or are you salvaged
like a car part -- the one good door
when the rest is wrecked?

Do you believe me when I say
you are neither salvaged nor saved,
but salved, anointed by gentle hands
where you are most tender?
Haven't you seen
the way snow curls down
like a fresh sheet, how it
covers everything,
makes everything
beautiful, without exception?