Unfolding Light

God won’t suddenly jump in and fix the world
any more than this poem will. But listen.
God is the mustard seed of goodness
that slips down between the cracks, and roots.
God is at it, in infinite small ways,
like a virus spreading, like radioactive waste,
like knotweed you can’t get rid of.
God crawls down into the lowest places,
creeping deeper and deeper, under stuff, behind things,
always the dirtiest places, the poorest, most ignored.
God is the mold in the basement of the Fortress,
spreading the love that rots the timbers of cruelty.
The Empire won’t suddenly turn generous,
the Presidential Palace sheltering refugees.
But it can’t seal itself against spring,
against the fragrance of mercy.
The realm of God is like an infection
for which there is no cure.
The world won’t soon be fixed,
but it can never be purified of love.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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Amid the intricacies of your inner ear,
the vessels and instruments and wise listeners
that translate air into meaning,
is an ocean cave that magnifies
all the haunting cries of the earth,
all the moans and shrieks and calls and whispers,
hearing clearly even the private weeping
of small children and distant tribes.
There is a great tree in your inner ear
whose roots are in that ocean cave,
whose branches quiver with every bird song,
every sorrow or delight, every cry of wonder.
All these voices echo in the deep cavern
and do not die out. They are in you.

So it is that we often do not hear well,
with all the noise, and often feel
some real yet vanishing weight
we do not understand,
perhaps of grief or hope or joy, unspoken.

At times, therefore, we pause
in stillness and let the chorus complete its aria.
Heard, then, the voices calm
and become in us a clearer hearing,
a deeper wisdom.
We speak with the voice of hearing.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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God slow me down to the pace of reverence.
Open my eyes to the light of reverence.
Tune my ears to the frequency of reverence.
Move my hands with the grace of reverence.
May I live with reverence and delight,
with compassion, receptivity, and love.
May my life be a reverent offering to you.
Amen.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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What if all my words were seeds,
each one giving birth to a world?
What if I were a spring
and people drank from me?
God, guard my mouth
that I may speak only truth,
say only life-giving things,
utter only what is good.
Even in times of conflict,
times of outrage,
may all that flows from me
be a clear stream of beauty and life
rising from your deep grace.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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His students said to Jesus, “Increase our faith!”
He said with faith the size of a mustard seed
you could uproot a tree and plant it in the sea.

Yes! Oh, we wish for such faith, such command—
ignoring how pointless it would be
to sea-plant a mulberry tree. He’s caught us.

Then he goes on to describe us as slaves,
not doing whatever showy, irrelevant things
we want, but doing our master’s will.

As if faith isn’t power to do what we wish,
but willingness to surrender to what God
is already doing, listening and obeying—

realizing and confessing our lust for power,
even power to do good—
and instead, submitting to goodness.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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They don’t say it, but they could,
the roots working down under the ground,
the sun beaming down on a flowering garden,
the bees about their labors,
neither proud nor self effacing about their honey:
Here. Look what I made.

They don’t call attention to it
(though it is called),
the spring rains greening the hillside,
the weaver bird stitching a masterpiece.
They don’t need anyone’s approval.

The beetles that have cleaned the forest floor,
the snow making sensual sculptures,
the loon and its lake-echoed cry,
they are at peace with their glory.

It’s only God, really, who makes a big deal—
hear the voice of the Holy One!—
who creates you, keeps creating you,
and steps back and says,
“Now that’s good. That’s real good.”

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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          God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise;
          God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong;
          God chose what is low and despised in the world,
                    things that are not, to abolish things that are,
          so that no one might boast in the presence of God.
                       —1 Corinthians 1. 27-29

The devil does not appreciate satire.
The Emperor cannot abide ridicule.
Both the Satan in your head
and the tyrant in the palace
demand to be taken seriously.
To them self-reflection is abhorrent,
critique is dangerous, humility is poison.

God laughs at their hubris,
and the godly mock them.
Elijah insults the seers of Baal.
Prophets ridicule kings gone awry.
God continually makes a joke of Jonah’s defiance.
Jesus disgraces the demons,
banishing them into suicidal pigs.
He insults the tomb-white hypocrites.
Even the cross is a mockery of the empire’s power.

When we are ridiculed
in humility we seek the nugget of truth,
discard the trash, and, if God is with us,
laugh at ourselves, who are not God.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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          …at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus…
                                             —Luke 16.20

It’s only a gate
but enough to hide,
to divide.
If he lets it
(how easily
he might not notice)
it can come between
him and all life
(even Lazarus,
with Father Abraham,
is his brother)—
and that thin gate become
a great chasm.
Only when
our gates are open
can they become
the gates of heaven.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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Right behind the priest administering the sacrament
              is one throwing mud.

As the artist paints at her easel
              another paints the back of her head.

In between each exquisite word of the poet
              is utter nonsense.

Pooling beneath every deed of kindness
              is a puddle of cruelty.

Yes, and haunting the devil and all his evil works
              is one slipping grace into every little moment.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
Listen to the audio recording:

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 0:45 — 1.0MB)

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