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A Poetic musing on the role of preaching in worship.
FARMStrong has been on a bit of a poetry fast, albeit unintended. Here's a piece I've been musing over which I think is on its way to poetry. I think a lot about the nature of real preaching. In an age where many preachers are aspiring to become "Communicators," we may be losing the deeper realities of the sacred genre of speech known as "preaching." check it out. I call the piece
ALL YOU CAN EAT.
true preaching reveals the place where Word and Spirit meet
affording an encounter with Divine Realities
eyes seeing the story
ears hearing the Kingdom
mind comprehending Mind
pen scratchings cannot capture it
paper cannot possibly map the course of God-Words
recordings can't remember the Living Voice
like storing water water in cupped hands
Spirit musings never fit into an mp3
so put down your pencil
and lift up your heart,
don't get the tape
Lean forward.
Listen Now!
and realize
the stream of heaven
is not download-able
not for canteens
immediate consumption required
open bar,
all you can eat buffet.
It's got a ways to go for sure. What am I trying to say here? Preaching was never meant to fill a storehouse with knowledge, but to create a context for the comprehending of Love. What are you seeing/hearing in these musings?
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Harrowing of Hell Here is George Mackay Brown, poet of Orkney, in his poem entitled “The Harrowing of Hell:”
He went down the first step.
His lantern shone like the morning star.
Down and round he went
Clothed in his five wounds.
Six steps follow:
on second he meets Solomon;
third David;
fourth Joseph;
fifth Jacob;
sixth Abel
On the seventh step down
The tall primal dust [Adam]
Turned with a cry from digging and delving.
“Tomorrow,” ends the poem,
On the seventh step down
The tall primal dust [Adam]
Turned with a cry from digging and delving.
“Tomorrow,” ends the poem,
“the Son of Man will walk in a garden
Through drifts of apple-blossom.”
Through drifts of apple-blossom.”
(“The Harrowing of Hell,” in Northern Lights [London: John Murray, 1999], 24.)
posted by John David Walt | at 4/11/2009 03:01:00 AM
| 0 comments
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Holy Week Poetry: Intermingled
For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body.
intermingled life and death
fusion of your blood and breath
the human God of Love Divine
heals lineage of our broken line
intermingled joy and pain
behold the son of goodness slain
sealed by stone in earthen mound
while resurrection rends the ground
My Son! My Joy rise up to reign!
The end of death makes suffering's stain
a work of art in wounded clay
revealing script of passions play
O suffering God grant me a share
to humbly speak the Garden's prayer
to bid Your life in me be born
my striving temple's veil be torn
my body now entombed by flood
intermingled water and blood
resuscitated by your deathfusion of your blood and breath
the human God of Love Divine
heals lineage of our broken line
intermingled joy and pain
behold the son of goodness slain
sealed by stone in earthen mound
while resurrection rends the ground
My Son! My Joy rise up to reign!
The end of death makes suffering's stain
a work of art in wounded clay
revealing script of passions play
O suffering God grant me a share
to humbly speak the Garden's prayer
to bid Your life in me be born
my striving temple's veil be torn
my body now entombed by flood
intermingled water and blood
intermingled with the Risen breath.
John David Walt, Jr.
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 4/08/2009 07:22:00 AM | 2 comments
Friday, August 22, 2008
The Farmer among the Tombs. by Wendell Berry
I am oppressed by all the room taken up by the dead,
Their headstones standing shoulder to shoulder,
The bones imprisoned under them.
Plow up the graveyards! Haul off the monuments!
Pry open the vaults and the coffins
So the dead may nourish their graves
And go free, their acres traversed all summer
By crop rows and cattle and foraging bees.
FARMStrong continues a short off-season in preparation for the coming school year. I thought some might enjoy the above "farm" poem from the finest Kentucky poet around. Don't delete me from your blog-readers. I'm working on the next season of conversations and very much looking forward to it. If you have any worship oriented conversations you'd be interested in stirring up on this blog, let me know in the comment field to this post.
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 8/22/2008 08:20:00 AM | 10 comments
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Relinquishment The one who being in very nature God,
ruler over all things,
he made himself nothing
now, that is something.
Really, it's everything.
Which is why I probably should have titled this poem
how nothing became everything.
Here's how it happened:
Abba! Nothing is impossible with you!
Let this cup of suffering pass me by!
Not my will, but
your will be done.
I still have questions.
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 3/04/2008 11:16:00 PM | 6 comments
Friday, February 15, 2008
Lent, again Lent, again
Small Baptist church
Edge of the city
Family farms were gone
Ever widening streets
Car lots and early stage
Of strip malls
Good people
Almost “country folk”
My mom’s people
They knew the Bible
They loved it
They tried to live it
No creeds or rituals so
They believed
Lent was bad, almost evil
Empty routine of
False religion
Catholics and Lutherans
Maybe some others so
Far from faith
Home is not so distant
Four or five hours down the freeway
Decades later, now about four
Yearly ashes to my forehead
The joy of sorrow
The smudge of death
The touch of some pastor
I hardly know
What was once forbidden
Now is my food, my life
I worry for a moment that I may later see
Someone I know at the
Store who won't understand
Six weeks Wednesday at noon
Sitting with Glenn
Sometimes others join us
A hymn or two
Short sermon
Some good, some not
Prayer
Lunch in the basement
Church cookbook casserole
Creamy salad
Cookies or cakes
Water or tea
Neither of us drinks coffee
Talk of family and sports
Maybe the sermon
Church friends and politics
Work updates
We say our goodbyes
Giving up something, maybe
Remembering, anything to help
Holy Week, the beginning with
Sword ferns posing as palms
Maundy Thursday
It took a long time to
Understand the “Maundy”
Good Friday,
It’s trite,
But who ever thought to
Call it “good?”
The dark, quiet and waiting
Easter and
It’s over
Day of joy
Get my life back, again
Not sure I want it
At this cost
The seasons end
I hope it will come again
Next year
Or maybe, I hope
I’ll be here next year
To remember that
It happened
Jesus suffered
And I live
Jim Schmotzer
Lent 2008
hat tip to Steve Moore for passing this one on to me.
Labels: passion year, poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 2/15/2008 07:09:00 AM | 2 comments
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
new original poem from FARMStrong The Sale
They gathered,
combines and tractors,
field cultivators and discs
a final family reunion of farm friends
on the shop yard
servants of the soil
like slaves of old
separated and sold
shackled and shipped
to a new land.
photo: that's my Dad-- the farmer at the auction of his farm equipment on ash wednesday. more to come.
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 2/13/2008 02:24:00 PM | 7 comments
Thursday, December 13, 2007
MY GRANDFATHER SINGS AGAIN I found a cassette with your voice singing.
The wheels of the tape turned away from time
to let me hear your rendition of Folsom Prison Blues.
When I was a boy, I sat on your lap and you taught
me those words--the song of a lonely prisoner
staring from his cell window at the miles
of metal rail that lead the train past the jail.
When I was a boy, the dollar bill woven in your strings
was a rattling snare of steam; your voice was a wheel
grinding the track, rolling across California.
But now, when that song floats into my adult ears,
you are the whole train pressing on into the distance
and I am the prisoner listening to a whistle blow
the hot sound of freedom. I am watching
the train's slow escape, the soot billow falling behind
to earth as a frown of black cloud.
This is one of my sensei's poem's-- one of my favorites-- from his collection entitled, "Morning and What has Come Since." (Finish Line Press) Dave Harrity's blog is here.
Why do these images feel like Advent to me?
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 12/13/2007 07:07:00 PM | 1 comments
Friday, November 30, 2007
A WOMAN REMEMBERS HIROSHIMA It was a nice day. Clean and sunny.
I was 13, in the kitchen making tea for my father.
The sun brightened the room. I could see things
so plainly. My father was in the garden painting,
and as I took him his tea, I noticed the iris,
thin and purple, on the easel in front of him,
and in the garden, leaning. We heard teh airplane
at the same time. My father said it was pretty,
so white, a flash in the sun. I winced looking.
And then my father was gone, and the garden also,
and then there was nothing but light and pain.
I thought if I die, who will know me, so I, reaching,
wrote my name on my arm with my father's brush.
Later in the hospital my uncle looked at me,
and did not know me. My face was not the face
of my father's child, but he took me home
because he saw my name, he took me home.
This is a poem by Maureen Morehead from her book, "A Sense of Time Left" (Larkspur Press). My poetry sensei, David Harrity, shared it with me this week.
Seems like a good one to close out Kingdomtide-- full of the potency of the curse and yet the mustard seed of hope lives. What does the poem evoke in you?
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 11/30/2007 08:07:00 AM | 1 comments
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
A Tribute Poem to my Dad on the occasion of his last harvest as a farmer
My Father’s Last LoadThe end of the last harvest
Finally pours out of the truck
Tipped up toward the Heavens
Funneling joy
commingled with
Soybeans
I fight back tears of sadness
As the seed disappears into the ground
unplanted
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 10/24/2007 01:27:00 AM | 4 comments
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Attention Finding Joy
like
chasing squirrels
closer and closer
yet . . . .
fleeting. . . . .
gone. . .
then
another
and on
until
SUDDENLY
you forgot
you were in the park
awakened to a
dream
you once called
HOME.
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 5/05/2007 08:45:00 PM | 2 comments
Thursday, April 26, 2007
The Bully Anger. . .
steals the seed of Love
stunts the growth of Hope
wilts the flower of Joy
blinds the eyes of Vision
robs the soul of Memory
traps the spirit of Life
kills Creativity
Destroys
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 4/26/2007 11:48:00 PM | 2 comments
Monday, April 23, 2007
Stillborn Spring Stillborn spring
cold callowing bloom
crisping tender leaves
tepid flower's doom
death rebuking hope
or winter's last wound?
stealing the gold
but not the green
still born, spring
the photo tells the story of our spring around here. it came forth so faithfully and yet got smashed by repeated freezes. the trees were left looking like fall. as i walked to work each day i just kept looking at those drooping leaves that just days before were golden. these words captured it for me. there's lots going on in this metaphor. any thoughts?
I suppose this is why the general Kentucky rule is no gardening prior to Derby Day-- which is coming soon.
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 4/23/2007 09:12:00 PM | 1 comments
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Easter Legs
I wanted to write a poem with this title--- the picture says it all.
what do you see? look closely now?
see also John 20:2 and 4.
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 4/12/2007 05:34:00 PM | 3 comments
Friday, April 06, 2007
FARMStrong Good Friday Offering Mystery's handles
seek hiding in Light
flickering candles
bearing ancient night
transporting the senses
through history's veil
focusing lenses
deencrypt time's brail
rescripting a Story
unnerving the grave
refashioned Glory
played out in the nave
poet's note: Last evening I accompanied my mom and dad to the Maundy Thursday worship service at our local First United here in the Big D (dumas, arkansas). We'll give a Tornado alley update later. It was a good night yet I found myself both engaged and disengaged through the service-- mostly the latter. As a way of staying engaged and attentive I turned to poetry as I often do these days. Ritual will do one of two things. It will either distance us from the mystery or usher us more deeply inside it. What makes the difference?
In retrospect, most of it was a religious program. Though filled with ritualistic accuracy, the service lacked congregational engagement. However, looking at my work above, I would have to admit I was engaged. Regardless, I don't mean to critique unduly here. I loved it. For me, the most engaging moment happened when the preacher did something I have never seen done before. As he was turning to extinguish the Christ Candle, the last light in the room, he took his snuffer and slowly pointed it around the sanctuary in a 360 degree circle, literally making eye contact with everyone in the room and then pointed it to himself before snuffing out the light. We departed in darkness.
Labels: good friday, poetry, tridium, worship
posted by John David Walt | at 4/06/2007 12:05:00 PM | 3 comments
Friday, March 09, 2007
Sabbath Swimming Marva Dawn writes in her book on Sabbath Keeping:
“Sabbath resting is a foretaste of eternal life. . . For that reason part of our Sabbath celebration is a prayer that we might someday come to the fulfillment of the Sabbath. . . . When we live for our Sabbaths, when they are the climax of our weeks, we know a healthy anticipation of the ultimate rest, the time when Jesus will come to take us home.”
I've been thinking a lot about Sabbath in the midst of Lent. Here's my latest poem. As I read the quote above it captures the idea I am getting at. I share the poetry with you as an encouragement.
SABBATH SWIMMING
sitting next to a
cool pond
on a hot day
imagining the refreshment
yielding immersion
feels like hope;
though it is not.
Now, to get into the pond
another thing entirely
experiencing the Water;
though you must get out
eventually,
you remember it forever.
and in the realer sense, you,
can never leave it again
and while you may dwell in a
desert
the water has become your reality
The meaning of hope
swims in Sabbath
The poem comes from my remembering of a story my Pepaw liked to tell about his childhood. He grew up in a time of legalistic Sabbath keeping. "We used to go down to the swimming hole on Sundays and watch the other kids swim. Mama wouldn't let us get in because it was the Lord's Day. One day the local doctor was down at the pond and saw me standing on the doc watching the rest of the kids having such a good time in the water. All of a sudden, he pushed me in. Then he said, 'Lee, you have fun swimming now while your clothes dry out.' posted by John David Walt | at 3/09/2007 08:44:00 PM | 3 comments
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Sitting Next to a Nun Waiting for Sext (i.e. The Sixth Hour) She entered the building differently than I
reverent bowing
quiet sitting
clasping prayer with hands
living water dripping down her furrowed brow
actively
watching
awaiting
the Hour
her habit. . . . .
while I passed the time
looking for something to do
For me the room was empty
For her, Full.
To prepare the way of the Lord
is to welcome Him
always
in new ways
anticipatorily
Here dwells the meaning of Advent
All else is distraction.
Photo: David in his first Kindergarten school play--releasing his robust line "Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas! That's his teacher Ms. Adams alongside him. Been a good first semester.Poem Comment: On Monday I spent the day at the Abbey of Gethsemane with Josh Agerton who leads our worship design team at the seminary. As we waited for the noon prayer time to begin (i.e. sext) a nun entered the room. My observation led to the composition of these lines.
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 12/19/2006 07:59:00 PM | 4 comments
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Advent Poetry The Eagle's form
a cross that flies
ascending under
Heaven's skies
vision of
the One who dies
by laying down
an earthly prize
rebuking sentimental
lies
to find a garden
in the
air.
But those who wait upon the Lord will renew their strength. They will mount up on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. they will walk and not be faint. Isaiah 40:31
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 12/14/2006 03:04:00 PM | 2 comments
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
SEXT Fullness of Time
like noon rides high
no need for watch
just watch the sky
a dozen bells
unveil the wind
unwinding clocks
begin again
convulsing Earth
rends from above
mystical curtain
hiding love
rhetorical quandry
forsaken eclipse
as the sound of
side-splitting laughter rips
Spent the day yesterday at my favorite place, the Abbey of Gethsemane, in Trappist, Kentucky. Sitting in the Cathedral waiting on the Noon Office Prayer Time (a.k.a. Sext = Latin term for "sixth" hour). I was thinking about how Advent marks the fullness of time (i.e. "in the fullness of time God sent his son born of a woman.") In a similar fashion, high noon also marks the fullness of time, and particularly the high noon of Jesus crucifixion. The poem attempts to freight some of that hour.
The photo depicts one of the Abbey's less public renditions of the stations of the cross. It is a bit of a fugitive photograph in that I had to sneak down a "monastic area keep out" hallway to capture it.
"Poetry is not the assertion that something is true, but the making of that truth more fully real to us." T.S. Eliot
Labels: poetry
posted by John David Walt | at 11/21/2006 07:44:00 AM | 1 comments
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Sabbath verse Sabbath work
makes wiser rest
revealing anxiety's
accomplishment test
still confronts striving
for love long repressed
unveiling the crying
of wounds to be blessed
24 hour embrace
of the Best.
I came up with this one a few weeks back on a day of rest that was scorched with the temptation to get out the to-do list. Make sense what I am saying here? Rest is the ultimate act of faith is it not--a rebuke of the economy of self striving--choosing instead to breathe the air of eternity. posted by John David Walt | at 11/19/2006 02:56:00 PM | 4 comments
Today...