A Poem on New Beginnings.

Jesus, we are one body composed of many parts –

bones, sinew, tissue,

a composite of ribcage and dust and

holy breath which wakes up the dead --

we are alive, now: wild and messy and perfect and broken all at once and

we know you are the one who has been keeping

us still in this season, because when we were moving too quickly,

You reminded us that our hearts are such fragile things. That life is a fragile thing.

You teach us humility the only way you know how:

by showing us intimacy, and then opening your palms so that

they can be nailed through. You tell us this, too, is how we’re to love.

(Why do you never tell us that love and change and community

are hard to heal from? Why does humility have to feel

so much like an emptied coffee tin, crushed under a boot?

Like scraped knees and pebbled palms?

Like chapped lips and a blistered throat?

When does love look like a victory and not a defeat?

I mean to say, how long are we called to remain broken vessels, wineskins weeping?

How long until healing starts to feel real and not just like empty promises?

Certainly more than three days?)

Quiet, You tell us.

Unity in this kingdom is not a substitute for individuality,

but for independence, for freedom (there is freedom in this collective body of new beginnings).

We go together, shake the dust from our souls together, telling stories of our gifts and graces together,

and so we interlock these hands because it’s the only thing we know how to do now –

You tell us this is what forgiveness feels like.

You tell us that the world is wide enough for both time to grieve and forgive.

You tell us the simple act of reaching across is enough.

We believe you even if we are still learning to trust you.