Thoughts and Prayers at Midnight

Recollections of poetry, prayers, and a poem from early morning vigil

Monasticism serves no purpose. It is an affirmation that existence is good. It is a gift.

O Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

from my Japan Journals:

Life is Good

Life is good, and then it's bad,
  and then it's good again.
But if this life were all we had,
  I ask, would it have been
worth all the effort, all the trouble,
  only to have it turn to rubble?

But if this life is not the end,
  but just the shadow of
the tragicomical Event
  upon the stage above,
I ask, would it not be worthwhile
  if that event were Love?

O Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

When you and your brother speak with one another,
When you and your sister converse face-to-face,
Discern in your brother and sister what are their
True interests; don’t twist their words to your own tastes.

I offer some of who I am
With every single word
Which is an offering of love
When taken up and heard.

O Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

God made the night and made it good:
Timeless for those who need to rest;
Timely for those who need to take
the time to talk or write or love
or do the thousand other things
that day denies us. Quietly
we waking workers watch the sun
arising, and the wakening world
that rises to slip watches on.

Each word is part of the I am,
The giving up of power,
Which moves and lights the world with love
At this dark midnight hour.

O Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

I lose the thought of who I am
Immersed in things and flesh
Which, given up to God in love,
Become my life and rest.

O Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Disgusted by the inanity
of my attempts at poetry
I drift into insanity
(not all that far from vanity)
and make my home at Riverview,
watching the river flow and shift,
watching the flotsam float and drift,
watching all life just pass me by,
and I could leave it all with a sigh,
but one small thing then brings me back:
I wander the bank, wondering that
this river, made of rain and dew,
will never either reign or do,
but always, ever simply is.
I do not know what this life is
or how it slips between my words
and runs from my paper, but I've heard
that all to nothingness will sink
if I pin it down with pen and ink.
And so I sit and babble on,
riveting rivers with jabs of my pencil.

I do not know what this life is,
But it is found in words
Which, as they outline life in love,
Teach us that we are heard.