infinite beauty

he's the image of the invisible God
first born over the created world
he reigns thrones and kingdoms all on the earth
the heavens and everything invisible

beautiful, infinite God
have your way with me
consume and rapture my heart
make my eyes to see

oh your beauty, your beauty
your beauty i must see

he's enthroned in heaven
surrounded in light
with angels and elders on every side
proclaiming the glory, the consuming fire
the reign of a king who's invincible.

(Hope College Worship Band "Beautiful, Infinite God")

Gray

We are neither |animals| nor |angels|.

animals- fully physical; indulgent in lust
angels- pure spirit; no lustful desires

We live |in the tension| betwixt the two.
If you have not yet read "SexGod" by Rob Bell we would encourage you to do so.


|Black| Gray |White|

Guess what. When it comes to relationships there's a whole lotta gray. We Christians tend to pendulum between two extremes--both hazardous in their own ways. First, as Christians we believe that we cannot simply go around indulging our fleshes' every desire. Fairly elementary (silver ring thing anybody?). The other extreme we tend to swing toward is a quasi-gnosticism (body=bad; spiritual is above and beyond the physical). However, implications of the incarnation, baby (literally) --> the physical world, our physical bodies, made of matter, matter. Oh the irony that we sometimes think matter doesn't matter.

Relationship application: Relationships cannot substantially exist or be built in simply a physical dimension; Nor can the physical be completely ignored if we are to be of any substance. As of now there hasn't yet been discovered some precise line of universally proper physical boundaries for each stage of a relationship. It is much easier if we go on believing there is...somewhere there lies a clear line between black and white, angels and animals...somewhere over the rainbow. Our relationships, at least all of those I've been in or witnessed, do not have precise formulas, spelled out, or clearly defined ways to grow. Rather there's a whole mess of gray--very messy indeed. But that's all part of the adventure. We don't have a map, we've got a guide and general sense of direction, from there we must use our own discernment and discretion.

Mindful

Every day
~I see or hear
~~something
~~~that more or less

kills me
~with delight
~~that leaves me
~~~like a needle

in the haystack
~of light.
~~It is what I was born for--
~~~to look, to listen,

to lose myself
~inside this soft world--
~~to instruct myself
~~~over and over

in joy,
~and acclamation.
~~Nor am I talking
~~~about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
~the very extravagant--
~~but of the ordinary,
~~~the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
~Oh, good scholar,
~~I say to myself,
~~~how can you help

but grow wise
~with such teachings
~~as these---
~~~the untrimmable light

of the world,
~the ocean's shine,
~~the prayers that are made
~~~out of grass?

by Mary Oliver

The Grace of April

or

Kissing Tulips

All things seem to be in bloom - but not the rich, pungent ripeness of midsummer abundance. Bushes, trees, daffodils, tulips all shimmer softly in the cool air, relinquishing fresh colors to an ever-brightening sky. The shade of new leaves tentatively spreads across cold pavement and young grass. Colors are pure and radiant in the sun's golden light. All the earth is waking, stretching, sighing, smiling

and all the college students are running around like crazy people.

This is the traditional time in the cycle of semester when all deadlines coming stampeding in and all sanity falls by the wayside. Stress is tangible, so thick you might choke on it. The common refrain, echoing across campus, is simply "IS IT OVER? are we done yet?". (I am well-versed in these feelings, having been dreaming of summer sun since about February. )

The grace of April, however, is perspective. Two things ring true, slipping through the cacophony of academia with the soft, clear tones of spring:

1. I was made by this God

2. I am entirely irrelevant

EXPIATION

by Susanna Childress

For those who follow me cozily our the door, for the one
so close in line last night I felt his hard-on, the ones

who say hello, looking at your breasts, how are you,
the puffy-lipped polo shirt wearers who discuss my

classes on days my skirts are thigh-high and my legs
must be making a sound only they can hear.

for those who say God is not even one-quarter She.

for the pokes at ribs and claps on the ass given with
a smile, the knuckles against the neck when I'm pulling

at the doorhandle, the heavy beerish pocket of a mouth,
the pinches while asking what my shirt says, sweet thang

for the white vans whose drviers honk honkhonk,
the doorbells I cannot answer because it could or could not

or could or could not be just Jehovah's Witness men,
the poorly lit parking lots reminding me they found

drops of Trisha's urine behind the swimming pool but
never found Trisha, for the hot damns pelted out rolled-down

windows, the Spanish they don't think I understand one aisle over.

the middle-aged men pushing their children in carts and taking full
bodied looks in frozen food section, the trucker on I-65,

the condom on his fingers pointing at me.

for the dialogue of cottage cheese thighs, the raw popping
laughs when virgins walk by or

butch girls or acned girls or flat girls,
the jokes about bumpy nipples packed-tuna pussy the ugliest

fucks you'd ever seen can't buh
lieve they lettem live that ugly.

for them you do a service, quiet-hearted man, your
fingers on my forehead, your face like rain.

landing anywhere, something clean of your eyes
when you say fair one, when you listen to me,

and for them you oil the humbling of age, you redeem
mankind, you hold out the pearl you found in your chest,

the one each man has, and it speaks to the softest,
scaredest parts of me, the part naked and artless

as a woman's open body, for all of them you
make me think I could unravel into the imperfect,

the sweat, the gingered cadence
of humanity with one of you.

all the birds of this day sing a song, sing a song...

a celebratory haiku:

you are twenty now

two glorious decades old

love, this day is yours

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR JILLIAN!

We're the sort of girls that will stoop to kiss a tulip.

We're the kind of people who sit and pray in magnolia trees.

We're the small group leaders that think that spending the hour of 1opm reading scriptures & poetry, drawing with sidewalk chalk, kissing flowers, and hugging trees is feasible (and needed) way to meet.