Clarion: Journal of Spirituality and Justice

Perhaps, In the After - Poem by Jessica Williams

Perhaps, In the After

We thought there was time,

endless expanses of time.

Three hundred and sixty-five days

in each-and-every year

no need to fear

if you miss a few.

 

And I guess it fell out of focus,

how much it mattered.

How desperately we need

these spaces

these places

to be.

 

It’s hard to recognize the magic in monotony.

 

So gathered together,

day after day

sitting side by side by side by side,

you’d find us staring at our phones

like we were searching

for something else.

 

But we couldn’t find it.

And we couldn’t find ourselves.

And we couldn’t find each other.

Until suddenly everything stopped.

 

Streets lay empty,

schools were locked

and the silence shook us from our slumber.

You might call what happened next a novel noticing.

 

Neighbours waved,

strangers smiled

and children playing

called us to consciousness.

 

For a moment

we all paid attention

to the sound of the world.

We went outside just to listen

to the earth come alive.

 

We turned our hearts

toward each other

and the turning made room

for a great wave of voices to rise:

 

they bellowed for a better tomorrow.

 

These are the prophets of the pandemic,

pointing to the possible.

 

Do not forget them.

Because when this is over

we must not return to normal,

dear ones.

 

But when we return

let us return with

bigger,

brighter,

braver expressions of love.

 

Perhaps,

in the after,

they will say that our eyes

having strained to see through screens

were sharpened

to notice things long overlooked.

 

And our ears,

having laboured to listen

through lagging wifi connections

were newly attuned

to hear in the sound of a human voice

loneliness,

fear,

courage,

joy,

sorrow,

hope.

 

Perhaps,

in the after,

they will say that our hearts

having endured the separation

were now strengthened vessels

able to carry love longer

farther,

wider,

deeper than before.

 

And our hands,

having longed for human touch,

were more ready than ever

to reach through walls

that divide us.

 

Perhaps,

in the after,

there will be brand new ways

of seeing and hearing,

of living and loving,

of knowing and being known.

 

By: Jessica Williams

SHOULD GOD BE GRACE - poem by Jessica Williams

SHOULD GOD BE GRACE

 

Should God be Grace

I know Her ways

The purest Light

Beyond the haze

That’s shining through

To show the way

When all else lies in darkness.

 

Should God be Grace

She’s held my hand

When I’ve forgotten

Who I am

She’s lifted me

To help me stand

From beds of my own making.

 

Should God be Grace

She falls like drops

Of truth

On all my tired thoughts

That keep me in my

“I am nots”

And speaks a different story.

 

Should God be Grace

She is the floor

That comes to hold

My feet secure

When every other

Place before

Gave way and left me falling.

 

Should God be Grace

She changes shape

To fill the gaps that

Life has made

She knows the place

Of every pain

And fits within the spaces.

 

Should God be Grace

She is the wind

That moves me to

Begin again

Regardless of the

Place I’m in

Her offering is Mercy.

 

Should God be Grace

I’ve felt Her move

In ways that I

Could never prove

But what I know

I cannot lose

And so I let Her hold me.  

The Birthplace of God - Jessica Williams

The Birthplace of God

 

It started with a spark of fear

in the heart

of a Girl.

 

But this Girl

 

was

not

just

any

Girl

 

–she was every Girl.

 

Every Girl

unseen before,

every Girl

unheard.

 

Every Girl

with eyes

cast down

unbelieving,

unperceiving

–her worth.

 

This Girl was not just any Girl,

she was every Girl.

 

Every Girl

excluded,

shamed,

pushed down,

left out.

 

Not just any Girl,

–every Girl.

 

And that fear

 

was

not

just

any

fear

 

–it was every fear.

 

A

fear

that

makes

your

knees

go

weak,

 

your

stomach

drop,

 

the room

begin

to spin.

 

Me?

How can this be?

 

This is not just any fear.

 

This.

 

This is a Woman’s fear.

 

A fear that knows its weakness

before it knows its strength.

 

A fear

subjected

to the power

of man.

 

A fear that understands

 

danger is near

 

–always.

 

This is a Woman’s fear.

 

And this,

 

THIS

 

–this is the birthplace of God.

 

 

 

Me too: A Lament - Poem by Jessica Williams

Me too: A Lament

CLICK HERE to Download audio of Jessica reciting "Me Too: A Lament"

 

Something happened. 

Something happened.

Something happened to me, too. 

 

I felt it in the collective voice of women raging. 

Why are we so afraid of women raging?

If the sea can rage then so can we.

 

Something happened.

Something happened.

Something happened to me, too. 

 

I felt it in the questions you asked her.

“But can you remember it?” And I wanted to scream. 

We all wanted to scream. NO! Stop! 

Not again. . .

 

Please.

Please.

Please.

(I’m so tired of saying please.)

 

Something happened.

Something happened.

Something happened to me, too. 

 

As I watched the good men sit in their seats,

And all the same leaders continue to lead.

Something happened to me.

 

The fog rolled in. 

I started to sink. 

The same way I did then,

-when something happened to me. 

Cradle - Poem by Jessica Williams

Cradle

9|28|18

 

It’s dark outside tonight,

It’s loud inside my mind,

And though the hour is late,

My fear is wide awake

-she’s screaming.

 

What happened to our hope?

Where else can we go?

You left us here alone,

And there’s a gaping hole

-without you.

 

Come close to us,

Bend low enough,

It is Your touch

-we’re craving.

 

Come near tonight,

Come shine a light,

Make one thing right

-I’m losing.

 

You crushed my budding hope,

A fragile trust was broke,

You left me here alone

-I’m bleeding.

 

Come tend these wounds,

Come heal the bruised,

There’s much to soothe

-within us.

 

Be a cradle for this storm,

Your arms to keep me warm,

My head against Your chest,

Held there I will find rest

-for all things.

 

Your Love will be the feast,

The nourishment I need,

Your Mercy makes me new,

And I find strength in You

-so feed me.

 

Bend low for me tonight,

Come make something right,

Reach me if You can,

I’ll sleep within Your hands

-I’m willing.

All In: Jesus and the Vulnerability of God - Fr. Kenneth Tanner

When Jesus is on the Sea of Galilee with the disciples, and storm winds and waves frighten even seasoned fishermen, we find the God who made the waves, the wind, and the wood the boat is crafted from—who made everything and holds everything together—tired and asleep in the stern of the ship.

God is asleep on a boat, even though our first thought as readers is that, of course, Jesus, a mere human, is napping (and that is true, too).

What we tend not to ponder is that this one asleep on the cushion is the one who never slumbers nor sleeps, whoever watches over Israel and the world.

When the disciples awaken Jesus and he surveys the situation (and their hearts), he rebukes their fear, and a mere man stands up on two feet in a vessel sloshing with lake water and rebukes the wind: “Peace! Be still!”

Someone just like the rest of the disciples—with breathing lungs and a beating heart, groggy and finding his sea legs—makes the wind stop gusting and turns the waves to glass with his words.

As readers, we think Jesus is God and this awe-inspiring ability fits his divinity, but Jesus is also just a human, no more special in his biochemistry than anyone else in that boat on a sea gone wild.

Jesus is not Superman. He is as vulnerable in that moment as the disciples and the folks on the other boats in their crossing armada. Had his boat capsized or sank, and the storm continued to rage, he was as susceptible to drowning and death as anyone on any of the boats.

This story tells us that God takes actual risks, takes on the risks of being actually human when he comes among us in the flesh of Jesus. And we can be sure that he is as invested in our present storms—right there with us in the tumult saying “Peace. Do not be afraid.”

When we read every story about Jesus in this careful way that the first Christians taught us—realizing this protagonist is in every moment God “all‑in” and human “all‑in”—we begin to discern that something has happened forever in God and something has happened forever in us, because the Son who breathed the stars into fiery existence and set their courses in the sky, who made the orchid and the hummingbird, humbled himself and was made like us in every way: weary, thirsty, hungry, aching, longing, striving, rejected, fallen, marvelous clay that we are, that we might be as he is, as God from all eternity with his Father and their Spirit. World without end.

The Gospels remind us that in Jesus Christ, God leaves fingerprints, leaves DNA, wherever he goes. He left his fingerprints on the buckets they used to bail out the stormwater on the nearly-flooded vessel before continuing their crossing. He donates his DNA to us in the chalice on the table. Jesus is *human* without measure.

Jesus breathes the spirit of the Father’s loving-kindness on all things. By the Spirit, he calms seas, the raging oceans of the world, the raging waters inside the human heart. Jesus is *divine* without qualification.

And it’s proper here to note that Jesus calls upon the Spirit when as a human he does these miracles—never from self-interest, always to manifest the glory of the Father, and is not grasping at equality with God.

This gives us mere humans a pattern of prayer to emulate, invited as we are into the Father’s sovereign rule of all things, not as warlocks or wizards but as those who join his humble service to creation and all things, leaving the outcomes in his good and everlasting hands for his good ends.

Jesus shows us who God is and Jesus shows us who we are.

His blood, his touch, his stops of breath reconcile the creator and the clay that—as female and male—alone in all creation bears the image of God.

Jesus walks with us, walks as us now, and we participate by our prayers, by our touch, by our faith and compassion — sometimes even by our blood — in the renewal of all things.

And Jesus cares. About everything and everyone, whether or not we do. And it is good and proper for us to pause and ponder with the disciples: “What manner of human is this who makes the winds and seas obey?”

We see the likeness of Jesus in every human. We see like the likeness of Jesus in every Central American refugee. Would that they might behold in our faces the icon of his vulnerability, self-sacrificial love, and resurrection in this wild, wonderful world he became human to restore to life without end.

Poppies Bloom at the Judgement Seat - Jessica Williams

Poppies Bloom at the Judgement Seat

Have you ever had a moment that felt so sacred you were afraid to write about it?

This has happened to me a few times and I know it’s a gift. Sometimes I feel like I don’t want to cheapen these holy encounters with words, I feel protective of them, of myself, really – and I think that’s okay. But something happened in my spirit in Corinth and the only way to share it is through stumbling over my words here. So I’ve sat myself down to write – finally.

 

It started on the bus.

On the bus ride out to Corinth our guide (a.k.a. historical genius/major/extraordinaire) spoke of the historic town toward which we travelled. He had a way of bringing these ancient places to life and our group was quite fond of him already.

Today, he spoke of Corinth. He did bring it to life – but, honestly, some of his interpretations landed harshly on my heart. The narrative being used was so familiar to me. The subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways that women were shamed (and continue to be) became apparent. The (misuse) of verses to condemn LGBTQ+ people were pulled to the surface and before I knew it my heart was racing as I tried to control my anxiousness, breathing deep, attempting to self-soothe my tired heart.

Because, really, I’m tired of this.*

 

Poem "Missing: God our Mother - Jessica Williams

Click here for audio of "Missing, God Our Mother" - Poem by Jessica Williams

 

MISSING: GOD OUR MOTHER

Jessica Williams

 

Mother God,

 

How did you become another missing Woman?

Lost amongst the multitude of men making meaning for us all.

 

You are the Substance holding all things together,

and in Your likeness I have been made.

 

In feminine form,

I embody,

an image of the living God.

 

(I need to say it again.)

 

In feminine form,

I embody,

an image of the living God.

 

(We need to say it again.)

 

Is it any wonder that Your daughters have lived in exile?

That we are lost and missing too?

 

But–

some of us,

some of us,

some of us

have noticed.

 

We ache at Your absence,

our tongues dry

and thirsty

for Your name on our lips.

 

We are waiting.

We were waiting.

We are waiting no more.

 

Now, we are searching.

We’ve gathered a team. (We’ll take anyone!)

The more the better for work like this.

 

With arms linked together

and lanterns lifted high,

we’re walking through the tall dark grass of ancient texts

to find You.

 

God our Maker,

God our Mother,

God our Father,

God our Friend,

 

Teach us.

 

Like children coming of age,

we are starting to see

how much we didn’t see.

 

Show us.

 

How You’ve longed to gather us,

our Holy Mother Hen,

and there beneath Your Wings of Love,

to comfort us again.

 

Feed us.

 

Like an Eagle or a Mother Bear,

nourish those in need.

And then,

like all Good Mothers. . .

 

Set us free.

Have Mercy On Me *The* Sinner – A Reflection by Jessica Williams

Have Mercy On Me The Sinner – A Reflection:

When Friday’s Clarion post hit my inbox my heart skipped a beat. “Me a Sinner – A Jesus Prayer Conversation.” I had been turning those very words around and around all week. Just the night before I’d written my thoughts out and sent them to a friend.

Within that letter arose a theme not unlike the conversation Brad and Andrew shared with us. My heart was asking an important question: “Is it okay to keep calling myself a sinner?”

It isn’t popular language.

Over the past year, the Jesus Prayer has become a precious mantra of mine. I have played with different ways of saying it but I mostly stick with the tradition. For me, the prayer brings my attention to the closeness of God and the companionship of Jesus who is with me, a sinner, pouring out mercy. I say this prayer most often when I am somehow stuck in the grip of my sinful condition. Usually this hits me in the form of severe self-doubt, shame/guilt and a felt unworthiness that can torment and paralyze. This prayer helps me to confess these thoughts and feelings rather than deny they exist, and then to accept the love and mercy that is there for me, and to move on. Moving on looks different at different times. Sometimes it only gets me moving into the next breath –and I say it again. But, I think this prayer is changing me. It is certainly changing the way I experience the compassion of Christ.

In his book The Orthodox Way, Bishop Kallistos Ware teaches that “in its literal meaning the Greek text is yet more emphatic, saying, ‘on me the sinner,’ as if I were the only one.”

My church is in the middle of finding a way to talk about things we disagree on. I’m really proud of them – of us. So often our diversity is left uncelebrated in faith communities, and we attempt to pretend that we are all the same. I see so much courage in what we are aiming to do in this season. But as the night approaches in which the topic most dear to my heart will be engaged, I find myself anxious and caught in the throes of frustration. As I’ve worked to gather my thoughts, the words of St. Paul to Timothy keep coming to me. “Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners – of whom I am the worst.” (1 Timothy 1:15)

When I read those words and when I say them – they ground me somehow. I am the sinner. I am the one in need of saving. Me.

Perhaps that is the place we need to begin.

In David Moore’s book, Making America Great Again, he points out that the Jesus prayer is not about humiliation but humility. He explains: “When I say these words, which is often, it reminds me of my place, my role within all humankind. It helps me with much-needed humility.”

When we offer these confessions and acknowledge our sin, it is not a denial of our innate worth, or of the glory of God in each of us, or of the ultimate healing and restoration of all things through Christ.

I think it is just a place we go within ourselves to meet with Mercy and Love.

And perhaps the more we go there, the more we become it too.

The (Un) Powerful Jesus, The Humanity of Christ - Jessica Williams

Did Jesus bleed untarnished gold?
No, the cleansing "precious flow" was his real human blood!  

        photo credit: Daniel Curran @storginar                     

Last Sunday I found myself thinking about the flip-side of a worship song. As our church belted out “What a powerful name it is, the name of Jesus,” I thought about how the name Jesus was completely common at the time. There was nothing special or unique about it.

Jesus was ordinary.

The early church fathers wrestled with how this could be true and decided that it must be: Jesus was completely human and Jesus was God.

These days, it is contemplating the humanity of Jesus that heals me. When I take the time to imaginatively look into the eyes of Christ, and there, to allow the compassion and love and solidarity of God being human to touch me, I find comfort.

Everything about my humanness becomes holy when I look at Jesus and remember that God embraced every part of it too.

It’s like a baptism of all things.

Are you weak, dependent, selfish, ashamed, jealous, forgotten, ordinary, bored, tempted, doubting, angry, mocked, lonely, anxious, desperate, tortured, suffering and dying?

God, too.

And I think that is powerful.

 

The (Un) Powerful Jesus - spoken word:

Click here to listen: Download The (Un) Powerful Jesus

 

The (Un) Powerful Jesus - text

Please,

Tell me about the human Jesus,

the nursing newborn,

weak and dependent

on his birth parents.

 

Tell me about the selfish Jesus,

the misbehaved boy, the unruly child, the storyteller,

scolded and scoffed at and scorned.

 

Please,

Tell me about the jealous Jesus,

the coming-of-age Jesus

who waited and ached

for his time to speak

in the temple to come.

 

Tell me about the forgotten Jesus,

all

those

years

of which nothing was written.

Tell me about the ordinary Jesus,

stuck in monotony,

heavy-eyed and bored of it all.

 

Please,

Tell me about the tempted Jesus,

the doubter of Love, of belonging, of place.

Speak of the man who felt his own hunger

and faced the seduction of power.

 

Tell me about the angry Jesus,

ranting again, causing a scene,

flipping tables and mocked

for such a display.

 

Please,

Tell me about the lonely Jesus,

whose friends didn’t get it,

no matter how many ways

he found to say it again.

 

Tell me about the desperate Jesus,

weeping in the garden and pleading

with God to spare him

-to find another way.

 

Tell me about the anxious Jesus,

the frantic son making post-death provisions for his mother

to go on living in the world without him.

 

Please,

tell me about the despairing Jesus,

the tortured one,

the innocent sufferer of the world’s injustice,

dying in darkness.

A poem for the fourth Sunday of Advent, A poem for Peace - Jessica Williams

 

A poem for the fourth Sunday of Advent, A poem for Peace.

 

Calm the voices \ quiet the sounds,

Christ is with us \ and Grace abounds.

 

Settle the sorrows \ still the soul,

Love is here \ and close to know.

 

Let it linger \ in the air,

God is coming \ low to care.

 

Revealing beauty \ declaring worth,

Love has come \ to all the Earth.

 

Like a mother\ bringing peace,

Love is mighty \ and will not cease.

 

Slowly teaching \ throughout all time,

The humble joy \ of Love divine.

 

As every child \ then and now,

Enthrones the Godhead \ again somehow.

A Poem for the third Sunday of Advent. A Poem for Joy. Jessica Williams

A soft snow fell steady this week,

adding layer after layer of winter-white

over trees, and sidewalks and city streets.

 

Over all things left unsheltered.

 

A gentle blanket of warmth was given,

a covering of comfort and care

for anything left opened

and exposed.

 

I watched in wonder

at the capacity of Creation

to touch and to welcome everything

with Beauty and Love.

 

A soft snow fell steady this week,

like a blanket of glory descending…

on Everyone.

A poem for the second week of Advent. A poem for Love. Jessica Williams

A poem for the second week of Advent. A poem for Love.

 

Last night I lit a candle

and watched it burn for Love

in the windowsill.

 

It burned

while sirens screamed

on Main Street in my town

–a violent sound.

 

It burned

while pastors prayed

for weak structures

to keep us safe

–from earthquakes.

 

It burned

while women wept

and reckoned with

the secrets that were kept.

 

It burned

while families seeking refuge

walked through wars

unceasing.

 

It burned

while hate was speaking

out its fear,

and grief was growing

ever near.

 

Last night I lit a candle

and watched it burn…

I watched it burn for Love

in the windowsill.

A Desperate Dark (a poem for the 1st Sunday of Advent. A poem for hope.) Jessica Williams

A Desperate Dark

(A poem for the first Sunday of Advent. A poem for hope.)

It’s a desperate dark that pulled us here,

we’ve been heaved ashore

crawling, cold and choking,

on salt,

and sand,

and water.

 

It’s a desperate dark that drew us here,

swimming toward a light

we saw briefly,

in the space between

–the tumult.

 

It’s a desperate dark that brought us here,

we lay soaked in sorrow,

for what was lost

in death-by-drowning

–at sea.

 

It’s a desperate, desperate dark.

 

It’s our desperate dark that pulled You here,

into a woman’s womb

heaved out

cold and choking

on water,

and salt,

and air.

 

It’s our desperate dark that drew You here,

undressing as You came,*

to briefly light

Love’s true form

–of weakness.

 

It’s our desperate dark that brought You here,

down into our waves

and ways of wounding

–and fear.

 

It’s our desperate, desperate dark that You are near.

 

*Herbert, George, The Bag. 

The Christ Hymn: A Revelation of the Kenotic Nature of God - by Jessica Williams

There is a heaviness within me as I approach this paper that is difficult to fully express. The current cultural landscape is loud. Many groups that have been systemically marginalized are crying out for allies and rallying for long awaited justice.[1] Power struggles between opposing groups are rampant amidst an outburst of pain that is being expressed in truth. I must confess that I often feel lost and like I don’t know what to do. It is an interesting moment in history to study self-emptying power and the humility of God. There was a time in my life when, as a “Christian,” I would have turned away from much of the pain and chaos in the world when it began to overwhelm me. In part, this was the outcome of a theology I was given that had taught me that this world was not my home. I could use this to detach myself from this place and I did.[2] In recent years I have come to understand how misguided this doctrine is.[3] This World is my home and I believe that it is God’s home too.

God making God’s home on earth is one of the central messages of my faith tradition. In the Bible, both the Old and New Testament begin with a message about the closeness of God in this World. Genesis tells a story in which the very hands of God mold and form humanity and the mouth of God kisses the mouth of man, breathing life into being.[4] The creation poem reveals an outflow of generosity that reflects the nature of the Divine Spirit as a God who gives. I like to think of creation as Goodness overflowing, lovingly creating the substance for all that is; land, sky, sea and every living creature within it. And it was all called good.[5]

CLICK HERE to download "The Christ Hymn A Revelation of the Kenotic Nature of God"

[1] I.e. Indigenous rights/sovereignty, refugees, immigrants, violence against women/#metoo, Black Lives Matter, LGBTQ+ and all minorities systemically oppressed by power.

[2] E.g. denial of pain/reality, self-numbing, not facing the truth.

[3] Escapist eschatology is often taught in the evangelical church as “The Rapture.” N.T. Wright says this, “In fact, don’t believe most of what you read about the Rapture. Many Christians, particularly in North America, have been taught for the last century and a half that when Jesus returns he will come down from “heaven” and that his faithful people (i.e., Christians) will then fly upward into the sky to meet him and be taken to heaven with him forever. Books, movies, a million radio and TV shows, and tens of millions of sermons have drilled this picture into the popular imagination. Indeed, for some people today the Rapture is more or less the center of their faith. But it’s a complete misunderstanding. It’s based on a misreading of what Paul says about the return of Jesus in 1 Thessalonians 4:14–17, just four verses, with the idea of a “rapture” in only one, as the basis for a complete theory of everything:” N.T. Wright, Simply Jesus: A New Vision of Who He Was, What He Did, and Why It Matters (HarperCollins, 2011).

[4] Gen. 2:7, NASB.

[5] Gen. 1:31, NASB.

Confession’s Crown - Poem by Jessica Williams

Confession’s Crown

When you spoke of self-love

I did not know what it meant.

I’d caught only glimpses of this—

and I’d resist.

 

But a light had shimmered across the surface of my heart…

Revealing that Love was real.

 

It sparkled so beautifully—

I longed for more.

 

Yet, it did not penetrate

and I wondered why this longing kept ending in such despair.

 

So for years I simply swam in this water.

I learned how to float,

and, how to hold my breath to go deeper sometimes…

I practiced.

 

It was lovely there, exploring Love,

but it wasn’t enough.

 

Then one day,

You led me down,

meter-by-meter,

to the deep dark bottom of my soul.

 

All those years I had tried to escape this place,

to stay afloat.

Terrified by what it meant—

that I was not wholly good.

 

But, slowly, in the depths of this water,

I looked at everything that I had done.

 

And there, in the truth of my transgressions,

I found myself.

 

It was (eventually) a strange relief.

 

To face myself and say—

It is true:  

the blood is on my hands too.

 

You stayed with me,

and simply let it be.

 

Because, it was.

This was me.

 

Then suddenly the floor of my own heart gave way,

as if a holy drill had been working all along,

deepening everything I’d ever known.

 

I discovered there that Love is limitless,

and that when I sink down into the depths of myself,

Love will come.

 

As if She’d always been there

--waiting.

 

The answer became strangely simple:

Love could not reveal herself to me where I was not.

 

I learned that I had more power than I’d ever known.

My own self-acceptance was the mystery key.

 

It unlocked everything.

Annunciation, Incarnation and Help (Angels, Jesus and Doulas for All) - Jessica Williams

JESSICA WILLIAMS is a poet and qualified birth doula (@villarosainc / @birthrootsdoula) based in Winnipeg.

She is also a graduate student in theology at St Stephen's University in New Brunswick. 

She gave this message at the Winnipeg Centre Vineyard.

"If you have deep questions or doubts, trust them until they bring you to a God you can worship."

To listen to the message: 

Jessica May 14 2017

The Powerpoint file can be viewed here: Download Annunciation Incarnation and Help

The PDF file can be viewed here: Download Annunciation Incarnation and Help 

When Jesus Came into the World - Jessica Williams

When Jesus came into the world he came as God in skin.

He came human.

Like you and like me.

 

When Jesus came into the world he came as a baby birthed

and then placed on the chest of a woman.

Let’s contemplate the gift of a baby-Jesus.

 

When Jesus came into the world he came vulnerable

and in need.

He was carried and fed and nurtured and loved by us.

 

When Jesus came into the world he came first as one who receives.

He received from our humanity –from our displaced manger homes.

He received us, and it restored us.

 

Could it be his first miracle?

The first act of redemption?

A holy restoration begins here-

when the Christ-child is placed into arms like mine.

 

When Jesus came into the world he showed us what is possible.

He came as a son and he called me a daughter.

He is Jesus, our brother.

 

This Jesus.

Let’s bring this Jesus to the world.

 

The Jesus who invites the tax collector back into hospitality.

The Jesus who sees.

The Jesus who stops for the bleeding woman, freed from her suffering.

The Jesus who weeps.

 

He didn’t draw lines, make borders or limits and urges us to do the same.

 

This Jesus.

Let’s bring this Jesus to the world.

Because, when this Jesus comes into our world he returns us to ourselves.

He meets us at the well of our wandering and tells us who we are.

He bends down to write in the dust of our shame and he meets our eyes with grace.

This Jesus stretches wide the margins of our hearts letting all be gathered in

 

as this story is birthed again and again.

 

Church, let’s deliver this Jesus to the world.

-----

Jessica Williams is a poet from Winnipeg, Canada and a grad student at St. Stephen's University in New Brunswick. She shares this poem to a class on "Pauline themes through the Eyes of the Early Church Fathers."

"I am from ..." - spoken word poetry by Jessica Williams

I AM FROM ...

I am from underground forts and starry night skies

tree climbing 50 feet to the top.

I am from dusty dirt roads and waiting. 

I am from Aunt Sally’s House with homemade cookies and “Would you like to stay?”

“Yes.”

I am from wildflower bouquets and constant wishing on petals or pennies or prayers.

I am from “When your mom gets better she will come back for you" and “You’re not my 

daughter anyway.”

I am from pine needles and wind storms and rain.

Washington State.

I am from berry picking for pies and raking the leaves.

I am from wood stoves for heat and itchy arms full of logs for the fire.

I am from night time chores and can’t-see-in-the-dark trips to the compost 

heart-thumping-alone.

I am from self soothing to sleep and master bedrooms locked.  

I am from loud silence.

I am from “I’ll give you something to cry about" and “Sorry isn’t good enough.” 

I am from pretty church dresses and a dollar for the offering.

I am from “Why can’t more kids be like you?” and the Sunday School van.  

I am from repeating dreams of a heaven full of strangers and a paralyzing fear that I will be there alone.

I am from playing in the yard and my mother appears.

From a i r. 

From God.

From California.

I am from now you see her now you don’t and

I 

feel 

nothing.

I am from summer trips to Sacramento 

my unsafe birthplace. 

I am from swimming pools and palm trees and mom’s too high to stay awake.

I wait.

I am from heroin in any form at any cost and she can't get enough.

I am from parole officers and drug tests and "I need you to pee in this cup for me."

I am from “Look at her!” and “You’re so big!” and the parade is over when I go home again.

I am from “You’re so lucky you have your aunt" and “You’re a spoiled brat.”

I am from fits of rage and public punishments.

Shame.

I am from "If you don't like it here you can leave" and then one day I do.

I am from running away and “can I live with you?”

I am from protective custody and moving to a foster home.

I am from “She looks just like a porcelain doll" and “Which room do you want, sweetie?”

I am from 2000 sit ups a day, bruises on my spine and trying not to eat.

I am from youth group and "I love Jesus" written on my jeans.

I am from modest dress and “Godly girls submit.”

I am from conservative small town America and a few good liberals get under my skin.

They win.

I am from Mr. Krupp's English class, root words and Shakespeare.

I am from asking hard questions and reading good books and writing it out.

I am from The Colour Purple and Things Fall Apart just in time.

Informed, transformed.

Just before I leave where I am from.

I'm in a small boat on a raging sea - Poetry by Jessica Williams with Krista Heide

I’m in a small boat on a raging sea.   

And it is hard to believe in Jesus. 

I’ve never seen him -- you know? I have this Sunday-School picture that is stuck in my head but I’m sure it’s not what He looked like. And was He really born of a virgin? Was God a baby? Was he crucified? Is he coming back? This -- is our faith.  Jesus, he did these things, he turned water to wine, he healed the sick and raised the dead. But -- none of us were there.  I didn’t see it.  

I’m in a small boat on a raging sea.

The waves are big and full of all things. 

The brokenness of this world. Girls made into product, stolen and sold, boys sent to war, corruption, greed, violence, abuse, addiction, poverty, politics, pain, religion, racism, rape, starvation, slavery, sickness, shootings  -- all around us.

I’m in a small boat on a raging sea.

The kingdom is now/not yet, illusive and hard to grasp.

I see it and I don’t see it.  It’s but a poor reflection.

I’m in a small boat on a raging sea.  

"Small Boat in a Raging Sea" - Krista Heide

And, listen:  This boat is made from the trees of my youth, my home. Which is both comforting and haunting all at once. My foundation is weathered wood and it holds my story, where I’ve been, this wood matters. There are many weak places beneath me and they make sense of this fear in my heart.

I’m in a small boat on a raging sea. 

So, if Jesus were in this boat with me?  The man, Jesus.  I confess even then I am sure I would still freak out. Look at that sea! Jesus is just a man and we all know that some men abandon the ship. The waves are crashing here and it is obvious that I am at risk of dying any second so my question is this: 

Does He not care that we are perishing? 

Am I loved as I ask it?  

Because, for some reason the only thing that has ever helped this doubt in me is saying it. I have to speak it out. I believe and I disbelieve so if you ask me to only believe I will not make it. But if you can listen to my fear, if I can hand it to you, I will find that inner place of rest. My own sleeping Jesus. And I will see that He in this boat with me will be enough.

But, I will only find my yes after all these no’s have been spoken making room in my lungs to breathe in hope. This doubt leads the way to faith. Slowly, pulls me close enough to understand that if Jesus didn’t care about this raging sea I’m in he wouldn’t be here with me. But he is. He is Emmanuel. He is God with us. And I will know it as I doubt it.

I’m in a small boat on a raging sea.

 

-Jessica Williams is a poet and Krista Heide is an artist, both from Winnipeg, Canada and are currently graduate students in theology at St. Stephen's University in New Brunswick.