Friday, March 31, 2017

A living hope

A friend of mine in California is reading 1 and 2 Peter this year. Only 1 and 2 Peter. He is focusing his heart on what the Spirit might be saying to him through these two books.
He inspires me. So in my morning exercises on the elliptical machine, I’m reading 1 Peter. Over and over and over. It actually makes the exercise less painful, keeps me from ticking off the minutes. This morning I read the first chapter in English, Spanish, Portuguese and Aymara, all while running nine laps around the football field. (Pardon me, but I feel so virtuous!)
I’ve noticed some interesting things:
1)      ---The book clearly presents the Trinity: “…chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father, through the sanctifying work of the Spirit, to be obedient to Jesus Christ….”
2)      ---Like James, Peter talks about the Father who gives us new birth. I find that fascinating. A father who gives birth. It shows the inadequacy of our anthropomorphic images of God. Both Father and Mother, but neither the one nor the other. Mystery.
3)      ---I love the “living” references: a “living hope” (1:3), the “living word” (1:23), the “Living Stone” (2:4) and us as “living stones” (2:5) in a spiritual house.
Especially the living hope. Right now in the middle of the break-up of Northwest Yearly Meeting, hope is hard to grab ahold of. What is a living hope?
Spirit, sow that kind of hope in me.
Here’s an old poem, come back to help me now.

Meditation on 1 Peter 1:3-4
Rooted in red-rich dirt,
resurrection soil,
my hope is a green and living thing:
a wide willow
offering respite from summer’s heat;
a blossoming sorrel
left to surprise squirrels and deer mice;
a licorice fern.
It has texture and hue;
real edges define it;
its roots are credible.
Tiny fingers stroke moisture/life
from ground.
Each single cell drinks light and air,
releases an energy green and good.
My hope is a young sequoia.
Slender now,
its trunk will thicken
in a larger garden--
a sure inheritance.
My hope enriches Eden’s slopes.

1 comment:

  1. The dogwood tree (Virginia's State flower) outside my window is blocking my view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Spring rains and abundant summer sunshine have overdone it this year. I want to cut it back, contain it, bring it down to a convenient size. What does this mean in light of your poem? I don't know why the two are in conversation with each other. Hope is such a complex word isn't it?

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