A Berlin monastic church of blood
shed by true witnesses to freedom’s love:
These few who stood against the flood
of hate from tyrants they rebuffed.

Not far from here, these martyrs were killed
for facing down the brownshirts’ might,
in hopes that all would someday be filled
with the will to live for love’s delight.

Here Mary sits with her holy child,
carved of warm wood, set on cold stone.
She bears an expression, calm and mild,
with nothing around them: alone.

Her robes are daubed in palest blue
while her hair with a golden crown is wed;
her baby son wears redder hues
that foreshadow blood he and his martyrs shed.

This blessèd Mary’s calm defies the fear
decreed by despots in past and present years —
Softly, she whispers her granite will: Defy
all tyranny ’til hate’s tides subside.

Why do I fear what is near
Tears through our rain
Count down every year
Why do we yearn for our dear
To hear a call as we fall
As l ascend to heaven you are here
When I make my bed you are here
The ten command
That were too harsh for man
Why must you demand
Perfect holy land
Once as hopeless as Lilith
Did I not know my limit
Enlighten me in my consciousness
Ground me in the presence
Allure my affluence
For my third eye left me with such penury
Grant me mercy
For my surface mind gave me spiritual insight
From the root to my crown
Do not let me drown
In pits that are lit
Why must I question what ill see
Beauty isn't something we fear
Temptation is clear in the deception
Our guardians are indescribable
Our wrongs will be held liable
What if I turn over the bible
Will you bury me in my affidavit
For there is good in my intuitive belief
I never guess what time will read
I never question what is beneath
A God that we have yet seen
I never question life within my eyes
Our time will come with such delirious demise

In a cathedral of stone, stark and white,
with a lone statue from long before.
It stands in a niche, with a soft spotlight
shining on its medieval decor.

A ****** Mary, with her Mona Lisa smile,
looks down from her pedestal high.
In quiet, I stand and gaze at her for a while.
Did I just hear her audibly sigh?

Her gilded robes are weathered, cracked,
the once bright paint’s faded and spare,
many scars made plain by shadows cast
by a red circle of candles lit by prayers.

What crises has this scarred Mary seen?
Her sighs echo ours: This statue’s hallowed
by the pains the prayerful to her bring.
I hail thee, marred Mary, full of our sorrows.

Two thousand years and miles away
a foretold child was to poverty born.
A tyrant willed to keep his sway
and murdered children in his scorn.

The child would live to preach a love
that surpasses the smallness of our minds;
The despot now dwells in a dim-lit grove
of shattered urns and skeletal time.

That child became a man of words
which fell upon unhearing ears —
They twist his love to sharpened swords.
To a tree he’d be nailed: hyssop tears.

Yet though he too had died alone
like the despot who’d hunted him,
his message of love has only grown
in spite of new despots grim.

A tale of two kings in memory:
One turned to dust, one love’s victory.

On a church, Mother Mary gazes up high
with her saving babe on her stone arm.
On her alabaster face: a cryptic smile
that has its own fine chiseled charm.

While I stand in the old town’s cobblestone street,
my mind sees me in a far distant place.
The visions I see speak of defeat,
a void that devours all grace.

I see myself floating in a brittle wood boat
with sails torn to shreds by the storms.
Frantically I toil to stay afloat,
tossed by black waves which ebb and reform.

Her disk halo of gold shines out in the dark,
glinting to those who sail by.
I ask her: tell me what can give me a spark
to let me soar up into the sky.

She offers no answer in so many words
and just smiles on, stonily serene.
In her silence is where her answer is heard,
a quiet reply — I know just what she means.

The rock of her tells me what I must hear:
No need to soar nor fly nor flee.
Let black tides flow past me ‘til they clear.
Like this old pale statue, just simply be.

I don't know how many people have been in love; I mean truly, madly, deeply, hopelessly in love. I thought I was once. When you are that in love it changes you inside and out. It changes how you think, act, and what you say. It changes the way you feel, how you look at things, how you spend your time and money. Being in love changes you, usually for the better. Love forces us to think of someone else's wants and needs before our own. We make sacrifices in big and small ways to make the relationship work. It is a give and take, talking and listening and it is open and honest communication. A relationship is a dialogue not a monologue.

Loving someone changes a lot, but loving God and being in a relationship with Him changes EVERYTHING.

Working from the belief that you believe in the stories; you can't stay the same. You can't truly live your old life when you know The Life. The apostles were the perfect example. They weren't great men, particularly smart or famous, but when they saw Jesus, they dropped what they were doing and followed him. Then imagine the Transfiguration and the impact that that moment had on the apostles. This was the transforming love of God made manifest: He was radiant like honest-to-God glowing. It hits like a ton of bricks if you begin to understand the magnitude and the scope of His death and resurrection. How can one heart love that much?! And this fact is especially hard given the knowledge and experiences we have in the world we know today!

And then the most intimate and profound act of love is the gift of the Eucharist which comes from the words meaning grateful, thanksgiving, well and offer graciously. Kharis is the Greek word for Grace.

Catholics believe that the bread and wine at the mass are transformed in essence although not necessarily in substance to the body and blood, soul and divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ. In the reception of the Eucharist, God's ultimate gift of love is revealed and shared with us as he gives us his very life. And we consume him in a profoundly physical and spiritual way. We are literally uniting with Christ and the two become one in body and soul. It is the most perfect expression of love's life-giving power. Christ marries (joins) himself to us.

When you have something so good, so amazing, you can't keep it to yourself. You just have to share it and tell all the world about it. You are in love, and you are loved. You are loved by God and THIS... CHANGES EVERYTHING!

Listen to the world around you
Take in all that it has to offer
Tune out the distractions of life
Tune in to the love of God in creation
Listen to the song of life and love
Feel the Spirit move in the air
And for a moment just be present, aware
There is more to this life we are living
We can be giving, we can be forgiving
We can find peace and joy when we stop
Or even if we just start to slow down
We are chasing after shadows
Insubstantial projections of what is really real
If you're not careful, your soul they will steal
So listen and let the Spirit surround you
So listen and let the love of God enfold you
So listen and let peace pervade you
So Listen

This man he is writing, writing in the sand
But the what and the why, I cannot understand
They condemn me and he bends down in the dirt,
Does he even care that I'm going to be hurt?
"Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone"
I look around and not one rock has been thrown
Once more he gets down and starts to write
I can't explain it, but somehow I feel like I'll be alright
One by one they start to leave, their stones left untouched
Stopped by a man whose only response was writing in the dust.
The elders leave first, and slowly, each go home
Until it is He and I standing there all alone.
What could he write that caused them to leave?
Here was a story none could explain and few could believe
He rose, turned to me, and said:
"Where are they who would have you dead?"
"They are left. They are no longer here"
The wind came and whatever he wrote had disappeared
"They do not condemn you. Neither, my child, do I.
Go now and sin no more in the grace of the Most High"
This man has given me a new life, a second chance
The man who looks at me with such a loving glance
I know not what he wrote or why he even cared
But from a stranger's kindness, my life was spared
So here I stand this day, this very moment
To witness to the power of atonement
So let me live as his word commands
And pay the price that true love demands
The wisdom of a stranger's writings in the sand

up until you are four feet tall
you think you're gonna be the next ****** mary;

every day you comb your hair with soap-dry fingers
and dress up like the sky.
you practice raising your hand and using it
to press the cumulonimbus waiting between your lips
gently down your throat;
you practice being clear;
you practice cursive till it's circuitry

at lunch, you fold airplanes with precision,
cover them in crayon script and
throw them toward the floaters
in your vision, past birches
and the pale afternoon moon.
your worst will dive to a floor stained with pizza grease;
your best will only sit indefinitely
on the reachless windowsill
of the school cafeteria

you and your best friend
practice getting married at recess,
gathering dandelions and buttercups into sloppy bouquets
till she gets stung by a bee
and is led inside through gray hallways.
you play statue on the grass in a dark green jumper
and look for white clovers while you wait for the bell

your third grade teacher has you
dressing 'venial sin' and 'mortal sin'
in lemon-scented ink that burns your lips
but not the page;
it makes you taste petrichor
writhing in your teeth, hear downpours
against the wild soil of your esophagus and cheeks,
and in a few years you'll try to bury your guilt
with acorns deep in that sandy ground

you're used to laying upside-down on your bed
wondering if jesus ever lied to mary and joseph
about climbing trees under bethlehem's star,
if he let their branches color
his books green, his hands purple.
you wonder if it's sinful
to scar notebooks how you do, how he did:
quiet, inhaling--

--

at five and a half feet tall, you still feel
like how jesus' notebooks probably weren't:

you allow the dots on your i's to dangle too far to the left,
your clothes and hair and sky to be scorched
by prism fragments and setting suns

and, sometimes, you let the clouds between your lips talk for you,
and, sometimes, every syllable is a promise from god after the flood

but sometimes you kneel in back pews
and recite a tenth hail mary
and think about whether she ever held a hand
that was stained yellow from the petals of palm-warmed flowers:

and sometimes you're blank again

Crosses still hang
as remnants of the past
Reminders of old traditions.
Only few years have gone,
but /decades/ Says her heart.

The life they gave grows older,
No longer sewn to the Mother.
The hope and faith in their eyes
dimmed in her years past,
So while the crosses still hang
It seems they’ve lost all meaning
For the Mother and their beliefs
died with her youth.