I see him, mariner Jesus, walking on corrupted waters of the Danube while down in silted depths lurk the unexploded bombs of lately wars; I walk out, hand in hand with the poem, crossing on the high redemption bridge, to earth corrupted by tar and concrete, where down in the darkly shiftless soil words crawl, eyeless and eager. Between sleep and day, light and black, I grow conscious of compelling truths— but something in the ego-wassailing of flesh compels me back to comfort, and something in the slippery eel-mud of the mind eases towards sleep, though always Jesus plods on over all the corrupted waters heading for the unforgiving hill, for his piercing cry of forgiveness out-into-the-outraged world.
I am writing a sermon on Matthew 14: 22-33,
the passage wherein Jesus invites Peter to get out of the boat and walk
on the water with him…in the midst of a storm. Peter has always seemed
to me to be the naïve, overeager, overachiever type.
The lectionary reading from Matthew's Gospel is the story of
Jesus walking on the Sea of Galilee in the midst of a storm. In a couple of
decades, anyone will be able to cross the Sea of Galilee on foot because of
The worst haircut I ever received was a $7 special at a local salon. I was in my thirties and my hair was thick and curly, the kind of hair that could hide a multitude of styling sins—but not after the $7 special. It was short in back and uneven in front, with tufts sticking out in random places. I looked like I had mange.