When we have shouted ourselves hoarse
and returned home from the parade,
forgive our wavering commitment to love.

When we have finished our hymns
and departed from the comforts of worship,
forgive our fickle faithfulness.

When we have passed the plate of bread
and swept up all the last crumbs,
forgive our refusal to extend sanctuary.

When we have draped flowers on the altar
and bathed in their perfume of death,
forgive our neglect of our neighbors’ suffering.

And when we have waited through the night
and paced all day in disappointed prayer,
forgive our denial of your revelation.

cross-posted at RevGalBlogPals


I don’t have the whole tree
but I have a branch.

I don’t have the whole song
but I have a harmony.

I don’t have the whole ocean
but I have a stream.

I don’t have the whole wardrobe
but I have a coat.

I don’t have the whole garden
but I have a flower.

Hosanna to the Holy Everything
who accepts our fragments.

Blessed is the Stunning Sovereign
who loves our specks & dust.


“I love you,” I shout,
because I don’t know
if I can be faithful.

“Here’s my coat,” I offer,
because I’m not certain
that I would give my life.

“Hosanna in the highest,” I sing,
because I doubt there will be
good news worth singing tomorrow.

“Blessed is the one who comes,” I cheer,
because I don’t remember the last time
anyone bore the presence of God among us.

Holy Jesus, my doubt is as obvious as my faith (perhaps more so), my joy never quite masks my sorrow, and my hopes are thin palms that sway easily in a breeze. Have you come to rescue me from the fear that sends love into quick retreat? Have you come to make God known forever so I cannot get lost? Have you come to pour out grace until at last my heart beats in peace? I would promise to be faithful and strive to give my full life if only you will stay with me always. Please stay, Jesus.


cross-posted at RevGalBlogPals

Palm Sunday

For today at least, let us spare these rocks the trouble of shouting:

“Blessed are you, O Christ,
sent by God and sent of God,
and blessed are we to lay our praises
before you like cloaks on the ground.

Blessed is the dust on your feet
for its knowledge of your ways;
blessed is the touch of your hand
to those humble before your power;
and blessed are the ears that plant
your word like a seed in their hearts.

May heaven be at peace with us
because of your grace!
May glory be given to God
because of your love!”

on Luke 19:37-40

Palm Sunday

Palm branches stretch wide in joyful honor,
their praises rooted deep in the soil:
life sprung from the richness of ashes,
a shower of leaves falling, returning to dust,
our humanity on full and foolish parade:
with each breath of hosannas
our best ovation to God’s glory and
our highest hopes for an easy salvation.
Let the rocks give their uncomplicated praise
but we bring the glory of our mortality —
ringing with life coated in dust and
with ashes that form and fashion life’s beauty
— all in adoration to the One on a donkey
who delights and disappoints us,
who meets us as we sing boisterously,
who walks with us as the palms crumble to ash.