Sacrament Poems
Sermon
Dancing The Sacraments
Sermons And Worship Services For Baptism And Communion
The Gift Of Baptism
At baptism I was given a gift,
wrapped in words and water,
the gift of faith,
beautifully boxed in dogma and doctrine,
packaged in sacred story and song.
Too young to open it,
they gave me the husk without the seed.
As the years rolled by I forgot the gift,
until one day,
searching for wrappings
to cover a fresh wound,
to keep the poison out
lest it become infected,
I found the gift, bequeathed to me.
Now old enough to open it,
I took it out and put it on,
that gift of faith.
I wore it
and it fit.
Take, Eat
Take, eat
the presence of God
in a loaf of life on a table
in the center of broken community.
In a golden wheat field
somewhere in Iowa or Kansas,
sacrificed to the plow,
cremated at the mill,
resurrected in the oven.
The whole body gather to take the bread,
memorial to an ancient creed
of service, support, and sustenance,
a broken Christ,
crucified, entombed and resurrected.
Take, eat, this is the presence of God.
Hungry
Hungry
for something more,
the heart set out.
Seeking
the precious pearl,
the golden grail,
the bread and wine,
it stumbled over the poem
on the path,
words that fed the soul
with reasons reason did not know.
Eating the words
we became them,
the bread and wine of God.
In Your Countenance
In your countenance, Lord,
I take communion every day.
In your smile I taste the bread,
In your hug I drink the wine,
I toast the universe,
And thank you for the sacred story
That feeds my spirit.
In your presence
Christ hands me the cup and the bread
And says, "Take, eat; this is my body
Given for you." Amen.
Where The Word Is Spoken
Where the word is spoken
The bread broken,
All our words are broken words.
For it is on the edges of error
We see most clearly
The majesty of the mystery
Of God. And our adoration,
And their illumination
Of change become
Incarnation.
Supper For All
Sometimes a woman stands up
from the table and the dishes,
and the glasses, and steps
out of her wifely "duties,"
into the world,
leaving the supper,
because of a call somewhere
in the world
And her children stand up and applaud
with thanksgiving for their freedom
from her example,
her risk, her joy,
and follow her
into the world
to the tune of their own calling,
Then the woman returns to the table
and supper for all,
for the world.
The "table" refers both to where she is in her life and to leaving the communion table ... to go out into the world to make "supper for all."
The Hungry Heart
When the red grapes hang swollen
with summer song at Casaloste,
I long for their Source,
knowing their Destination.
"This is my blood,"
he said, lifting the cup.
My cup runs over and over
the green pines and vines,
the layers and layers of Tuscan hills,
as I watch the swallows fly,
cramming my eyes
with glistening grapes,
wet with sudden rain,
listening with my hungry heart.
At baptism I was given a gift,
wrapped in words and water,
the gift of faith,
beautifully boxed in dogma and doctrine,
packaged in sacred story and song.
Too young to open it,
they gave me the husk without the seed.
As the years rolled by I forgot the gift,
until one day,
searching for wrappings
to cover a fresh wound,
to keep the poison out
lest it become infected,
I found the gift, bequeathed to me.
Now old enough to open it,
I took it out and put it on,
that gift of faith.
I wore it
and it fit.
Take, Eat
Take, eat
the presence of God
in a loaf of life on a table
in the center of broken community.
In a golden wheat field
somewhere in Iowa or Kansas,
sacrificed to the plow,
cremated at the mill,
resurrected in the oven.
The whole body gather to take the bread,
memorial to an ancient creed
of service, support, and sustenance,
a broken Christ,
crucified, entombed and resurrected.
Take, eat, this is the presence of God.
Hungry
Hungry
for something more,
the heart set out.
Seeking
the precious pearl,
the golden grail,
the bread and wine,
it stumbled over the poem
on the path,
words that fed the soul
with reasons reason did not know.
Eating the words
we became them,
the bread and wine of God.
In Your Countenance
In your countenance, Lord,
I take communion every day.
In your smile I taste the bread,
In your hug I drink the wine,
I toast the universe,
And thank you for the sacred story
That feeds my spirit.
In your presence
Christ hands me the cup and the bread
And says, "Take, eat; this is my body
Given for you." Amen.
Where The Word Is Spoken
Where the word is spoken
The bread broken,
All our words are broken words.
For it is on the edges of error
We see most clearly
The majesty of the mystery
Of God. And our adoration,
And their illumination
Of change become
Incarnation.
Supper For All
Sometimes a woman stands up
from the table and the dishes,
and the glasses, and steps
out of her wifely "duties,"
into the world,
leaving the supper,
because of a call somewhere
in the world
And her children stand up and applaud
with thanksgiving for their freedom
from her example,
her risk, her joy,
and follow her
into the world
to the tune of their own calling,
Then the woman returns to the table
and supper for all,
for the world.
The "table" refers both to where she is in her life and to leaving the communion table ... to go out into the world to make "supper for all."
The Hungry Heart
When the red grapes hang swollen
with summer song at Casaloste,
I long for their Source,
knowing their Destination.
"This is my blood,"
he said, lifting the cup.
My cup runs over and over
the green pines and vines,
the layers and layers of Tuscan hills,
as I watch the swallows fly,
cramming my eyes
with glistening grapes,
wet with sudden rain,
listening with my hungry heart.
