Urban Bird: 9-20-2016

observed a small bird,
mouth a-gape,
on searing asphalt parking pavement;
an urban bird,
hopping toward the hope of
unseen water, shade--
so much like me!

Molly's blessing. . .

People often question, sometimes lecture, and express concern that the work we do at CitySquare is "not really about faith."  I suppose people think that because we make none of our services, activities or initiatives dependent upon our neighbors being involved in overtly religious activities.  Like all of our various activities, everything here is based on the complete freedom of our neighbors to choose what they desire to take advantage of. 

What people with these concerns don't understand is that faith lives on the streets and in the poorest ghettos in the inner city. . .and I do mean "lives." 

A few weeks ago, a very frail and troubled woman handed me a piece of paper that I've been carrying in my pocket ever since she passed it my way.  We'll call her "Molly" here. 

Molly deals with severe bi-polar disorder, and possibly schizophrenia.  She doesn't talk about faith much, but she knows I'm a minister.  Possibly she wrote the note because of her faith, or possibly because of mine, with the note being a gift she thought I would appreciate.  Either way, I consider the act very spiritual. 

Here's what Molly wrote:

Lord Jesus, bless my friend
the spirit of joy and happiness
to all who are in your care and
help the will of God's SON who
save all our lives
forever
for only Love not hate

As I've said so often, the witness comes back more powerfully than it can be offered from here.

Love's Mystery

Love, planted in every heart,

Present only to bravely, faithfully extend blessing in
A world of pain and isolation, brings whole healing.

Love, designed to be received more than given,
Once embraced to the full, fuels
Great, passionate living.

But, the mysterious key to ecstasy
Discovered, understood only in being
Open.

Exactly as the Creator, in extending and in receiving.

Lew Welch

THE SONG MT. TAMALPAIS SINGS

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Human movements,

but for a few,

are Westerly.

Man follows the Sun.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Or follows what he thinks to be the

movement of the Sun.

It is hard to feel it, as a rider,

on a spinning ball.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Centuries and hordes of us,

from every quarter of the earth,

now piling up,

and each wave going back

to get some more.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

"My face is the map of the Steppes,"

she said, on this mountain, looking West.

My blood set singing by it,

to the old tunes,

Irish,

among these Oaks.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Once again we celebrate the great Spring Tides.

Beaches are strewn again with Jasper,

Agate, and Jade.

The Mussel-rocks stand clear.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

Once again we celebrate the

Headland's huge, carin-studded fall

into the Sea.

This is the last place. There is nowhere else to go.

For we have walked the jeweled beaches

at the feet of the final cliffs

of all Man's wanderings.

This is the last place

There is nowhere else to go.