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“Do this in remembrance of me,”
       Jesus told his disciples during their
       final meal together.
To “remember” Jesus is not simply
      to experience fond memories
      and tender emotions:

Those were the days, were they not?
Let us toast their memory!

It is not simply to recollect the events
of that evening. This memorializing is
anamnesis, to recreate, reenact and
reanimate the drama of Jesus’ life:
       •to enter into his passion and
              character;
       •to love whom he loved and
              confront whom he confronted;
       •to be animated by the same vocation;
       •to be turned and churned, even
             spurned, in like manner;
       •to be similarly authorized—and
              stigmatized;
       •to be implicated in his mission
              and thus in his fate.

And to encounter first-hand the
resurrecting power that rolled
the stone from his tomb and
continues to overpower all
subsequent seals of death.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org.

It has been said: Our weakness is our only claim on Jesus. “Come to me,
you who are weary. . . . For my yoke is light” (Mt. 11:28, 30).

“Aha!” you say. “Just as I suspected. What God really wants is to keep
us subservient and dependent! On our knees, rather than on our own
two feet. This religion business is nothing more than a form of social
control—with leaders, pretending to speak for God, slyly bolstering
their own exploiting power.”

If that were true, I would say: This “Master” must die if we are to find
our freedom. This “God” is nothing but a pimp and his disciples are
but hustlers.

But something else is at stake—something so subtle that it cannot be
said directly but only ironically.

Rather than slavery, this “weakness” is the key to freedom,
       to strength,
       to security and
       to maturity.
Acknowledging weakness means abandoning self-absorbed life:
•being full of ourselves is what makes prodigals of us all;
       •service to the god of maximum return is what perpetuates poverty;
       •confidence in the redemptive power of violence is what authorizes
           the gods of vengeance;
       •obsession with security is the engine of enmity and the impetus
           to impotence.

Confession is arduous and inconvenient precisely because we must
first grow “weary” of these illusions of power. Exhaustion ushers us to
the door of weakness and weariness—and, for those with eyes to see, a
Way opens to deliverance.

        It was said of Jesus that he relinquished privilege, embraced
weakness, took the form of a servant—all for the sake of restoring
God’s Beloved Community (cf. Phil. 2:6-8). To be a follower of Jesus
is to enter the same drama. Such weakness includes:
       •the choice of suffering love over violent justice;
       •the commitment to sustained presence among the abandoned
           and the abused;
       •the willingness to learn how to love enemies, however close at
           hand or far away;
       •the redemptive embrace of the whole created order.

So let us enter this confessional with weary boldness. We confess
our wanton ways, our prodigal journeys.

In your extravagant welcome, Christ have mercy.

We confess our timid and passionless pursuit of your Promise.

In your extravagant welcome, Christ have mercy.

Merciful Mother, Forgiving Father, make us brothers of compassion
and sisters of grace.

In your extravagant welcome, Christ have mercy.
Pardon our wandering feet and our wanton hearts.

In your extravagant welcome, restore us to your Redemptive Home,
to your Refreshing Presence, and to our reconciling mission. Forgive,
that we may be forgivers.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Inspired by the story of the “prodigal son,” Luke 15:11-32.

Weep, oh my soul,
with tears painful and public:
when life abandons ardor for order;
when the demand for sober security

upstages the generative prospect of passion;
when the birthright of fertile charism
is bartered for a ration of bridled expedience.
The blessed struggle—¡Buena lucha!—is upon us.

The City of Promise
is bathed in the tears of the Beloved
      —would that you knew,
            would that you knew—
who cries not in indignation or threat

but in persevering confidence
that this season of coercion
will be exhausted from its taunting
of the One who knows no revenge.

For this donkey-mounted Messiah
rejects all messianic folly
with announcement of an Empire
subverting all imperial ambition.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. 2006 Holy Week meditation on Luke 19:41:
“And when he drew near and saw the city he wept over it, saying
Would that you knew the things that make for peace.’”
In memory of William Sloan Coffin (June 1, 1924 – April 12, 2006)

May you store up patience, for life is not always kind,
and you need to persevere.
     Remember that regret is not the last word.

Despite life’s disregard, the last word is this:
           One day every cup will overflow.

May you store up affection, for sometimes the heart
grows cold, and you need to persevere.
     Remember that bitterness is not the last word.

Despite every cold-hearted season, the last word is this:
          One day the sun’s warm embrace will thaw every
                brittle grimace.

May you store up mercy, for life is not always gentle,
and you need to persevere.
     Remember that enmity is not the last word.

Despite life’s brutal stain, the last word is this:
           One day pardon will trump vengeance.

May you store up forgiveness, for life is not always charitable.
     Remember that judgment is not the last word.

Despite all cruel reproach, the last word is this:
           One day grace will have its way.

May you store up hope, for life is not always buoyant,
and you need to persevere.
     Remember that despair is not the last word.

Despite all dismay, the last word is this:
           One day the meek will inherit the earth.

May you store up faith, for life is not always devout,
and you need to persevere.
     Remember that infidelity is not the last word.

Despite life’s treacherous grip, the last word is this:
           One day creation itself will shed its decay.

May you store up praise, for life is not always jubilant,
and you need to persevere.
     Remember that lament shall not have the last word.

Despite every mother’s grief, every father’s sorrow,
the last word is this:
           One day those who sow in tears will reap
                 with shouts of joy.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Biblical texts quoted or adapted: Psalm 23:5; Zephaniah 3:19; Romans 8:19-24; Psalm 126:5.

How well I remember standing there on the
Sidewalk in Santa Fe in front of a jewelry store
           where you'd just picked up your rings.

My wife of twenty-seven years, me, the two of you.
The two of you trying your best not to melt into the
           pavement under the weight of emotions;

The two of us with eyes watering from the
Holy smoke from some nearby burning bush,
           wondering if we should take off our shoes.

We went to a Lyle Lovett concert that night,
And as a concluding encore he sang that old
Gospel hymn, with its refrain,
           while on others thou art calling,
            do not pass me by . . .*

And, sure enough, a cool breeze broke the heat and
Made us shiver. Such delight. Such pure delight,
           nestled within the sun-soaked faces

And scuffed boots of year after multiplied year
Of faithfully-attentive gaze and lovesome
           perseverance.

I stumble into grace just
           remembering.
Here's hoping the rains find your pastures.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Written to commemorate a decade of covenant ties (unrecognized by state authorities) with the purchase of rings. *Line from “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior,” Fanny Crosby.

Who among you believe that
grieving and lamentation
are symptoms of despair.
Not so!
Only the hopeless are silent
in the face of calamity—
silenced because they no
longer aspire even to be heard,
much less heeded. The labor
of lament, on the other hand,
is premised on the expectation
that grief’s rule will be bound
by the Advent of Another.
The liturgy of grief transforms
the pain of lament into passion
for an outcome forged in justice
and tempered in mercy. Such an
outcome is not ours to impose
by strength of will or accomplished
by force of threat; yet it does demand
of us relentless struggle and steadfast resolve.

Come, you whose beds are awash
in weeping, you whose portion is
tear-mingled wine and bread of mourning.
Come, come to the mountain
of Refuge. There the Spirit,
as with Jesus before, kneels
ready to bathe your feet with her tears.
Hear this Word of assurance, you
of wavering endurance: the
moment nears when those sowing
in tears will reap shouts of
extravagant joy.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Written for an ecumenical “Service of Lament and Healing” following the August 2014 killing of Michael Brown by police in Ferguson, MO. Inspired by Ps 6:6; 42:3; 80:5; 102:9; Luke 7:38;

We kill and bomb
Murder and maim
Target and terrorize mostly
      (for high-tech armies)
from great distance
the better not to see actual faces
or severed limbs, or intestines oozing through
holes where belly buttons used to testify
to being a mother-born child

But then we apologize
     Sorry
           So sorry
                 Deeply regret
                       Such a tragedy!
                             Sorry, sorry, sorry

We do everything we can to limit civilian casualties
“This isn’t Sunday school”
     (one politician’s actual words)
Didn’t have those children in our sights
Impossible to see, at 10,000 feet,
     whether Kalashnakovs are present
Smart bombs aren’t flawless
Flawed intelligence
     (as if a test score were at stake)
Military necessity
Rules of engagement need refining
S**t happens
We gave them advance warning
War is hell

The unintended consequences and inevitable
eventualities in hostile force-reduction and
counter-insurgency strategic operations
      (See s**t happens)
Freedom isn’t free
Do unto others before they do unto you
Asymmetrical warfare
      (“Why don’t they come out and fight like men!”)
No independent verification of claims of civilian massacre
     (aka, no one left standing)
 “This is no My Lai” (Vietnam, where as many as 504—
      the Pentagon says only 347—unarmed women,
      children and old men were killed by U.S. troops, no
      weapons recovered, for which one soldier was
      convicted, spending 4 months in prison.) 

We fight them there so we don’t have to fight them here
     (which is why the U.S. needs 1,000 or so military
      bases outside its borders, dozens with golf courses)

Won’t happen again, unless it does, then
                                   Sorry, Sorry, Sorry
Video, and sentiments, at the top of the hour
     They left us no option
           Forced into this corner
                 Them or us
                       Hearings to be convened
                             We’ll get to the bottom of this
We need to wait ’til all the facts are in

But only eyes, no heads, will roll:
     foreign-born blood being cheap as it is
If war is the answer
     the question must be really stupid

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Written in 2002 after hearing one too many public officials rationalize “collateral damage”against innocent victims of U.S. military strikes.

In the beginning, darkness covered the face of the deep.

Then the Breath of Heaven swept across the waters, blessing the sea with all manner of creatures.

The sea knows its Maker and roars its applause; the fish therein leap at the sound of God’s voice.

Through the baptismal waters of the Red Sea did the Israelites escape their tormentors and emerge to freedom’s demand.

Surely, says the Prophet, the day will come when the whole earth will be covered with the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.

Through the waters of obedience did Jesus enter the Way. By the Galilee Sea did he call disciples; on its waves did he come to them; by his power, its storm subdued. On its shore he revealed his resurrection insurrection.

But now, on our border, the sea has been poisoned. The deeps, made for praise, now drowning, voice hushed.

Poisoned sea, impoverished soul. Hear now our plea; come, make us whole.

The oil of sweet gladness, the mark of rejoicing, now chokes the earth’s womb, its legacy crushed.

Poisoned sea, impoverished soul. Hear now our plea; come, make us whole.

The fowl overhead, the fish down below, are fouled by the rupture of greed-driven lust.

Poisoned sea, impoverished soul. Hear now our plea; come, make us whole.

Have mercy upon us, bring our hearts to repentance; and bind us again to your covenant trust.

Poisoned sea, impoverished soul. Hear now our plea; come, make us whole.

Let us now pray for the ocean and the life it supports.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Written following the 2010 BP (British Petroleum) Deepwater Horizon oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.

by Ken Sehested

Wondrous was the
occasion of your birth,
which I knew not,
and hardly
since.

But mere acquaintances, distant
and casual as we are,
participated in jubilance by
proxy reflected from
the eyes of those whose
longing and labor lifted
your name in splendid recognition,
and reverence, even as
they lifted your flesh
from mucous
incubation.

Odd, how the tears
of delight, and those
of distraught, bear the
same salty
savor.

Life is as of a piece;
but such a short piece?
Against such we rage.
Against such reckless cellular
blunders we scream irreverent rant
and exhaust our hearts
howling divine
complaint.

Mute the
dust, bitter the ash,
sharp the
ache.

What affirmation escapes such
peril? Will the dust praise
you? begs the songstress. Speak
faithfully? Be rescued
from the calloused bonds
of muted
laud?

Pit-driven, sackcloth-arrayed, let
the arraignment commence:
What profit is there in death? The
accusation brooks no easy alibi.
The interrogation promises no
recanting of
lament.

Only this: promise that
cries will be heard, that
exhausted hearts will resurrect,
that tears will dry and feet again
move to the rhythm
of animated
bounty.

Only this: confidence that
the dust is not that of
abandonment, but
of adama, of earth, earth
from which all adam receive
breath, and shall again, on
that rapturous occasion when
creation comes
unbound.

But not soon, never soon
enough. And the terms of such
promise, such confidence,
sight unseen, include perilous
exposure to repeated unraveling
of hope. Risky indeed,
this breathly
work.

Hearts must be steeled
for such raw encounter. Terror
must be displaced. For that, draw
close all lovely flesh and
know the promissory note
of such embrace: When
mourning’s assault submits to
morning’s assent; when
reverence, and recognition, echo
dawn’s wondrous
delight.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org

Pentecostal power has little to do with
exaggerated religious emotion. But
such power, when granted,
has everything to do
with passion, with conviction.
It’s not your mind that
you lose—it’s your heart,
which falls head-over-heels
in love with the vision of dry bones
re-sinewed and aspired to life.

When such power erupts, they
probably will call you crazy.
“Have you lost your mind?!”
Yes, we will say, because
these days the mind has
become acclimated to a culture
of war; has become inured to
the ravages of poverty in a culture
of obesity; has become numb
to ecological wreckage.

When Pentecostal power erupts, all
heaven’s gonna’ break loose.
The boundaries will be compromised;
barriers will be broken; and
borders will be breached.
Economies of privilege will be fractured
and the politics of enmity will be impeached.
The revenge of the Beloved is the
reversal of Babel’s bequest.

“I will pour out my Spirit,”
says the LORD: Poured out
not for escape to another
world beyond the sky but
here, amid the dust. Poured out
not on disembodied spirits but
“upon all flesh.” It is to the
agony of abandonment that Heaven
is aroused. Queer the One Who
fashions a future for the disfavored.

The groaning of creation is both
an ache and an assurance. We
dare not insulate ourselves from
the one, lest we be deafened to
the other. Birth is at work.
Though the labor is prolonged,
provision is tendered.
Pentecostal power is the wherewithal
by which we wager our lives on
the surety of this promise.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Pentecost Sunday, 4 June 2006
cf. Ezekiel 34: 1-14; Acts. 2:17; Romans 8:22