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O Wondrous One,
who rides the skies and
consorts with the earth,
who haunts the heavens,
hounding mere mortals
with the expectation of ecstasy,
come and incite us to
Heaven’s revolt against
earth’s revenge.
Revive hungry hearts
wandering this arid land
with the aroma of your presence.

Fire of Heaven,
scorch away the encrusted
results of living so long
outside the breath of your lungs.
Rekindle your blaze
in the marrow of our souls.
As Jesus was raised
in Easter’s Resurrection Moment,
now animate your people
on this Pentecost Sunday,
and breathe new life into your
Resurrection Movement.

O Majestic One,
whose passion spills into flesh and blood,
bless the one who kneels in this assembly.
She is fruit of your womb,
anointed with your presence,
acknowledged by these witnesses
as an arsonist of the Spirit.
As with our ancient sister Mary,
draw forth from her lips
the subversive announcement of
Heaven’s claim on earth’s abandoned.

Bread of Heaven,
with our hands implant your
fingerprint on her forehead, sign
of contradiction and scandal
to the gods of this age,
of blessed bounty
or the age to come.
Make her voice strong,
her feet nimble.
May she ever revel as one
made in your image.
Give her death-defying courage,
holy rage and tender mercy.
Instill salty savor,
leavening wisdom,
and guiding light.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Written and then adapted for the ordination services of several friends.

As each take your leave
now charting your own courses
I pause and ponder your absence
with dreaded joy:
joy that your wings have spread
so far so fast,
dread at the silence filling the air
which your voices once stirred.

It wasn’t that long ago that I
maneuvered surgeon’s scissors
and severed the cord which tied
you to your mother.
That I did so—
snip, then a brief spurt of blood—
without fainting
is surprising.
I took it as a hopeful sign,
that I would not faint as a father.

The memory of those similar,
separate exertions— the extent of
my labor in bringing you to life
so disproportionate to that of your
mother’s— has occupied my
thoughts with more than passing
recollection in recent weeks.
It is as if that rupture served,
with each of you, as prophetic
announcement of what was to come.
It has taken many measured steps
and years and come, no doubt,
too slowly for you,
too quickly for us;
but now the significance of that
severance is fulfilled.

Each of you are occasions for delight,
in ways unique to the wonder
of your separate ways.
The seeds I have sown in your life-soil
(and that of your mother’s,
but here I will speak for myself)
will continue to sprout
for countless seasons to come
and mark you in ways of which
I alternately rejoice and repent.
It is up to you to cultivate,
including pruning and plucking
and uprooting,
as needed.

But your leave-taking also prompts me
to inventory the ways your lives
have cultivated my own,
beginning with your births.

I was a mere bystander in your
gestation, of course. But I now
know about the connection, on either
end, between the passion and pain
in every act of creation.
All hopeful planting finally unfolds
with tender shoots tearing their way
through resistant ground.
The earth must be disturbed;
the womb must be rent;
the cord must be cut.

Every birth is an act of dangerous hope:
The cord which nourishes can also choke;
the body which shelters can also poison;
the tempestuous journey from watery
womb to inaugural breath is subject to
countless perils threatening giver and gift.

Why life should begin with a blood-soaked
Scream is a mystery. But such are the terms
for the flow of milk.

One day, says the prophet,
against overwhelming odds and
much reliable evidence,
the flow of tears will be dried
and death itself will be undone.
As it now stands, though,
history’s outcome seems to favor
those who turn lions loose on lambs,
those who squelch every scream
and rob the suckling of its breast,
and plug birth canals
with fists of fury and fits of ambition.

In their hideous vision every natal cord
becomes a slaver’s chain; every spilling
of blood, a grasping demand rather than
a gratuitous gift. Even now, says the psalmist,
their “eyes swell out with fatness,”
gorged in assault against creation’s
gestation and promised deliverance.

You, beloved daughters, serve as reminders
that life cannot be had on the cheap;
that every new future foreseen in joy
will endure all tearful failures; that strength
of hand and valiance of heart must be
coupled with wombish welcome to that
unnameable (and thus unmanageable)
Promise that death’s ascendance will
be crushed.

Such vision persists; such milk flows;
and by it we are kept from perishing.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Written in 1999 to mark the college and high school graduations of his daughters, Jessica and Alayna.

Oh, God, our help in ages past
our hope for years to come
We gather here in the sanctuary of your earth
under the vaulted dome of the sky.
We gather as your tiny flock, as a people
called out by faith in your future.
It is because we have our lives anchored in
your promised future
that we're able to pause and look back.
We gather here, your tiny flock,
to remember events mostly forgotten.
We gather here, your tiny flock, in the rain,
and we are reminded that the rain brings us
a rainbow,
a sign of your promise
never to leave us alone
never to forsake us.
No, never alone,
protected in the stormy blast
which still blows through the lives
of your little ones.
Your rainbow promise gives us the courage to recall
the death and destruction delivered on this ground
so many years ago,
the hatred and brutality—all but forgotten in our day—
inflicted on the innocent lives
of our brothers and sisters.
We listen, our hearts quivering, to catch the sound
of the cries of the ground
which absorbed so much blood.
We look about, our hearts repenting,
that such destruction still infects your family, your creation.
We remember, our hearts attentive,
that even the tiny sparrow catches your attention.
And thus we are confident, our hearts still hopeful,
that those fallen here so long ago
are still precious in your sight;
that those gathered here
are still called to herald the good news of your peace,
that your peace will one day hallow this ground
and that all shall come, from every race,
to rejoice in each other
as brother and sister
and you as Abba, Father,
as Amma, Mother.
Your Kingdom come, your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Amen

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Prayer written in May 1990 for the first public commemorateion of the 1866 Memphis Massacre, a race riot in Memphis, Tennessee, which claimed the lives of 46 people and wounded another 80. Ninety homes, four churches, 12 Freedman's Schools (for emancipated slave children) and many black businesses were burned. It began when a wagon driven by an African American refused to pull over and allow a white-driven wagon to pass.

O happy day when friends return from
afar, safe, unharmed, fingers, toes and
taste buds intact, hearts strong (though
weathered from the journey), long past
ready to put suitcases away, for more

walks in the woods and the familiar
faces of bloodkin and soulfriends.
Long past ready for snuggling with
familiar soil and hugging delicious
necks, belly-button to belly-button,

with time to relish memories of the
year now sprinted by. Good times
past, and sweet; hard times, too,
and some sour, and surely too
many miles, ever struggling to

understand and be understood, and
hot-sweaty times, clothes pasted to
skin but also with salt-scented
Caribbean breezes, all this, and more.
Not to mention having stood, time after

time, exposed to the breath of the Spirit.
And not the soft-gentle-sentimental kind,
more like the squall of a wind tunnel,
like jalapeño concentrate, like the
towering, lightning-filled cumulus sky

whose signature inscribes so many Cuban
late afternoons. Time to rest from such
rigor. The heart can take only so many
leaps and adrenaline darts. Time to soak
and saunter and ponder
     what it means
       to be nothing,
            yet everything,
               at the same
                  time.

No doubt, there is a tearing in returning,
a certain severing of immediacy with mercy
on that far edge. But the seeds of your
learning were surely planted deep. Time
now to let them grow and blossom and

bear fruit to both nourish and delight
the rest of us—we who tracked your
movements from this distance, who
marked the calendar, whose faces lit up
when your names appeared in our email

in-boxes (knowing how much work was
required of you for each and every one)
—for we sense that you bear in your bodies
the compass readings toward a new horizon
by which we, too, can set our sights and

plot our journey. All that you have sought
and seen and savored—with provisions no
greater than the child at Jesus’ impromptu
picnic—shall feed a multitude and to spare.
Let the banquet begin.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Celebrating the return of good friends from a year spent in Cuba.

We all knew it would come.
     Someday. Always later.
            Mañana.
It comes for us all. Sure.
           Of course.
     We know that. Someday.
            Mañana.

But when someday draws near
     for someone you love
           whose silenced breath sears
                 your lungs with flames of grief
           and sobs so immense
     you wonder:
How dare the sun ascend?
     The stars to shine?
     Even the yeast to rise!

Who authorized the earth to turn another inch?
    Gravity itself should be suspended,
and the new moon halt in midair
     with its ghostly light exposing
           every predator’s stare.

All words—every syllable—fail and flail about
     as if comfort answers to incantation,
           as if death leaves no bruise,
     as if sorrow can be shhushhed away like
                 crows from the cornfield.

Only flesh on flesh can convey
     the pledge, to shivering hands and quivering hearts,
                 the implausible news that dust is not the end.
     Only cheek to cheek,
           and mingled tears,
                       chase back fears
     to their perditious haunt.

For the soul come undone,
                 let skin speak to skin, with hands’
           gentle brace of countenance consumed
     in doleful, woeful recoil.
The dirge will
     have its day,
           the sigh will have its say.
     But not more, not a minute
                 more, than its allotted time.

For the day lies in wait
                 when fear will be trumped,
     every tear sated, every
mournful lament yielding the floor
           to the sound of angels clogging,
                 feet pounding parquet
     in rhythmic cadence,
           whirling and twirling,
                 with shouts of delight
     and volleys of glee
           harmonized
                       by fiddle and banjo and bass.

The Caller of that dance
     has been known
           to raise
                 the dead.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. On the fifth anniversary of his grandson’s birth and to commemorate the passing of a deep-souled friend.

And now
and now
in this house of meeting
as daylight ends
and darkness descends
prepare your hearts for God’s greeting

Though hearts ache by night
joyful blaze will ignite
with the radiance of Love
that will not let you go

Will not let you go
Will not
Will not
Will not let you go

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. A chanted worship benediction.

It’s a good thing
that hearts are hardy.
Fiercely resilient.
Expanding and contracting
in rhythm to breath,
breath of joy and of grief.
Hardy enough, even, to rumble on
in sleep and occasional boredom.
But there is a limit,
a border, a time,
which often ignores
the calculus of science or human affection.

Commonplace rain, and sorrow’s reign,
fall inexplicably on
the just and unjust.
And we are sometimes left
to sigh in the night
with nothing but tears
for food.

So it is with you, most intensely,
but also to countless others
whose hearts knew delight
in Larry’s presence.
Such hearts—
your hearts,
our hearts—
very nearly faint at the failure of his,
at the absence of one who lived large,
laughed often
and loved well.

No doubt if he could
he would gently chide
our grief
and say:
Life is not undone
by halted ventricles and collapsed atriums.
He would say:
Grief, however potent, has no
permanent grip on life.
Grief, too, has a limit,
a border,
a time,
and we lean toward its end.

He would say, quoting his favorite author:
Let not your hearts be troubled.
He would say:
Live large,
laugh often,
love well.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Celebrating the life of a friend and mourning his final breath.

Easter resurrection is never as assured
as the arrival of Easter bunnies.

Clothiers and chocolate-makers alike yearn
for the season no less than every cleric.

And yet, in my experience, the Spirit
rarely blows according to the calendar,
much less on demand.

We live with ears open, eyes peeled,
hands and feet nimble, ready for
jolting news and a dash to one tomb
or another.

And this, apparently, is the purpose
of wakeful attention during the transition
     from Good Friday’s darkness
           to Sunday sunrise:
training in the art of vigilance,
as maidens with well-trimmed wicks.*

One empty tomb poses no threat
to present entanglements,
     any more than annual and
           specially-adorned sanctuary
crowds encroach on Easter morn.

It’s Easter’s aftermath
     resurrectus contagio,
           contagious resurrection
that threatens entombing empires
with breached sovereignty.

The Lamb Slain sings
of tribulation annulled,
     of death undone,
           of heaven reraveling the
sinews of soil and soul.

Humus and human alike,
“the earth and all that dwell therein,”
     inherit the promise intoned
           on that first dawn.
Breath on truculent waves:
                              be still, be still.
Wind on Emmaen travelers:**
                              Fear not, fear not.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Holy Week 2002.
*cf. Matt 25:1-13. **cf. Luke 24:13-35

No, I do not feign from
speaking of Jesus as Lord.
For who else can mobilize
hearts and hands in opposition
to the lords of enmity,
their names being legion?

The conflict is ensued. No
turning back, nor sidelines
for spectators whose loyalties,
despite denials, are already
secured and cheaply so.

Speaking thusly implies no
resistance to others’ honor of
another Name. I trust Heaven’s Intent
more than the words of my lips
or the beat of my heart. G-d is
at work in Ways I do not
(and may never) comprehend.

The Day of Deliverance is not up
to me, my or mine. The copyright
securing authorship of the
new heaven, new earth, is
not for we, us or our adjudication.
We testify only to what we have
seen and heard:

•That life’s abundance was meant to be shared.

•That a revolt of menacing, miserly forces now
           dominates Creation’s realms.

•But also that those deadly days are numbered.

As for me, I see Heaven’s Intent
sketched in the Galilean’s scars.
Those scars announce the coming collapse
of any and every kind of lording. They
invite my avowal of the Way of the Cross.
Those scars signal the coming closure
of every wound, the drying of every tear,
the Advent of a Promise outlasting every lie.

Whisper to me another Name
similarly configured and
I shall bow, giving thanks. And
we shall eat and ache
and sing and march together.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. Written while volunteering as an overnight host for a homeless women’s shelter.

If we fill our lives with things, and again with things,

If we consider ourselves so important that we must fill every moment with movement and plans and calculations

When will we have the time to greet Messengers under oak trees, as did Abram? Or overhear improbable news, like Sarah?

When will we have time to take the long, slow journey across the burning desert as did the magi in search of the heaven’s own Embodied Rule?

Or sit and watch the stars as did the shepherds; or brood over the coming of the Child as did Mary?

For each of us there is improbable news to hear; for each, births to brave; for each, deserts to travel and stars to pursue in dark silence.

Extravagance characterizes all caught up in the Promise of the coming New Heaven and New Earth. When you work, do it as if you don’t need the money; love like you’ve never been hurt; dance like no one’s watching.

Yet don’t forget, as well, to give yourself to extravagant slowness: the best food, the best fun and the best faith are never fast-paced affairs. Let the slow times roll!

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. With lines dapting a poem (author unknown) and by quotes from professional baseball player and philosopher Satchel Page.