It was the night of the thunderstorm
when lightning struck.
In the Woodland Chapel
I sat rooted to my chair
a surprised conductor
Silently aware of my fellow retreatants
in all their rich variety
(which, after four weeks together in silence, you know)
all tucking into our vegetable soup
it occurs to me –
God doesn’t hate celery.
Even if, for some of us
it isn’t to our taste
or disagrees with us
- no reference to fellow diners intended.
Which is good
because I am certainly some people’s celery.
Maybe, as I begin to see
how much God appreciates my flavour
that will help me to acquire
more inclusive tastebuds.
Take a picture
get an experience
steal a look -
our words betray our urgent grasp.
But to receive a gift
The stream presents its tumbling notes
singly to the open ear.
The landscape’s complex shape and pattern
is unfolded slowly to the patient eye.
The blessing of the birds is laid gently on the shoulders
of one who pauses under the tree.
Only the heart that is held open -
opened, held -
can receive the slow look of love,
the slow love of God.
|Colloquy by Rory Geoghegan SJ|
Mind This ‘talking with the Lord’ is fine, I’m sure
as long as you don’t think he’s really there.
Heart My ‘really’ means much more than what’s up there
- I know the love that fills me when he’s near.
Will If I can just let go, then he comes near
and answers with his calling my desire.
Soul There is the taste of God in that desire
and he becomes the clothing that I wear.
So, maybe we’ll both differ and concur:
we know, although we never can be sure.