Dear Friends,

This week we heard President Obama’s Inaugural Address “One Future.” We heard the Inaugural Poet Richard Blanco deliver his poem “One Today.” We heard Paul say to the Corinthians, we are all one Body—the Body of Christ.

We sang at Eucharist John Foley’s “One Bread, One Body.” We are about “Body Building” –building up the presence of God in our world by channeling God’s compassion and love and peace and justice to all those we encounter. 

 Last night Jean and I had the delight of seeing Quvenzhane Wallis in ­Beasts of the Southern Wild. Her character “Hushpuppy” says, “The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece, the whole universe will get busted.” Thich Nhat Hanh talks about “Interbeing,” the Buddhist belief that nothing can be by itself alone, that everything in the cosmos must ‘interbe’ with everything else. We are all one human race, one People, Beloved by God—how do we build that One People throughout the world. Pope Paul VI used to say, “The heart of a pope is like a seismograph—whenever there is human suffering anywhere, the pope’s heart picks it up.” As we think of human suffering in Palestine, in Syria, in Egypt, in Afghanistan and Pakistan and elsewhere, these are all our human sisters and brothers in need of our support and compassionate energy. In our being together through The Spirit of Life Community, we find strength to live compassionately all week and beam out God’s love and God’s Peace to all those we meet. We are grateful for the blessing of having all of you cross-pollenating all of us with this inspiration. Richard Blanco, in our second reading at Eucharist tonight—“One Today”—fortifies this hope we are called to forge together.

 

One Today                    Richard Blanco

 

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,

peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces

of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth

across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.

One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story

told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

 

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,

each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:

pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,

fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows

begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—

bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,

on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—

to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did

for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

 

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,

the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:

equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,

the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,

or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain

the empty desks of twenty children marked absent

today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light

breathing color into stained glass windows,

life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth

onto the steps of our museums and park benches

as mothers watch children slide into the day.

 

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk

of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat

and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills

in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands

digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands

as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane

so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

 

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains

mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it

through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,

buses launching down avenues, the symphony

of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,

the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

 

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,

or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open

for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,

buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días

in the language my mother taught me—in every language

spoken into one wind carrying our lives

without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

 

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed

their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked

their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:

weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report

for the boss on time, stitching another wound

or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,

or the last floor on the Freedom Tower

jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

 

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes

tired from work: some days guessing at the weather

of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love

that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother

who knew how to give, or forgiving a father

who couldn't give what you wanted.

 

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight

of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,

always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon

like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop

and every window, of one country—all of us—

facing the stars

hope—a new constellation

waiting for us to map it,

waiting for us to name it—together.

 

 May God’s light and love continue to live within each of us and move us to be non-violent agents of change for peace and for justice in our world,

Ron & Jean