Worship and Celebration

The Sabbath
(Jewish)

And in six days he created,
and he rested on the Sabbath,
making it a day of rest,
of enjoyment and remembrance
of what work is really for:
a means of our inheritance.
For, labor without hope is all
a burdensome and weary toil…
We need to stop and think awhile.

The Sabbath is to be a sign
that life and work and even time
have a soul, a sacred center,
a rest which we are meant to enter
in fellowship with our Creator;
there to give him thanks and praise,
and to enjoy him all our days.

To taste again the sweet communion
we once had within the garden;
to renew again the vision
of the New Jerusalem,
and in all this to discover
the meaning of these earthly hours;
that each one bears the secret seed
which flowers to eternity.

The Stream, the Music
(Transcendentalist)

Late summer's gold, and autumn approaching;
I sit by the creek and drink in the colors,
streaming rainbows of rippled reflections,
rocks and sky and overhung branches,
wet speckled leaves, rusty and golden,
pebbles and sand and flashes of sunlight;
this healing stream which washes away
the noise, dust, and smog of the smothering city;
cleansing, releasing, absolving the mind
of memory's spell and the burdens of time.
Illusion relents, this screen of appearance,
and that which is timeless, singular, stays,
revealed in the ripples, the white-silver flashings
of patterns unchanging above and below;
a stillness in motion, fixed in the flow…

A face in the blueness, a smile in the sunlight,
a familiar sweet longing, sad and yet joyful;
a song I have heard in my heart's meditations.

In the water's rippling laughter….the music;
in the wind that sways the branches….the music;
in the chanting in the treetops….the music;
in the painted sky at sunset….the music;
in the pounding of my heartbeat….the music;
in the wheeling days and seasons,
sunrise and sunset, the music, the music,
like birdsong, like flutesong over a meadow,
wafting to me through some hidden doorway,
calling, inviting to enter and follow.

The Chariots
(Hindu; Venice Beach, 1982)/p>

A day I never will forget:
the Festival of Chariots,
Ratha Yatra, sound and color,
surging joyous energies
flowing all along the beach.

Here I join the glad procession,
pulling on the ropes and chanting,
marching to the pounding drums,
the din of dozens of mrdangas,
all resounding deep and loud,
thundering above the crowd…

And above it all I see
the brightly-smiling deities
atop great wooden vehicles,
rolling carts on wagon wheels.
Their tents are made of scarlet red,
blazoned with a solar crest;
like galleons with billowed sail
floating weightless through the air,
banners flying in the breeze
against the blue of sky and sea;
a river flowing endlessly.

In the chanting of the Names……the music;
in the cymbals and drums……the music;
in the wind-rippled sails……the music;
in the breakers on the shoreline…….the music;
in living streams of people,
chanting and singing, the music, the music…

Now it all comes back to me,
why I was drawn to the devotees.
And now they are regathered, too,
all of them I've come to know,
all like one big family
reunited by the sea.
And, though expressed imperfectly,
there is a love, a unity.

Yet, there are people in the crowd
holding pictures of us all
burning in the flames of hell.
"Turn or burn! Repent, be saved!
Jesus is the only way!"
--It just about completes my day!

Thinking on it, I can see
how most westerners would be
offended by such imagery;
especially the deities.
"Idol worship", so they say.
And yet, this more evokes for me
ancient Israel's procession
through the open gates of Zion,
led by companies of minstrels
playing on the harp and cymbal;
brightly colored maidens dancing
to ankle bell and tambourine,
bearing festive boughs of green.

-Oh, to dance as David danced
to glad songs of deliverance,
leaping in ecstatic trance,
open, free, and unrestrained;
to know that passion once again!
A thing I never got to do,
seated in a wooden pew;
a thing which we've too-long suppressed
in our religions in the West.
We must remember long ago
when worship was a living flow
which opened up the eyes to see
into the heart of Mystery.

--If this could open up our eyes
to see beyond the world-disguise,
we might not be so deaf and blind;
even modern man might find
clear waters flowing through our lives.
A God who moves among us still,
not templed on a distant hill.

The Dance
(Integral Yoga;
Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Pondicherry, India)

A cool summer's eve, magic and starlight,
open air theater, colorful floodlights;
dancers in gowns and garlands of flowers
acting out scenes from the life of Sri Krishna,
his divine pasttimes, sweet rasa-lila:
The slaying of the serpent-demon,
freeing the playmates swallowed within him;
resonant flutesong, transcendant pleasures,
Radha's devotion in green-wooded bowers;
--scenes I would dream through so many pictuures
as a devotee back in the temple;
windows on heaven, bright while I chanted;
that "other place" with which I am haunted…

Yet, these are no paintings, this is no temple,
these no ascetics robed and in saffron,
but vibrant young women, actual children,
grace in their limbs, flowing with passion,
beauty and power; fluid expression
moving in step with the sinuous rhythms,
tapestries woven of sitar and tabla;
wavelike, supple, flowing like water,
born of the earth, transparent to spirit…

"The music, the music" I heard at the creekside,
and chanted and danced to with the brothers
down the beach in ecstatic procession
of chariots topped with fluttering banners
yellow and red against the blue waters,
the sky and sun, all the radiant colors…
The way we seemed to flow like a river,
a force of Nature: So these dancers.
Like fleet-footed deer or gamboling horses,
a swallow in flight; a joining of forces,
the strength of the man, the grace of the woman,
the artist and athlete, matter and spirit;
the freedom all flesh is meant to inherit.

--The dance of the God within his creation,
drawing all souls to join in his action;
to joy along with him, conscious and growing,
becoming his light in their being and knowing.
The dance which can move the very foundations
without need of politics, organization,
nor dogma and creed, that stuff of religion
which always results in the death of the vision.

--Here, the Mother's legacy living:
the hopes and ideals of all of these children,
their freedom of action, fluid expression,
the image of God emerging within them.
That beauty and strength with which she's in labor,
even today, we laboring with her.
(This life in me...still trying to deliver.)

River of Praise (Charismatic Christian)

Here again we are gathered together,
singing our praises unto the Father.
The flow of worship starts to remind me
of those creekside haunting melodies,
"the music, the music", now grown to a river.

Swift white rapids out of the mountains,
leaping, swirling, flashing in sunlight,
sounding of flutesong, clarion trumpets,
the chanting of birds, the voices of angels,
all joined as one in a chorus of praise.

Now our voices rise like mighty waters,
a cataract's great roaring thunder,
declaring God's free and limitless power,
sounding forth his glory and wonder,
honor and praise forever and ever.

Now deep calls out to deep; his Spirit
searching ours in those silent currents
which glide 'neath the surface of awareness;
calling us to listen in stillness,
to drink more deeply of his presence.

Our song flows on through grove and meadow,
roaring down canyons, flooding coastlands,
seeking out the depths of the ocean,
to join into its boundless freedom.
--So may we all! Father, receive us!

Breaking

Multitude of voices,
many waters roaring;
Sea of upturned faces,
arms outstretched before me…

Radiance comes shining
like sunrays through a shower,
Silver veil of teardrops
glimmering in splendor.

Warmth and light around me,
spreading through my being,
Burst from hidden places;
sudden floods of feeling.

Walls of ice are cracking,
gushing mud and water,
Shards and shattered fragments;
blood…..the heart is breaking.

Here begins the healing,
love so overwhelming;
All that I've been seeking,
pouring down to fill me.

I Hear His Name

I hear his name
in the rushing of the river;
I hear his name
in the song of the sparrow;
I hear his name
in the wind in the redwoods;
I hear his name
in our uplifted voices;
I hear his name
in the joy in my heart.

Fire Circle

Holy Spirit gentle traces,
glowing bright familiar faces
gathered now around the fire;
many hearts but one desire.

Voices ringing in the dark
stir the leaping hidden sparks.
Through the gaps I see them fly,
heart to heart and eye to eye.

Candles

Carols in a circle,
candles in the wind;
they begin to flicker,
we kindle them again.

Those with flames still burning
sharing in the light
spreading ever-onward,
glowing in the night.