Holy Mountain

My Father's House

Long have we waited in dark empty spaces,
lifetimes of longing in still Sabbath places
for vision of you to become form and substance,
flesh of our flesh, we bone of your bone.
Nakedness, lostness, longing to be clothed,
these jars made of clay, these frail earthen vessels,
these old wooden ships whose gray timbers groan
with the wind and the storms and all of Creation,
longing for freedom from death and decay.

They say you once dwelt amidst wood and stone
in a house set with altars, candles, and incense;
Bezalel's craftsmanship, Solomon's wisdom,
years in the building; demolished in a day!
These, only shadows of things of the spirit,
only a pointing toward what is to come,
the promised far Zion, the house of your glory,
the house with no walls but the hearts of your people.

That vision still beckons across the world's wastelands,
our wars and our conquests, the dry squandered centuries
spent piling up bricks which crumbled to dust,
raising up temples to dead seers' visions,
erecting towers round the half-formed dreams
of all would-be prophets who died giving birth
to wind and utopias, soon gone awry;
kingdoms and empires, creeds and religions.
--Could any of these have built Love a home??

Yet now we draw near with hearts full of gladness,
rapt with the wonder of wide open spaces,
great purple summits soaring to heaven.
The trail witll be steep and full of hard climbing,
but the goal can be seen (as if for the first time)
by eyes trained in faith and love's hope and longing.
The road-weary limbs now grow lighter beneath us,
well-trained and ready to leap upon the mountains.

Nor was the blood that was shed, shed in vain,
nor the sweat of exertion, nor the tears spent in sorrow;
they become cleansing rivers, flowing with healing.
And the deep lonely reaches, the desolate places
left hollowed and empty are bright hallowed spaces
made ready for dwelling, prepared for your glory;
set aside and made wide to hold all the treasures
stored in your heart from before the beginning
for all those who love you and seek for your kingdom.

And a Little Child Will Lead Them

Blessed are the little ones,
the bright and gentle spirits,
the children and the young at heart
whose joy is our strength.

Blessed are they who run up the pathways,
who skip and dance like lambs upon the mountains,
who mount up like eagles to ride the currents,
soaring, ascending upon the winds of heaven.

Blessed are all who are free in their spirits,
free to laugh, to weep for joy or sorrow,
to melt into tears at the touch of his hand,
to sing forth like lyres at the stroke of his fingers.

They will teach us again to sing the sacred music,
and lead us in praise on the long climbing journey
up the holy mountain, the place of his dwelling.

They will offer us hope when the shadows grow longer,
be to us comfort when evening falls,
and they will first see him when bright morning dawns.

They will all know him, and teach us his peace…

The wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the goat,
the calf and the lion and the yearling together;
and a little child will lead them…
They will neither harm nor destroy
on all my holy mountain,
for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord
as the waters cover the sea.
Isa.11:6,9

The Beloved

My lover spoke and said to me,
"Arise, my darling, my beautiful one,
and come with me."

The beloved wakes to the sound of his voice;
her Lover is calling. She rises to follow,
out of her house and into the sunlight.

She dances through meadows yellow with flowers,
glides up the hillsides, limbs freely flowing,
runs the high ridges, leaps on the ledges
like a deer in a forest, a hind in high places.

She pauses to listen, breathing in freedom;
the sky all around her is wide as an ocean.
His voice fills her heart, his love fills her knowing;
her eyes are like stars, her brow full of glory.

She is clothed in white linen, her hair like a banner
streaming behind her, threaded with sunlight.
The banner is "love"; her song a rejoicing
that he comes to embrace her and all of Creation,
to comfort the people, restore again Zion.

How beautiful, graceful, and swift upon the mountains
are the feet of those who bring the glad tidings,
who call all souls to songs of rejoicing,
to life and love and the coming of morning.
And more beautiful still in the eyes of her Lover...

My dove in the cleft of the rock,
in the hidingplaces on the mountainside,
show me your face, let me hear your voice,
for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely.

All beautiful you are, my darling;
there is no flaw in you.
Song of Songs

Restingplace

For the Lord has chosen Zion,
he has desired it for his dwelling:
"This is my restingplace for ever and ever;
here will I sit enthroned, for I have desired it."
Psalm 132

We are gathered together upon this high summit,
a temple of stone near to the sun,
bare rock beneath us, naked air around us,
roof made of sky, windows of sunligh,
walls none at all but the peaks and valleys
stretched all around us, almost forever.

This must be the place of his dwelling,
the house of our Father, boundless and mighty;
for none else could hold him. What man-made dwelling
could contain or constrain the Lord of Creation?
--Yet he comes down to meet and embrace us;<
we rest in his vastness, freedom, and glory,
lost in the wonder, rapt with the beauty,
glimpsing our home in his infinite mansions.

And it seems to me now that these are its ceiling,
its floors, its walls, its windows on heaven:
our memories, moments, rapt meditations,
our journeys together, these seasons of sharing
in which He builds and indwells his temple,
living stones skillfully wielded together.
We are joined in one Spirit, moment on moment,
step upon step as we climb the mountain,
encouraging, laughing, sharing the burdens.

How wondrous and strange beyond comprehension
that he'd make us his temple, each and together;
that our aching limbs and worn, sweating bodies
should give him such joy to endure and be part of.

This must be the joy which inspires us upward,
gives strength for the journey, power for climbing,
as well as rejoicing in our arrival.
Arrival at knowing and fullness and freedom,
the still place of rest we have striven to enter,
where he rests within us; the place of his dwelling,
for which he has longed through endless ages.
For nothing can be his heart's home and shelter
except the temple of all those who love him;
not even a mountaintop, nor all Creation,
except as contained in the hearts of his children.

On this mountain he will destroy
the shroud which enfolds all the peoples…
he will swallow up death forever.
Isa 25

Baptism

All of the people are gathered together
as, baring my feet, I step in the River,
this golden sand, these silvery ripples
reflecting the cliffs and shimmering branches;
sun, earth, and sky, water and spirit
dancing together in one bright communion
flowing in beauty out of the canyons.

So would I touch those bright, living Waters
which give second birth and wholeness of vision,
opening eyes to the presence of Heaven,
the regions of light, the bright place of meeting
which I've only glimpsed in the course of these seekings.

And now I seek a more total immersion
from sole unto crown, this flesh and blood vessel
which the Most High has chosen his dwelling;
even the One who walked among us,
showing the way, going before us
into the River, the waters of Jordan.

I take a step deeper into the current,
slipping on stones and gravelly sharpness,
wobbling, holding the arm of another
until I come safe to my elder brother.
He greets me with joy and utters a prayer;
covers my mouth and carries me under,
into the water, "Name of the Father,
and of the Son, and of the Spirit…

And as I am dipped in this clear-flowing fountain
pouring from snowfields high in the mountains,
even this flesh seems flooded with brightness,
filled with a crystalline tingling lightness;
every nerve cell, fiber and ending
clear as a bell, resonant, ringing,
an all-present voice inside of me singing,

"You are my son, whom I love;
with you I am well pleased."
Luke 3

We walk in beauty
where the mountains meet the sea.
We walk in beauty
where the shining river runs.
We walk in beauty
where the green meadows roll.
We walk in beauty
where the wildflowers bloom.
We walk in beauty
where the fierce winds blow.
We walk in beauty
where the breakers roar.
We walk in beauty
where the seabirds sail.
We walk in beauty
where the sealions lay.
We walk in beauty
where the redwoods soar.
We walk in beauty
where heaven touches earth,
land, sea, and sky,
body, mind, and spirit,
heart with living heart,
God walking with us.

Canticle: The Calling

I return to this place where I once heard the music,
the shore of the shining blue Pacific,
this beautiful land of the wild surf and windsong
for which my heart has ever longed.

The song echoes still in the rhythms around me,
the circling sun and the gulls in their wheelings,
the pulse of the tides, the surf on the shoreline.
A bright ray shines through the center of vision
at the heart of the world which pulses within me;
strains of the music from inside the doorway,
calling me gently to enter and follow.

I sit on a cliff above foaming tidepools,
this last golden hour just before nightfall.
The cellophane sea is smooth and shiny,
rippled, repainted from moment to moment
by the slanting rays of a reddening sunset.
White turns to gold on the burnished breakers
radiant to the western horizon.

But in the east the whitecaps are glowing
milky-silver on blue-violet shadow;
the full moon rising over the mountains!
--Brother Sun setting and Sister Moon risingg!
I raise along with them my song of rejoicing,
praise and thanks to the ultimate Artist
who sings forth the Canticle of the Creation,
sun, moon, and stars, winds and waters,
the rocks of the earth and the fires of heaven,
in the radiant hues of borderless visions!

--And includes me in this one; knew where I'd be now,
the place and the mood where the moment would find me;
my thoughts and feelings, unique point of vantage,
woven into the fabric from the beginning.
Participant-subject, I created it with him,
like Wisdom delighting in the first morning,
a child with a crayon, seeing, exploring,
coloring in this living canvas
in joyful communion with his Spirit.
Now it lives to him as part of my being,
a room in the mansion I'm to inherit
within the house of my Father in heaven.

So I am become like David and Francis,
here in this time and place the psalmist
whom He has ordained to offer up to him
our joy and our praise for his acts of creation.

--To offer the things of earth for redemption,
to lift each moment and longing to heaven,
to make intercession for each man and creature,
that all might find place and none be forgotten
in the roll of the names and the courts of the Kingdom:
This is the calling of the artist!

A Simple Truth

We dream;
we must be
daughters of a Dreamer.

We create;
we must be
sons of a Creator.

We love;
we must be
loved by Someone greater.

California Dreaming

The rugged hillside gleams
scarlet, gold, and green,
like the flashing facets
of a polished stone,
giving back the beams
of the falling sun.

Hid in a crevasse
open the to the west,
two precious stones
shine brighter than the rest;
young lovers there
with gold-light in their hair.

They pause to embrace
and gaze out at the skies.
He strokes her face
and stares into her eyes…

"O my dove in the cleft of the rock…"

Golden-gleaming;
California Dreaming.

Summation

I pause by the trail in that last gleaming moment
when a portal in the west seems to open
and the world is washed in an ambient flood
of silvery light, soft rose and violet,
tinting the hills and mountains around
in the sacred twilight colors of dream,
wrapping, uniting them into one scene.

And the clouds spread forth their rippling waves,
eloquent, glowing patterns of praise.
There are no words, and yet I see language;
there is no sound, yet I hear a message,
a summons gone out to all of the living,
which everyone seems to hear and to heed.

Windblown trees full of trembling leaves
bow down their tossing crowns beneath
the beauty of the radiant sky.
A living river of gulls streams by,
floating on air, silver wings beating
a rhythm of time against the eternity
figured above; drawn like a magnet
into the burning gold of the sunset.

And so is the whole of living Creation
drawn toward some final summation;
So are all things regathered in Love.