Obviously, with this pandemic, people are not gathering in person anymore, and this morning was our first online worship. It was already scheduled to be the Annual Poetry Service and, given that poems have the power to soothe and heal, they kept it on the agenda with, appropriately enough, the theme of Abundance.
I went up to the church this past Monday to record my selection (don't worry, the half-dozen of us practiced social distancing!), and prefaced my reading with this introduction:
"I have been a follower of Joy Harjo's poetry for decades. She was named U.S. Poet Laureate in June 2019, and it was a joy and an honor to see and hear her at the Miami Book Fair this past November. Little did I know, way back on February 1 when I submitted this poem for inclusion in the River of Grass Poetry Service, how relevant it would be."
I logged on through the Zoom platform, which I have never used before, about 30 minutes early, to make sure I figured out how (I did!), and at 10:30, the service began. It flowed so smoothly (kudos to Zena for coordinating, and Rebecca for her tech work), from one pre-recorded segment to another: piano pieces, the lighting of the chalice, our covenant reading, Rev. Amy's heartfelt transition prayers, and then readers of the poems. Amy ended with the Lynn Ungar (another UU minister) poem and, after the chalice extinguishing, the group was unmuted, and we were able to say hello to each other, wave, and speak. Also, there was a live chatbox throughout, where we could type our thoughts (Joys and Concerns, etc.). I cried through just about the whole thing.
I do feel proud to have conquered my technoweenie self to participate, and I look forward to future Sundays, until the day we are able to gather... Together... again.
P.S. Also, this by author John Green. Wow!
SONG: Together by Susan Werner
BOOK: A Handbook for Badass Spiritual Warriors: Eleven Powerful Practices To Ignite your Spiritual Connection by Corinne Lebrun M.S.
POEM(s): Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Pandemic by Lynn Ungar
What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.
And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.
Promise this world your love–
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.
QUOTE: "Anybody can observe the Sabbath, but making it holy surely takes the rest of the week." ~ Alice Walker
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