by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer And if we can’t save the world, and who says we can’t, then let us try anyway. Perhaps we have no superhuman powers— can’t see through buildings, can’t fly, can’t bend the bars of cages— but we have human powers— can listen, can stand up to, can stand up for, can…
Poem by John Reith as shared on Sunday, September 29, 2024
Cardinal Easter, 2023 A slash of blood against the snow, against the black, barren trees of grief, this regal being in red robes comes with black moustache and beard– his consort nearby flitting in pink petticoats and pale lipstick–to tell you what you loved has not died, but is only sleeping, in another form and…
A poem by Rob Geyer, Maundy Thursday 2022 prompted by an act of vandalism that occurred during the previous night, breaking a window in our sanctuary window in window out does our view shift depending on where we are, inside or out? does the rock that made a hole offer any way for us to…
A poem by German psychotherapist Bert Hellinger, shared at the April 26 Sunday service by Karin Reinhold. Life disappoints you so you stop living from illusions and see reality. Life destroys everything superfluous, until only the important remains Life does not leave you in peace, so you stop fighting, and accept everything as it is?…
by Sue Oringel, for Judith Krause Now that funky Central Avenue is dressed like a bride with lines of Bradford pear trees bursting in white and shad bushes peep from stands of trees showing just a bit of crinoline and magnolias fling their pink or white gloves on newly manicured lawns where redbuds unroll thin ropes…
Inspiring words and music from Jessica Roemischer
by Roger Mock I don’t get to the ocean nearly often enough, that’s for sure. But when I do, as I was able to recently, it is always a kind of homecoming. To stand on the shell-strewn shore and to experience both immensity and peace in the same moment; to smell and taste the salt…
By Roger Mock I don’t get to the ocean nearly often enough, that’s for sure. But when I do, as I was able to recently, it is always a kind of homecoming. To stand on the shell-strewn shore and to experience both immensity and peace in the same moment; to smell and taste the salt…
by Roger Mock You probably know the story of the elephant and the blind men which originated long ago in the Indian sub-continent until it crossed the path of many religious traditions including Jain, Buddhist, Sufi, Hindu and Bahá’í. This morning I discovered this poetic retelling from the 19th century by one John Godfrey Saxe. And Saxe, it turns out, lived his last 27…