Ash Wednesday Collection

collecting lent

Harvey S. Mozolak

embrace us

in this bruised season

where the cold has broken branches

and allowed our tears to seep beneath

rotting the rooms where we live

make Lent a shelter

to weather our worst

under your sparse 

but protecting rafter 

offering a holy hereafter 

stroke of ash

Harvey S. Mozolak

passwords they say

ought to include

letters like found in a word

numbers perhaps three

and at least one symbol

the carbon code on the fore wall

before the thought and thinking

above the eyes and mouth

between the hearing

the choice of God

divine secret shown in Christ

of the three

his cross

stoking the fires of hate

the ashen stroke

printing in the dirt

the earth's opening

beyond burial dust

accumulation 

Harvey S. Mozolak

over the years by decay 

dense and darker 

the topsoil grows 

with dead matter 

rotted flowers and wilting weeds 

in the corners 

behind and in the seams 

the dust deepens 

like a quiet indoor snowfall 

from unseen drying clouds 

parched where we were placed 

make and take refuge 

wood-raftered room 

under the endless roof 

shingles 

stars and hair 

flake away like layers 

of skin sloughed 

by what we are 

do and do not do 

draw intersecting lines 

rigid right angled to each other 

in the dirt 

breath expelled 

will gather us there 

blow the trumpet in Zion 

Joel 2. 1-2, 12-17 

Harvey S. Mozolak

clang the alarm 

ring the threat bell 

not the weekly check of the system 

followed by the all clear 

to move into Monday 

sound the trumpet to arms 

caution the careful to care 

alert the fragile 

the young and occupied 

even the baby and bride 

high from the community pole 

change the code color to red 

dripping down its wooden stem 

warning 

entering dangerous days 

the nearness of the Lord 

left hand ignorance to right doing 

pair of gloves, left 

Matthew 6. 1-6, 16-21 

Harvey S. Mozolak

absent-heartedly my hand 

reaches into my pocket to check 

the security of my wallet 

walking toward the man 

in the tattered brown coat 

thick wiry beard 

strange wide eyes 

on a rusty face 

of wind-sanded skin 

three stores down 

if he moves toward me 

will loose change do 

to step around? 

my shopping list: 

sauvignon blanc 

red peppers 

bathtub spray 

dilled cauliflower 

accidentally comes out 

with the two quarters 

three dimes a nickel 

and seven pennies 

and a twenty sticking to the grocery note 

stealing my secret fear 

ambidextrous 

pair of gloves, right 

Matthew 6. 1-6, 16-21

Harvey S. Mozolak

her story is of no interest 

it will be sad 

long and demanding 

she with her gaunt children 

their stringy hair 

untied shoes and misbuttoned shirts 

how can she afford to wear a watch? 

mine says 12:40 in the afternoon 

their faces stained by the street 

this small thin trinity 

mother with boy and girl 

offering me 

a chance for a hardly noticed fast 

on the way to lunch 

in the closet of my chest 

my heart flutters for a moment 

a moth rousted 

escaping the light 

for an alley 

there to the side of that store

a Wednesday before

Harvey S. Mozolak

encroaching on laughter

descending at merriment

disquieting contentment

and veiling our pretty faces

with the visage of divine suffering

Lent leans into the week

Ash Wednesday arrives

a date the printer knew

last year and sold to us

on the glossy page of a calendar

several months ago

for a recent turn or rip

—we have done no shopping for the holiday

no baking, cooking or cleaning

and the only decoration—

the dust has settled more slowly

but names can be written

deeply on the covered wood

walling us from the mere counting

of time

in a dusty day

the storage chest

Matthew 6. 19-21

Harvey S. Mozolak

the hinges rusted

needing a rib or cane 

a stick to pry open

a coronary-shaped lock 

that can be by-passed

loose hanging

its curved metal artery barely

holding a silent cold steel fist

in frozen defiance

that once held the combinations 

of minutes moments hours and events

the lining moth-holed and torn

and what is stored there

within is the wealth

of being buried and uncovered

by the seeking heart of God

restored as ardent and abiding treasure

almsgiving, prayer and fasting

three devotional legs of Lent

  Matthew 6. 1-18

Harvey S. Mozolak

i

music for trumpeting 

the giving of alms:

pianissimo 

with the refrain in silence

the tone 

deafness

a tune handed 

by an anonydextrous giving

to those who are songless

ii

standing like a little cathedral

on the corner

the minister in a dark blue suit

with a golden cross on the lapel

stands loudly

praying for pedestrians

that their shopping be fruitful

their business successful

and lunch longer than an hour

off to the side down the alley

leans a stubbled face

stumbling legs

blood-shot eyes

and a mouth that smells and mutters

“O God, O God, O God….”

the door to a closet prayer

iii

fasting can not be done quickly

one skipped meal

the arch in the belly

a slightly lightened head

and somewhat heightened senses

the emptiness must deepen

stretch the skin of the soul

a hunger must house the hidden

oil the thoughts

clear the vision

of a God within 

a filling with an ache

for more

wednesday marking

Harvey S. Mozolak

on my head

enthorn your image

rooted with the soil

where sharpened pain

grows dense

as thicket

barbed enclosure

around your thoughts

forsaken in human words

fence of forever

unangeled now ungated

burns the brow

bloods the head

blinds the strength

of God like Samson

to a pole

column of all who crowd

and celebrate the earth

by whose fall

will all come down

oak to ash

dirt to dust

mark our ruin

in this destruction

judge of our salvation

crown-marked

a barren brown tree-cloud

above your closing eyes

each drop of red

the fruit replaced

thumbing God

Harvey S. Mozolak

ride on ride on

in misery

can we hitch

hike along

with you

to the crossroads

where we will thumb

our noses

at how you carry us?

criminal smudge on plate and cup

Harvey S. Mozolak

ashes burned

from Jerusalem branches

so fine they fill the furrows

of the thumb print

following marking the foreheads

of the faithful trudging 

toward the place of the crime

corpse of the murdered 

modeled on the wood

lined like accused before the judge

to kneel as if before their graves

for fingerprinting the guilty

the broken dead and shed

on their tongues

and flaming their throats

with declared innocence

Lent-marked

Harvey S. Mozolak

burned branch

thrust into a hole-shadow 

imprinted 

plugging the soil

smudges of dust 

bound to our brows

we wear this cross 

on which he wore us

as nakedness

breathless blood

dripped into the earth

his hidden wet roots 

crowning the way

walked below the heavens

growing up as the God-man

Harvey S. Mozolak

he has left the bed

of animals

Joseph borrowed a house

from some distant kindly relatives

and he is walking now

it seems early

but somehow nothing he will do

will probably be premature

when he walks around the room

outside in the small street

and at the nearby field where Mary

takes him for air

it is like he is a wild creature

caged or un-caged

it is difficult to tell

Auden called him a tiger

once I versed him a panther

his Book said behold a lamb

he has begun to hunt

and stalk evil where it is found

in the neighborhood and nation

like a child who cannot let a pet or beast

be still he will find the foe

and confront its tottering stand

with childlike simplicity of spirit

himself the taunted prey

he the serious game in grace

this is where my Father

sent me to walk

and take a stand

in a sapling

he tells Mary he wishes today to climb

to see beyond Bethlehem's soft beginnings

she warns him of its dangers

one hand to each low branch

he places

he has not yet strength to climb

will the pure and holy virgin

aid this early crucifixion?

are these the lion claws of Judah mounting

he the treed king of beasts?

straw pole

Harvey S. Mozolak

a hey for the hay

he’s bailing us out…

born beneath

the post

holding up the roof

of a barn

with stars stowed

in the rafters

caught

Harvey S. Mozolak

a manger moment

caught in time

frozen figures

warm God

caught just in time

for life beyond

refigured

God’s yes

Harvey S. Mozolak

one large brown leaf

enough to cover

our fall?

December speaks

through the spokes of tree limbs

beyond the stars themselves

a knowing “no”

in the nakedness of God

earthbound

table of Christ

Harvey S. Mozolak

the fragrance of setting

the communion table

wine unstopped

sharp free opened grapes

aged sweet and mellow

leaping to awareness

a life beyond the flask

beyond into the air

unseen but tasted

bread one whole

ready to be broken

and passed to hands

warm like awaiting ovens

faucet shut off

Harvey S. Mozolak

the phrases flow

wetting with ebony

a great deal of paper

with drying thoughts

of the ever God bowed

bent and twisted

into the dates of Augustus

but after the twenty-fifth

we quit counting

and only he does

for us

Christmas Sursum

Harvey S. Mozolak

cold this night when the night

creates anew all days

and an infant’s birth and breath

begins the opening of all graves

and closed hearts

when a baby’s beginning cry

are the first words of God

in our living human tongue

God singing to silence

angry un-quietude with peace

come here and near

and offered to us

the blood of God surging

in the cup Mary bears

and Joseph lifts up

diminishing the morning light

with the tiny tender struggling body

we receive and hold as warmth

o magnum mysterium

Harvey S. Mozolak

the enclosed within

maiden-held God

o great the small

he the I AM of all

mystery come to dust

and flesh for faith

in the greatness of the unseen

contained for us

to blanket bind bruise

bleed and bury
for from his bandages

the blessing of healing will come

post feast post

Harvey S. Mozolak

when it is over

all that is left

the red tail lights

left from looking

down the streets

of strung blinking lights

the cold pots and dishes

soaking in the sink

lost Legos making their way

deeper into couch cracks

and the flesh of gifts

crumpled un-ornamental

balls bagged for the trash

he is off to Egypt amid slashes of red

washed and walking the shore of the sea

then like a prayer shoved into the seams

of the walls of the city-promised peace

the earth unraveled

rutted with ruin

is his swaddling for death

and when it is over

all that is left

is his life posted

that we might live

afterWord and feast

gloria

Harvey S. Mozolak

above the wool-dotted field

a corona of angels

lights and warms a flock of men

as yet manger-unknown

lamps lit to lead

to the light of life’s new breath

where Joseph whispers

Mary quietly sighs

as the baby cries

in a barn’s darkness and cold

higher than the hills

Harvey S. Mozolak

the angels are painted

in glory about the madonna

with the Christ-child

a picture that did not take place

others with cows

donkey and sheep show

although

the unclean shepherds

crowding within

under the loft of hay

peaking beneath the straw

at the blanketed babe

have just seen

been to a concert

of an angelic choir

their hearts must still

beat in blessing

thump and trumpet

with the high praise

shepherds’ flocked praise

Harvey S. Mozolak

song from sky

sad and hurt bleats

among lost lambs

ewes and rams below

readied for sacrifice

a tree cold

covered with rare snow

for the star of stars has fallen

for the herd has been heard

by God

art by Moze

Shawn A. Mozolak

2015

earth kept

by king David’s greatest child

God’s sole Son

we are held

in the keep of the Shepherd of Israel

fed in the lowly Lamb’s manger

by the living staff of life

wood- one day his scepter of mercy

hoc est corpus meum

chaliced in our hands

HSM

2015

Seasonal Advantage

Have you noticed that from morning soft news shows to local noon TV and even through public service and plain old sales promotional advertisements there is an attempt during this month to highlight, underline and “stir up” interest in using the December weeks to strengthen relationships, family ties and the doing of positive social things.  Find a way to give more, to feel and share peace and joy and understanding.  In fact, it is a yearning for Advent amid the pre-Hollydaze-ing muzak noise and over-bright light displays.  A search for family and friendship of God amid war and anger, hybris, hunger and hatred.  A search, sadly that will not find until we are found in the infant-small— God’s greatness in the December weak.   

I know the following and some previous posts are not poetry but now that I am not preaching every Sunday, it still is good to work in the homiletical medium:

ChristMass 

The message “some assembly required” comes on many of the boxes gift wrapped for all ages.  The manger is in a simple sense a box for God.  Certainly the blessed Virgin’s womb earlier was perhaps a warmer and friendlier wrap, that is, if the infant had been only human… but the packaging of God, the wrapping of glory with the tangles of time’s ribbons crammed into all the containing surfaces and corners of space, no matter where, must not have been comfortable for the God-man, Jesus the Christ.  Nevertheless he comes because some disassembly is required.  The God who created all things in perfection and peace and who watched all things be refit together for the human will and desire and not God’s intents and plans must now disassemble evil’s contortions, sin’s turns away and the change into the curvatus in se that the human heart finds acceptable and good.  The reassembly of the God and human relationship begins anew in the feed box at Bethlehem.  Sadly we use the tools of ropes, nails and hammer and he only his love, an open gift for us.  

Advent in North Carolina

Ever since I saw Ben Long’s fresco in the Roman Catholic church in downtown Charlotte, NC a few years back I have been interested this artist’s religious works.  The fresco which covered a whole large chancel wall which spanned from one side of the church to the other— is no more, fallen from the wall, thanks to some demolition at a nearby construction site.  But other smaller, earlier frescos adorn the chancel areas of several Episcopal parishes north of Boone, NC.  The Last Supper fresco is well worth seeing at one of them but during Advent his two smaller frescos depicting St. John the Baptizer and St. Mary mounted on either side of a rural chancel come to mind.  I had opportunity to see them in person this fall.  John is portrayed in a full sense of a wild prophet.   The blessed Mother of God is depicted in full pregnancy, about as round as possible.  Some might say, “She is really showing.”  It is after all Advent.  Much demolition is going on and many murals of the faith have fallen.   His comings— then, now in Word and Sacrament and again in the fullness of the eschaton— should be as evident in us and in our lives to encourage some to comment on our living portraits, “You are really showing… showing forth the Messiah, the Jesus, the Lord of the Universe.”

Christmas Eve with John and Luke

after the last gospel

driving home

dismissed among 

the night snow showers 

lit by a lantern moon

small clouds passing 

among the stars on the deep

between the altar’s high hung crucifix

and home around 

the balsam tree’s glittering globes 

and lights for the eve of the entry

of the first gospel procession

Adventuring Days

The newborn in California was an abandoned baby girl found in the debris of asphalt and rubble near a river on a bike path.   Read as a news headline, online:  “Newborn in stable condition after being found 'buried alive' in Los Angeles”   In the context of a day in Advent reading, it first sounded like, “Newborn in stable…  condition after being found buried alive….”  Drop the Los Angeles for a hillside full of Angeles and you have the incarnation at Bethlehem.   Christ the Son of God buried in a girl’s womb in the whereabouts of barn animals and the vast multitude of earth’s sinners.  

Buying into December Days

The catalog of religious items for Christmas, features— with free shipping (although Mary must have noticed the weight during the nine months, a rather long Advent wearing blue as she traditionally does!)— a “Vintage Nativity.”  Vintage has the meaning of something to do with grapes or wine (or maybe in this context, blood?) and also something to do with the period in which something (or someone) was made or begun (or again in the context of Advent, the only begotten conceived of the Virgin spring by the wind of the Holy Spirit).  Anyway, is this too much symbolism?  But the ad for the nativity notes the it is a wire construction and brings to mind the wire that often surrounds securing the cork in a bottle of wine.  (sorry for the symbol stuff again)  Then again the ad says that it can be easily molded back into shape if becomes distorted in storage.  Ahh…  it just begs, does not the words of the ad in the Word of the season, for talk about the distortion of sin and how the one stored in the womb comes in the manger to mold us back into the shape of the sacred.  So far the distortion of the ad reading.  What do you think, do you buy into more than symbolism and the wire held nature of the season?

COVERING THE STORY

The cover photo on the ELCA’s December edition of “The Lutheran” magazine is a nativity by He Qi, a Chinese artist who along with Japanese print artist Sadao Watanabe are personal favorites.  The vibrant pink-clothed blessed Virgin holds the infant Lord on her lap under the watchful eyes of dimly lit purple animals, Joseph and perhaps a shepherd holding a lantern.  The swoop of an angel curved above is also more muted than the Madonna and child.  While the piece is all is done in more Oriental motifs than the usual Western paintings normally traditional on Christmas cards and postal stamps one thing is out of place for any traditional, realistic nativity scene.  (Although this year’s US “religious” stamp is several years old because one might assume they haven’t sold out of it and exhausted supplies in a couple of years.  Does that say something about the phasing in of electronic greetings or the phasing out of religiosity in our greetings… at least on our envelopes?)  Here’s the thing that is noteworthy:  the baby holds in his tiny hand a bright, round, red apple.  Hardly soft infant fare.  He is bringing it back for the tree.  Obediently he will replace himself, as fruit for the forbidden bitten, on its branches, bright, red juice of his veins running down its cut grooves and trunk.  

In the jargon of philately envelopes are called covers…  this is a season of uncovering as the story is covered of our God covered with flesh.