We need writing to downshift from fragmentation and overstimulation, to give more of our hearts over to the present moment, and to remember what we discover in those encounters. Poems, for example, are testimony to that very process. In this two-part webinar, poets Victor Klimoski and Samuel Rahberg explore stories of wonder and do-able writing practices that enable any of us to listen.

A book summary in poem-like form, drawing from the author’s own language. In this case, a call to robust and grace-filled love for our neighbors from Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis in Fierce Love: A Bold Path to Ferocious Courage and Rule-Breaking Kindness That Can Heal the World. (New York: Harmony Books, 2021).

A book summary in poem-like form, drawing from the author’s own language. In this case, wisdom for our times from Steven Charleston in Ladder to the Light: An Indigenous Elder’s Meditations on Hope and Courage (Minneapolis: Broad Leaf Books, 2021).

My artist sister, Natalie Rahberg, and I are pleased to announce the release of The Gospel of Luke in Poem and Image. It is our third collaboration with the Gospels, combining my efforts to simplify the text into "reader's poems" with her response expanding the text through visual arts. It is a pleasure for us to share our prayer with others. Enjoy a pair of examples.

In sixteen action-packed chapters, the Gospel of Mark makes haste to convince readers of the good news of Jesus Christ. This collection of ninety-one reader's poems, combined with twenty-seven original pieces of art printed in full-color, offers an inviting first read to those new to the Gospel and fresh perspective to those long familiar with its themes. There is no substitute for reading the Scriptures themselves again and again. This resource, in fact, flows directly from that kind of sustained reading. Like artists throughout the centuries, siblings Samuel Rahberg and Natalie Rahberg have employed the disciplines of written word and visual art to share with others the fruits of their own prayer. May each reader be led back to the Christ revealed in the Gospel of Mark. This project follows The Gospel of John in Poem and Image, released in 2016. Readers have expressed appreciation for the artwork in that piece speaks to them when words are too much and the text for invitations deeper into prayer with the Scripture. Samuel Rahberg is a spiritual director and author in Saint Paul, MN. Natalie Rahberg is a working artist in McKinney, TX.

On the far edge of winter

a frozen lake quakes and groans

as a warm sunrise hints at Spring.

The Gospel of John opens with rich poetic imagery and unfolds into twenty-one chapters full of symbols and signs that point to Jesus Christ as truly human and truly divine. This collection of fifty-six reader's poems, combined with twenty-six original pieces of art printed in full color, offers an inviting first read to those new to the Gospel and fresh perspective to those long familiar with its themes.

There is no substitute for reading the Scriptures themselves again and again. This resource, in fact, flows directly from that kind of sustained reading. Like artists throughout the centuries, siblings Samuel Rahberg and Natalie Rahberg have employed the disciplines of writing and visual art to share with others the fruits of their own prayer. May each reader be led back to the Christ revealed in the Gospel of John.

When pilgrims hear only music in sounds that mean something to those at home, there is no choice but to feel the way into prayer. One can watch for the right time to rise, to bow, to sit. One can listen for the lilt of psalms, hymns and readings. One might even glean a Christo, Maria or Amen, as clear young voices chant in single tones or one side after the other makes balance. Feeling all this, they move beyond listening. Like the winged choir perched on Asian pines nearby, pilgrim hearts draw in close, chirping into the silence, unable to resist the song.

Neither too hot nor too cold

is the greater danger

to common life.

Hot heads fuel fear,

cold hearts still harmonies,

yet nothing sours the will for good

like the bite of indifference.

“Behold,” the Holy One calls, “I stand at the door and knock.”

We may not have

the fire to drive him away

nor the ice to refuse him,

but let us not be caught

humming to ourselves,

pretending he’s not there.

Set down tepid ways,

rise up,

and put a hand to the latch.

What is the point of discipleship

if not to live truthfully

in the Divine Presence,

to make our way, ready for thein-breaking of God’s grace?

Like desert monks we saturate

ourselves with Scripture

that we, too, might dwell in the Word

and put on the mind of Christ.

We who practice

receiving God’s touch

and waiting through its absence

cannot resist meeting joys and challenges

with more and more transparency.

Centeredness wells up

as biblical words and symbols

begin grounding priorities and decisions

in something other than mere ego.

The fullness of Christian life

spills over, then,

into convictions and actions

that serve the greatest good.

Call it prayer, call it lectio,

but do not let it be confined

to quiet moments before dawn.

There is a beauty to these woods

that surpasses even the twilight

sound of the Great Horned Owl

or the crescent moon spilling stars

onto cedar tops and pines.

Were I to sit with the setting sun

warm upon my face,

she might cast a long shadow

of the man I want to be.

The dark form waits patiently,

watching, growing

whether or not anyone looks on.

When brightness makes clear

what does not belong,

it shows more clarity and depth

than cold refusal.

The shadow is sure and ever-faithful,

sometimes cloud-hidden,

never truly absent.

Should darkness fall it does not flee

but settles calmly into

grace-filled unknowns.

May I become one such shadow—nearly unnoticed—a steadfast reminder of the sun.

“¡Más mezcla!, ”the masons cry and we mix sand, soil and cement.

Water dipped from drums pail by pail.

So many bricks. So much mortar.

Pail by pail we dry up a family’s only drinking, only washing.

“Toma la agua,”the mother says, risking all—“for my childrens”—to set a new foundation.

Tonight she will go to the stream,

pail by pail, starting again toward survival.

Tomorrow, “¡Más mezcla!,”and we will again risk with her

to build these children a home.

Slow and steady

tear the grass

grind, grind

iron jaws

keep chewing

drop down

pulling, pulling

raise head

chewing, looking

pause

watch

chewing, chewing

swat tail

pulling, pulling

tongue out

snort, snort

chewing, chewing

stand still,

lift tail

loose patty

chewing, chewing

pulling, pulling

all day long.

We are pails of many colors

shapes and marvelous designs,

searching for somethings—anythings

which will fill us to the brim,

sharing one unfortunate flaw:

We are pails of many holes.

The leaks of imperfection

worsen by hurts and fears

until more is lost than

gained by fetching.

“Pour life into me,” we cry,

“which I might hold and carry.”

and when all passes through

we weep, “If only this or that,

a bit more and fast, then

I would have life to give.”

All the while something

quietly wells up,

a flood rising all around

seeps into every pail,

entering first low openings.

Now within and around

still rising a tide consumes the world.

Higher it flows, fills pails

outside in,

up to the brim, then beyond.

Feigning emptiness we miss this:

we are holy pails submerged

in living waters.