A Holy Week practice, tuning the mind and heart
to the rhythm of days, to the fertile ground of our story, to grace.
The earth is your table, these seven continents,
Oceans spread like a single cloth in blue waves,
Teeming with life, seen and unseen, scented with salt.
This is my Body, you say: this earth, this table, this communion.
To this holy table, which is not to be guarded,
Which is never to be possessed, only to be shared,
We come to feast, we come to share, we come together.
I am the Vine, you say: my heart, my gospel, my vision.
And as we gather, many branches, many in oneness,
We look around, we watch carefully at your table,
As you instructed us to do in the Galilean fields:
Who is missing? Who doesn't know? Who hungers still?
And what can we do to repair the roads?
And what can we do to open the doors?
And what can we do to extend the table?
So that all the children can feast here,
So that all the children can share this harvest,
So that all the children can touch the earth and know.
This table is ours.
This table is our birthright.
This table is the sanctuary where justice
Is broken like bread and joyfully passed
From hand to hand, heart to heart.
3.30.21
Tuesday of Holy Week
DGJ
