Become Witness
After Acts 1:1-11

When I hear the disciples ask Jesus,

“Will you finally do it? Will you finally make Israel
the world’s paradise?”

I hear,

“Are we there yet? Can we finally get that nice, proper
ending—happily ever after?”

But now it’s their turn—
to become witness.

Christ’s life must
become theirs
and their lives must
become Christ’s.

Jesus has such dreams for us—
all of us. Such hope.

Sinners become saints
and the Spirit dwells and empowers
the unlikely and the overlooked.

What good news.

Before you move on
consider how your life
so messy and mostly unsplendid
is a life Jesus thinks of highly.

Why not become witness?

The Spirit
after John 14:15-21

Fear is a false teacher.
Surrender to the Spirit,
The Tutor, and Author
of the most important
and costly and difficult
and liberating way—love.

You say, O Fear, that I am alone,
but as the leaves shake in the nurturing breeze,
the Spirit speaks a truer truth:

Never have you been—never will you be— removed, lost,
or remote in your location from God, who is love.

O Spirit, fill me as expansively 
as you fill clouds with water and ice.
Teach me to love.
I must be crucified
for love.

Home 
After John 14:1-14

The goal of my life
might be a small room
tacked upon Your house, O God—
a place where we’d all fit—
crowded, but oh, so happy—
the type of living arrangement
that's all pure gift.

Someplace in the woods—
thick with creation's chatter.

O, how I long
to be with you there.
I won’t be afraid anymore.
I’ll soak in endless courage.

I'll be home.


---

Safe
After John 10:1-10 & Psalm 23

Wow. 

I am safe—
taken by the Good Shepherd’s
lush, green field and care.

My Shepherd is fearless—
rising with scars after facing
the attacks of the Grave,
kneeling low to bandage 
my wounds and saying, "Here I am."

My Shepherd forever lives,
leading me over Death’s shadow
as I trail joyfully behind.

When the Shepherd looks toward me from afar,
I hear in the breeze: “You are wanted. You are treasured.
You are safe.”

Crack Open My Senses
After Luke 24:13-35

How often beautiful, splendid realities
walk with me, and in grief I am blind.
How often quickening words are said, 
or whispered, and I’ve chosen those 
that cut and dismember true me.

Jesus, you are constant kindness.
Can you lift me from malaise?
I notice a small warmth within 
that You alone can stoke.

May I hear You move in the soft 
snap of bread and the ripple
and glug of wine poured.

Crack open my senses–I mean it–
open them forever. Make all I am
attuned to Your patient
and mending presence
here, now, and always.

Jesus’ Scars
After John 20:19-31

Set your eyes
on Jesus’ scars—
astounding like
peaks above clouds.

Examine, then,
your expectations—
all the outcomes
forecast as dread.

Be as Thomas—
question, wrestle,
allow some disbelief.

Place hands on wounds
and side and let faith
become sight.

Easter by Kilby Austin

There were no herald trumpets at his grave
when angels came to roll the stone away;
the earthquake made the soldiers faint with fright,
and no one saw him rising from the night
or hailed his triumph over death with song.
The angels did their work; then hid from John
and Peter. And when Mary came, her tears
shrouded their glory and dispelled her fears.
Where have you taken him? she boldly cried.
She'd nothing left to lose since he had died.
He is not here, their breif reply she heard;
then turning round, she saw the living Lord
   still humble, hidden at his greatest victory
   unrecognisable—except for faith to see.

A Good Friday Triptych By Kilby Austin

1. On either side, in the middle 
So they took Jesus, and he went out, bearing his own cross, to the place called Golgotha. There they crucified him, and with him two others, one on either side, and Jesus in the middle. John 19:17–18 And in the middle of the square and of the river, and on either side, is the tree of life. Revelation 22:2 

The tree of life my soul has seen
all at a glance where in between 
two sinners hung on either side 
the Lord of life is crucified. 

He bore upon his back for me 
the cross he planted as a tree, 
and though two thousand years have passed
two thousand more it shall outlast. 

Its roots reach down to deepest hell, 
its crown to heaven—oh, who can tell 
its height, its depth, its width, its breadth
that far past east and west has spread? 

Beneath its shadow I recline; 
its fruit is sweet and makes good wine; 
I know no sorrow or disease 
that is not cured by its leaves. 

Up through its branches I will climb 
to where no sun or moon mark time, 
up Jacob’s ladder with a host 
from every land and isle and coast.

Come gaze upon this tree, my friend, 
whose glories blaze and never end—
the wounded limbs now glorified, 
the life that gushes from its side. 

Seems it a rugged cross to you? 
Yet when the Lord makes all things new
this tree of life will still be there, 
the throne of God in heaven’s square. 

2. From top to bottom 
When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his garments and divided them into four parts, one part for each soldier; also his tunic. But the tunic was seamless, woven in one piece from top to bottom, so they said to one another, “Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it to see whose it shall be.” John 19:23–24 
And behold, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Matthew 27:51

Torn is the old that veiled the God. 
The new is woven without a seam. 
“Let us not tear it,” the soldiers nod. 
I put it on.  The cherubs gleam.  

3. Out of his heart 
But one of the soldiers pierced his side with a spear, and at once there came out blood and water. He who saw it has borne witness…that you also may believe. John 19:34–35 And he showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb. Revelation 22:1 

Where streams of living waters flow
my ransomed soul with joy shall go 
and drink the pleasures of the tide
that issues from a piercéd side. 

Oh love that wrenched the rib from him 
to fashion her both life and limb! 
Oh bare and beautiful the fount 
that springs from Eden’s highest mount! 

I see, I see that river’s source, 
which flows through heaven in crystal course 
to water all the Shepherd’s flock, 
forth-springing from a stricken rock: 

Oh Christ! Thou art the fountainhead 
from which our lesser streams are fed— 
thy Spirit, given up in death, 
now gives thy loved ones life and breath. 

No banks or bounds that river hold 
which runs across the streets of gold—
the world’s salt seas it turns to fresh, 
to gardens turns the wilderness. 

How glad the city is above 
that’s built upon such floods of love! 
How glad the people are whose God
in midst of them pours out his blood! 

And oh, how glad, how glad the Bride 
regathered to his opened side! 
Her God, her Man—
his stream, his tree, 
his life—is hers eternally.

He Knew By Matthew White
A poem for Maundy Thursday after John 13:1–17, 31–35

He knew the hour had come.
The meal set before him
his imminent departure—
aperture
through which the light gets in.

He knew every bunion and blister,
every crack, corn, and callus
but kept on stooping low,
coming close,
tending to weary soles.

He knew the power to rule
and the power to cool
every unbaptised ankle,
every foot
refusing to heel.

He knew Peter’s ignorance,
plunged his protestations
in the waters of his mercy.
A purging
and submerging of faith yet to float.

He knew his betrayer.
He knew who was clean
and in need of cleaning.
Words of truth
and life awash with meaning.

He knew examples must be seen
in order to be followed.
He taught with tactile hands
and towels,
wiping away every fear.

He knew true value of love
seen loving, of grace glimpsed,
of fractious, fickle followers
following.
He knew each past and future.

He knew mountains made beautiful
by the feats of those who
bring good news. His new command:
“Love. Love. Love
one another as you have been loved.”

I Belong
After Matthew 21:1-11

Once a swarm
of the most unlikely
paraded the road
up to Jerusalem—

mothers and children,
tax collectors, and Samaritans—
their appearances and lowliness
flipped tables and raised suspicions.

They followed Jesus—
the One who healed,
who cared, who opened
eyes and saw only
potential.

I never fit in—
at least in the way I wished.
Life’s punchline seemed
uttered in inaccessible language.

But among this crowd, I belong.
Among this crowd, my shouts
resound with rocks and birds
and oceans and the truth is told:

“Jesus is my King.
Jesus is the King.”

Lazarus and I AM
After John 11:1-45

1.

Things are so slow around here.
I’m so slow. I’m filthy—my feet
swish in the dust of the earth. I’m also clean.

2.

A message arrives:

“Lazarus is ill, we
inform you because
how much you adore each other.”

I’m not too worried. He’s healthy—
I wish I knew what will happen.
I do, but I also don’t.
I’ll stay put for now.

3.

I’ve rested.
Time to see about
Lazarus. Judea is a frightening place.

4.

Her voice knows sorrow, “You’re too late.
You might as well go.
I thought I could depend on You—
we all did.
Still, if anyone can turn it all back,
it’s You.
But it’s okay—
my faith today is gone,
it will return, maybe.”

5.

Now I’m weeping.
My being is 
a web of contradictions—
I know everything and nothing all at once.
Still, I AM.

6. 

Walking to the tomb.
Everyone thinks it’s
the end. Why, in their eyes,
is everything always ending?

7.

I shout above
the wailing crowd,
“Lazarus—out!”

8.

The air becomes
thick with disbelief.
Smiles return,
tears dissolve—
a few come close, others retreat.
I’ve raised the dead before—
even dry bones.
I AM. 

In Bethlehem
After 1 Sam 16:1-13

I keep coming back to
	the ancient story
		because, deeply, I long 
for an alternative to
contortions labeled as truth.

The ones that say, “Bombs must be dropped.”
and “Winning is everything.”

When Yours says, “The Shepherd will rule.”

I keep coming back to
	the ancient story
		because it is there
I see how You look at the heart
and invite us to hold gifts wrapped in paradox.

I keep coming back to
	the ancient story
		because I need to believe
that in Bethlehem
a new day begins.

And if it can in Bethlehem it can in me.

Woman at the Well by Kassi Wilson
After John 4:5-42

Every day she covers her
face from the bright sun and lugs
empty canisters to Jacob’s well. 

The noonday heat makes her
body wither inside with a deep 
unquenchable thirst. 

This is her lot in life. Fetching
water only to return the next day
to fetch all over again. 

On the outside she appears  
to be a plain old woman 
carrying out a daily task. And yet—

Know one can see that her heart  
burns for salvation. Daily 
she is searching for answers.  

She reaches the stone well as
the crowds disperse. In a moment 
it’s suddenly still and very quiet. 

A man sits down beside her and asks 
for a drink. She’s taken back. Jews 
do not associate with Samaritans 
(especially a Samaritan woman). 

But the Jew speaking with her is not  
an ordinary man. While they converse
together a divine meeting transpires. 

He recounts her deepest secrets. 
The longing she held inside.  
That day she didn’t fill canisters. 
She left with living water. 

Ad Deum
After Psalm 121

On these long days
that stretch and turn 
uncontrollably

we need somewhere to look—
a point to set our weary, restless gaze.

See the hills? See the soaring Presence
that births the world’s mysteries?

May your feet walk toward that place—ad Deum.
May those steps lift you above and hold you within
the wounds and worries. 

---

The Plunge
After John 3:1-17

Plunge yourself
into the Unknown—
into the story that brightens
and breaks all consciousness.

You must be twice-born.
First to your life,
and second 
to the life that God lives.

Take the plunge.

Deep Hunger
After Matthew 4:1-11

There is a deep hunger
beneath my frame.

I silence it with
this and that—
things within reach of
these hands that grasp.

How callous I’ve become.
Like a tunneling candle,
I hardly notice the flame.

But now I see Jesus.

The One who allows
deep hunger's growl.
Instead of quieting it,
Jesus lifts it to the Light.

I want to be like Jesus.
I want to be like Jesus.

Light for the Descent by Bliss Spillar
A sonnet for Transfiguration Sunday

Up the high slope where breath and silence meet,
He leads three friends into the thinning air.
No thunder first, no trumpet at their feet,
Just borrowed quiet, ordinary prayer.

And then His face, familiar as their own,
Turns luminous with uncreated flame.
The law and prophets stand beside the Son,
As cloud and voice pronounce the Holy Name.

Beloved. Listen. Fear dissolves in light.
They fall, undone by glory’s sudden blaze.
But glory will not let them stay in sight
Of brightness kept in carefully built praise.

They must descend where broken bodies cry,
For light is love that learns at last to die.

And here, around the table, we are fed
With that same light now hidden under bread.

Modern Clarion by Rachel Lynne Sakashita
After Isaiah 58:1-12

You perform for justice as you strain
a dreary tenth from all you own, 
you call for a toast to righteousness 
and clink a glass against the 
widows and the fatherless, 
you speak of Me to your neighbor 
only so you may assuage your guilt 
over never before having done so, 
and you implore Me to notice it. 

Do not be mistaken: 
I desire so much less and so 
much more. Confess to Me 
your unmoved heart, and I 
will break it in a thousand ways 
like a farmer tills soil. O silent child, 
please find rest in Me, at long 
last be shattered, bowing in defeat 
to the mercy and joy you once fled.

---

Easily Contaminated by Drew D. West
After Matthew 5:13-20

The earliest harvests
of salt were much like
the condition of my life:
easily contaminated.

Full of fragments and bits
that only get
in the way.

O Teacher, cleanse me.
May my life illuminate
and magnify love 
that makes new.

Inward Minimalism 
After Micah 6:1-8

I befriended complexity,
convenience,
and cast off the essentials.
I reached for the heavens
and missed Heaven
coming down.

My thirst lived on—more, more, more.
My soul, like a cluttered cupboard,
could not find its true form.

But then the Whisperer 
explained a surprising truth:
"Seek inward minimalism—
carry and radiate only a few things, not many."

Justice. Kindness. Reverence.

The Tug
After Matthew 4:12-23

Something at the center
of You reaches for the center of me.

When You say “follow”
I’m torn—I know my life.
There is comfort in the familiarity of my days.

Still, I long to be born anew,
and something in Your eyes announces
a new day—rooted in ancient, clear waters.

Today, I observe the tug.

Today, I follow You.

A Low-Key Invitation
After John 1:29-42

Hear the clumping sounds
of feet walking,
and chattering voices going about their day.

Someone says, “Look—there is
the hope of the world,
walking before you.”

So you stop and think,
and your curiosity takes over,
“Excuse me, can I know where to find you?”

Then, a low-key invitation bearing the potential to change everything:

“Come and see.”

What would you do?

Hope is hard to come by—I'm worn out,
and the world seems to be bursting with brutality.

I'd follow—
and I'd bring you along with me.