For Judy Love Perry, August 9, 2026. You are loved and never lost.

The Jesus I Know
After Matthew 14:22-33

The Jesus I know
is here, walking on
the dark, chaotic
waters of my life at 4 a.m.

The Jesus I know
plunges arms beneath 
waves and raises me.

O soul, never forget:
no storm overtakes
no doubt ruins
the Jesus you know.
You will sink
and Jesus will save.

I don't know how
to make sense of today.
I don't know why I am
so afraid. I don't know why
the gutting anguish seems 
stronger than the Jesus I know.

Yet Jesus keeps reaching down
and I keep coming up.

Lord, lift me.
Lord, lift us.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read this poem.

One of the things that I keep coming back to as I read Matthew 14:22-33 is that Peter, the rock upon which Christ built the Church, experienced significant fear and doubt, even while seeing Christ overcoming the very things he was afraid of. Jesus gave Peter no reason, in that moment, to doubt that he would be okay. Yet, Peter does.

Peter reminds me of myself—and perhaps that’s the point. Jesus didn’t invite people to follow who were nearing perfection. He invited people who needed life with and in God—the sick, the broken, the poor—anyone who felt even the slightest tinge of desperation.

This is the Jesus I am getting to know. Sometimes it can feel like struggling isn’t allowed—God forbid in Christian community! But here stands Jesus—I AM—who reaches down to lift Peter. Jesus could’ve said, “Peter, your doubt is too much. You need to learn your lesson. I’m not going to pull you up, you must sink or swim!”

This story to me is the whole gospel: Jesus comes down, and we go up. Jesus’ life becomes ours so that our life can be united with his in death, resurrection, and union/glory.

How does Matthew 14:22-33 impact you, or my poem inspired by it?

The Real World
after Isaiah 55:1-5

The pantry is empty.
The water bill towers.
How tired I am
of this real world.

Yet, this is not
the real world.
The real world
is the one God
introduces and 
invites us to live in.

"Come, everyone
whose stomachs 
are hollow and
whose lips are cracked.
I am loyal. I delight in you.
Delight yourself in my friendship.
Delight yourself in my food and drink."

"I'm hosting
a party. I'm
blessing, breaking,
and providing for all. 
Here, all
you need is a broken
heart. Here, all
you need is aching emptiness
from broken promises.
I am known to nourish
and sustain."

"All I ask is
you build bigger
tables for more hungry and
thirsty people.
All I ask is
you see people
as I do."

"I will give food
unending.
There will be uncountable
leftovers."

God,
help me live
in the real world.

—

Thanks for reading this week’s poem. It means a great deal that you would take the time to stop here. I hope the poem spoke to you.

A major point of inspiration for this poem came from Eugene Peterson’s The Contemplative Pastor: Returning to the Art of Spiritual Direction (1993), where he describes a fictitious interaction with a parishioner following a worship service:

“‘This was wonderful, Pastor, but now we have to get back to the real world, don’t we?’ I had thought we were in the most-real world, the world revealed as God’s, a world believed to be invaded by God’s grace and turning on the pivot of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection…I believe this new kingdom is already among us. That is why I’m a pastor, to introduce people to the real world and train them to live in it.”1

That part of the book caused me to think seriously about how I view the world. If I think the visions of hope and promises in the Bible are some far-off reality that sounds nice but is ultimately wishful thinking, then I will only add to the present madness. But if I believe that Isaiah 55 is about a God who encompasses everything here and now and not only in a spiritual sense, I must take a second look at the world. Think also about Jesus feeding more than 5,000 people; was that a blip or a doorway through which to see reality? We need to think carefully about what the world is. What is at creation’s core, its foundation? What “bottoms” existence (as Thurman would say, following Meister Eckhart)? If the answer is God, Love, or Life, then all the practices and assumptions about death and moral compromise are truly a sham—and we are living counterfeit lives.

I have said before that the Kingdom of God is here and not yet. I’m going to rearrange the sentence so that it doesn’t end with negation: The kingdom is not yet and here.

Isaiah 55 reminds me of a certain Irish rockstar, whom I think of highly, who made popular the saying, “Poverty is man-made.”

Ouch.

I don’t know about you, but I’d like to live in the real world. I’d like to contribute, as broken as I might be (though I am on the mend, as are you), to the real world.

How about you?

Above the Roof's Ridge
Above the roof’s ridge
of the house across
the street,

dazzling clouds—
a new and never again
formation seen by
my coincidental gaze
and the few dozen others
who looked.

I know they are
in motion, but they
seem to linger
in the setting sun.

I know they are
heavy, but their
lightness lifts me.

I don’t know why
I looked up,
why I sat at
the red table,
which shakes with
every pen stroke.

I don’t know why
my eyes become
heavy from the
incompleteness
of life—
and my desire for
completeness,
which is God
and God is
playing with clouds—
I hate to interrupt.

But I know
I’m here.

Is there anything
more important?

If you are new to Sunday Poems, I mostly write poems in conversation with biblical passages, but on occasion, I’ll write a devotional poem that I feel is worth sharing.

I know a lot is going on in the world. There is so much to do. I found myself today in a fog of acceleration—the worst pace for writing!

Luckily, God per the clouds, reminded me that sometimes the only thing that really matters is existing. If we do exist (which I’m pretty sure we do, as did Descartes), it’s worth taking note of every once in a while. Existing, reflecting, pausing, meditating is a moment when “we make room for God so that he may speak the first and last word about us, and then receiving that word, whatever it may be, for all eternity.”1

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Hello
After Romans 8:12-25

I hate saying goodbye—
it's a word I wish
didn't exist or ever needed to be said.

O how I would rather
enjoy everything
and have the best
of all worlds!

But the life before me
 consists of many necessary goodbyes:

goodbye striving;
goodbye me-first;
goodbye people pleasing;
goodbye regretful habits
and self-sabotage;
goodbye transactional relationships;
goodbye meaningless dreams;
goodbye comfort;
goodbye false safety.

I say goodbye
because the Spirit pulls me
forward and whispers in faithful love:
"Everything is found on the cross, 
everything consists of dying on it, 
there is no other road to life."

The Spirit teaches me an even better word
after goodbye:

"Hello."

Hello death;
Hello resurrection;
Hello union;
Hello new family;
Hello true riches;

Hello new me;
Hello new you.

—

Hello again, it’s been a few weeks since my last poem. My family and I have successfully relocated to the Georgia-Tennessee border near Chattanooga, and we are enjoying the new scenery and working through all the ups and downs of beginning a new chapter.

—

Why did I emphasize the idea of saying goodbye in this poem? Paul didn’t know the Roman church, or churches, when he wrote this letter, but he chose to remind those Christians to stay the course of their new life in Christ, and not to give in to their previous destructive tendencies.

But let’s be honest, we all compromise—we see the heights and depths of love to which we have been called, and then we have to, you know, live in a world that isn’t always hungry, on the surface, for that way of living, and so the Gospel becomes our background music, instead of the main song within.

We often compromise because we don’t want to suffer. But what I’ve learned recently is that no matter what, suffering finds us. And the more we try to avoid it and get it away, the more we find it. Compromise looks like living many lives, being different people in different situations. It’s fragmented and contorted. We can either suffer for holy and worthy endeavors, or we can suffer by pursuing everything else. Either way, we can’t escape it.

If we are going to turn toward a more faithful and enriching life, we need to say goodbye to certain things. When I look at my own life, I see a lot of hesitation, and I worry about failing and letting people down. But if I don’t say goodbye to those ideas and worries, my fears will become my reality. So this is the dynamic: we don’t want to suffer, so we do all in our power not to suffer, and then we create our own realities that lead nowhere good.

Leave a comment below if you think being human is fun!

The Christian life is the constant practice of saying goodbye to the fake and false visions of life before us and turning to say yes to Christ. It’s all so, so hard. I wish saying goodbye wasn’t part of Christ-formed life, but it is. I wish failure weren’t part of growth. Every genuine spiritual pursuit requires goodbyes. And it’s humbling.

But I think what Paul is trying to do in Romans is not just talk about the things we need to rid ourselves of and say goodbye to; he’s trying to help us see what new things we get to welcome and what is worth suffering for.

Like the painting above of the man on pilgrimage, he had to say goodbye to his old home, his old habits, his old life patterns, but on the journey, he is forced to lighten the heavy load he carries. Eventually, he gets to say hello to a new life. Even if he returns to his former home, he’s changed and grounded in God.

This new life in Christ is nearer than we might think and is rooted in practices that aren’t attractive or showworthy, but it is filled with overflowing goodness.

What does Jesus want for all of us? New and abundant life. It's going to require some difficult goodbyes, but it is worth it. I’m saying all of this to remind myself just as much, if not more, as I am reminding you.

Lastly, the line in this week’s poem, "Everything is found on the cross, everything consists of dying on it, there is no other road to life." Is an adapted quote from Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ, book 2, chapter 12: “Of the Royal Road of the Holy Cross.” Translated by William C. Creasy.

See any typos in this post? It’s proof that these are my real thoughts and words and not generated by AI/LLMs.

“Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

Matthew 10:39

Lose Your Life
After Matthew 10:24-39

Lose your life—
I mean it.
Let Light expose
all illusions.

Lose your life—
find it.
Find it in kneeling service,
in cross bearing, in glad surrender,
and the strange and certain walk
of being a pilgrim
far from home.

Lose your life—
I mean it.
You want Heaven?
It's the flowers of redemption
blooming in ruined and forgotten towns
where Christ walks.

Lose your life. Lose your life. Lose it.
Abandon all and enter
into Christ.

—

The final line of this week’s poem drew inspiration from Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ, where he writes in the voice of Jesus in chapter 56, “My dear friend, the more you can leave yourself behind, the more you will be able to enter into me.”

This week’s poem took many forms throughout the week. I was constantly starting over. Luckily, I was moved by a sermon from Bishop Héctor A. Burgos-Núñez during a service of licensing, commissioning, and ordination at the North Georgia Annual Conference of The United Methodist Church. (I can’t find the link just yet!)

This poem was perhaps hard to finalize because I had to consider my own willingness to take up the cross of Christ and imitate Christ. I didn’t want to just write about it.

These days, it is so tempting to put our ego first and try to find shelter in the public’s gaze, and be well thought of. But what good does that do? Self-emptying gets us closer to God and closer to people. That’s where I’d like to be. Do we want to be on a platform and have many followers and get lots of attention (that often quickly fades or is stressful to maintain), or would we rather find shelter in the riches of knowing and following Jesus and take part in healing and renewing our battered and beautiful world?

*May the grammatical errors and typos in this poem and reflection proclaim that these are my words and thoughts and not generated by AI/LLMs.

Just Laugh
After Genesis 18:1-15; 21:1-7

Just laugh—
your life is so unbelievable,
how your story twists and turns.

Just laugh—
it's all so unbelievable,
what the God of ceaseless promise
does in your most finite seasons.

Your wounds
and joys—
the times you doubted
and gave up—
now translate to wisdom
and become doorways
to joy.

Just laugh—
feel the thrill of
being God's universe.

—

A few things came to mind as I wrote this poem. First, the vast rabbinical discussion on the character of Sarah’s laugh. The Hebrew in Genesis 18 seems to suggest it was a laugh within her, instead of an audible laugh or disbelieving scoff. Some rabbis interpret Sarah’s laugh as a sign that she did not take the visitors’ blessing seriously. But the story unfolds as an invitation to consider her blessedness, and then our own. I often have a hard time accepting the truth about my life and how God has blessed me. I often think, “When will God’s loyalty run out on me? It must have a limit.” Yet we are always held by a God who cannot, nor ever would, break a promise. In my experience, it is just when I feel like God is finished with me, a new season unfolds, and previous scars and wounds are redeemed and turned to wisdom.

The second thing that came to mind is laughter itself. Howard Thurman, Desmond Tutu, Mother Theresa, Teresa of Avila (who is believed to have prayed, “God protect us from sourfaced saints.”), and many other people of the faith were known for frequent laughter. Even Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., just moments before his assassination, had a pillow fight and laughed with his close friends at the Lorraine Motel. These are all people who took their devotion and call seriously and who, at the same time, knew just how important it was to literally crack up.

About a year and a half ago, I made an appointment with an important sage, someone whom I admire greatly. I had a list of questions and concerns that I wanted perspective on. I got about two questions out; the rest of the hour was spent laughing. I didn’t need my worries to subside; I needed to laugh. People of true wisdom know this.

It’s important to laugh. Life is so unbelievable, and God’s sense of humor is everywhere. I’m sure the Kingdom will be filled with laughter. May our moments of questions and disbelief become the places of joy as we recognize just how cherished we are in the story of God.

*Any typos are proof that these are my words and thoughts and not the use of an AI/LLMs.

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To Larry, in appreciation of the handmade pen, from which this poem was written.

“If I only touch his cloak, I will be made well.”

Matthew 9:21

Reach for Me
After Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

Tell me what ails you—
those hidden wounds upon 
your heart, those conditions 
incurable, the tension
of holding it all
together.

Reach for me.

I walk down tired roads.
I sit at tables with image-bearing disasters.

Touch the hem
of my cloak—
healing follows me
everywhere.

I look for very little
and very much: 
weak bodies, broken spirits, 
and strong faith.

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Go as You Are
After Matthew 28:16-20

You do not need to be great
to be called inward, upward, and out.
You do not need to live so fabulously
penitent that all creation and neighbors
know that you are a sinner, though you are,
as am I.

Go as you are.

Let the pilgrimage
and feast and dessert of
life be what it is, and
know, somewhere near
the trembling place of your chest,
that you are never alone.

Go with laughter—as if all you carry
is air. Allow the awe of your new life—so hidden and
alive and broken by the unseen realities
of which you tell—do the work.

Take the words of your story,
though just a working paper,
and find places with water
where God—Father, Son, Spirit—immerse family
in mystery, nearness, and welcome.

No matter who you are
no matter how doubtful and hesitant,
you must go and unite yourself
to the story of all stories.

You must go as you are.

—-

In this poem, I play with the phrase often heard in church, “Come as you are.” In my experience, God certainly welcomes me just as I am, but what is often more difficult to accept is that I am sent as I am.

It would be nice to have it all figured out, wouldn’t it? I would love to know what will happen tomorrow, and to take hold of all the good habits right before me.

Yet God must be a realist.

We do grow and trust God completely now and then, but what’s even more wonderful is God invites us even in messy moments and seasons.

God seems to think we are always good enough.

Thank you for reading, and I hope the words of my poem inspired you to go as you are this week.

A note about Mary Oliver’s influence in this week’s poem:

I often need inspiration when writing. This week, I stumbled upon one of Mary Oliver’s readings of Wild Geese. When you read that poem, you’ll notice that some of the lines and words are directly inspired by it. Oliver, in her poetry handbook, suggests that a way to grow in writing poetry—or writing in general—is by mimicking. I took that advice.

The Vernacular of My Heart
After Acts 2:1-21

Spirit, I don’t understand you. 
I don’t understand much
beyond the simple things
willing to be boxed and neatly
organized. What I can say is
the nature of my life, inwardly speaking,
feels buried, heavy, and far from you.
Somehow I need you to speak
the vernacular of my heart. I
need to know how much I matter
in this world that matters.
I need the force of your
gusts to blow away all the clutter
and dust and realize once
again you are the most faithful promise.
You are the most faithful promise
to all.

→In this poem, I reflect on the significance of the people on Pentecost hearing the works of God proclaimed in their native languages. In my experience, and I think what we see across history, is that our faith is most enlivened when, amidst the millions of people in the world, we sense God speaking to us, and not just surface-level chatter—deep, intimate truths that shatter all illusions. God is completely over all, and at the same time, moves toward us with such specificity. We are called by name, spoken to in the vernacular of our hearts, and empowered to see all things through divine love and promise.

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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?

—

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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.

• - -

Part of the line “I must be crucified / for love” is a quote attributed to Teresa of Avila found in bell hooks’ book All About Love: New Visions.

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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.


---

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To my son, Theodore Lucas, for his 1st birthday. Happy Birthday, Theo.

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.”

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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.

Thanks for reading this week’s poem in anticipation of Sunday’s lectionary scripture of Jesus walking with two disciples on the Road to Emmaus. As I meditated on this scripture, I found it reading me. It revealed just how similar I am to the two disciples who didn’t immediately recognize Jesus. The good news? Jesus doesn’t leave us in the dark. Instead, he offers us presence and patiently waits for us to truly see.

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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.

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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.

He is risen, dear friends!

I am so fortunate to share with you this Easter poem. This poem will appear in This Way to Warmth, a forthcoming collection of poems about the Christian faith by Kilby Austin, to be published by Prisca Publishing. The book releases in June 2026.

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.

Truly grateful to Kilby Austin for sharing her incredible poetic craft through this original Good Friday poem. As the subtitle alludes, she intends this work to be in a triptych form: three literary scenes standing alongside each other.

Here is a photo showing how this poem looks in that format:

Kilby is a homemaker and editor by day, a poet and musician by night, and a fantasist and Christian at all hours. She lives under a cold and windy sky far from her native land and has seen with her own eyes the aurora borealis (the one and only item on her bucket list; she will therefore greet with contented submission the Grim Reaper when he comes). On her substack, she publishes poems old and new, sometimes reads them aloud, and sometimes even sings or illustrates them.

Her poems have been published in The Penwood Review, Anima: Poems of Soul and Spirit, and elsewhere. Her debut collection, This Way to Warmth, is due for release in June 2026 with Prisca Publishing.

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.”

Very grateful to feature an original poem by Matthew White for Maundy Thursday. Matthew White is an Anglican priest, poet and songwriter based in West Sussex in the United Kingdom. His work has been published in The Way Back 2 Ourselves and Paddler Press. Matthew's debut poetry collection, “Propelled Into Wonder,” which explores themes of beauty, faith, leadership, and loss, was published in September 2024 to wide acclaim. Matthew is married to Sarah and they have 3 children. You can connect with Matthew by visiting his website: https://www.matthewwhite.online and by joining the mailing list. You can also follow him on Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/matthewwhitepics and https://www.instagram.com/poetunearthed, and you can subscribe to “Idle and Blessed Poetry” on Substack to receive new and original poems from Matthew direct to your inbox each week: https://idleandblessed.substack.com/subscribe

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.”

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Each week, I write a poem alongside the readings from the Revised Common Lectionary. My goal isn’t to explain the passage or summarize it, but simply to listen—to sit with the text and notice what rises within and lands on the page.

This week, I found myself considering John 11 from Jesus’ perspective. Typically, my poetry is on the shorter side, but this account in John is lengthy. I numbered the stanzas to make it more readable. As you will see, my desire in this poem is for you to peer into the complicated nature of Jesus’ experience—as both fully God and fully man.

As always, you don’t need to follow the lectionary to read along. These poems are simply an invitation to pause and allow your imagination to consider the creative reality of a God who meets us.

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. 

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