So, I’m sitting in the library of my alma mater waiting for my lunch date to finish her morning class. And I’m trying to write my sermon. So far, I have managed to rearrange my music and my pictures, send some emails, and write some poetry, and tried unsuccessfully to create a new moodtheme. ::sigh:: All the readings are about death. And the only service I’m preaching at on Sunday is the very early one – many old people. ::sigh::

So, a poem on death, and me a 28 yr old preaching on death to a crowd of 70+ year olds.

What right do I have
To speak to them of death
To speak to them,
To the ones who are nearer to it
Than I
To the ones who have known more of life
Than I

Says one voice.

No one can know
Who is closer to death
No one can know
Who lives life fully
Or hardly at all
No one can know
How much someone has learned
How much someone has forgotten

Says another voice.

You have no authority
Says a voice.

You need no authority
Says another voice.

What remains?
(What Would the Dalai Lama Do?)

What remains,
But to speak of death
And the wisdom
Sparked by the holy words
Seen in the world around us
Felt by each
Felt by few

I do not suppose that I am a receptionist
For God
Taking dictation
Putting memos in boxes
“don’t shoot the messenger”
Because they’re not my words
That way leads to infallibility
An illusion born from
Corrupting power

I suppose I am a scholar
I have taken time
To study this wisdom
I have fashioned my life
To be open and listening
Growing and changing
Because of what I hear.

And preaching…
Is what I do,
Today.