“Like dust on golden lampstands:” a poem about releasing our grasp

Here, on the cusp of Holy Week, I’m looking again at the texts that call us always to release our grasp, to let go of our urge to control and define. Thank God for this time to look in a mirror and name what needs to be named within our hearts so that it can hopefully be healed—even just a bit more.

That great hymn from Philippians 2 always calls my soul back. Every time I read it, I am reminded that, when it comes to any discussion of ‘conversion,’ the deep teachings of Jesus’s life insist that I am the one to be converted. Take the plank out of my own eye, as the saying goes.

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross. (Philippians 2:5-8)

Time and time again, we learn (often the hard way) that our practice of faith asks us to nurture a posture of release, of self-emptying. We are called to let go of what we cling to.

Even our images of God. Maybe especially our images of God, because we cling ever tighter to an image that reinforces our sense of control, our agendas.

For the past few days, I’ve been chewing on images for this poem that continued to invite me to consider the experience and invitation of releasing…which is, after all, an exercise of trust. In the broadest sense, it is an exercise in moving away from nouns. What happens then?

Like dust on golden lampstands

Let me not call you God
for that is a wall of stone
stacked high around a living flame.

You are The Creating,
the shining-forth
that will not be contained.

Let me not call you Christ
for that is a name chiseled in rock,
traced countless times 
by tired fingers rubbed raw
who know only the grooves
of well-worn paths.  

You are The Embodying,
the One ever-seeking
flesh and bone to inhabit.

Let me not call you Spirit
for that is a line drawn in the sand,
casting a boundary to divide
here from there, you from me.

You are The Growing,
the pulse of life within all things,
the pushing-forward
who lifts our eyes to the dawn.

Let all names fall away
like dust on golden lampstands,
held by the one who searches,
who welcomes the shadow
as a space where light can dance.

You are The Creating.
You are The Embodying.
You are The Growing.

Let me praise you
until my last breath
and beyond. 

Blessings to all as we step into Holy Week.

Blessings, always,

Stuart