An Old Man on the River Bank

by George Seferis

And yet we should consider how we go forward.
To feel is not enough, nor to think, nor to move
nor to put your body in danger in front of an old loophole
when scalding oil and molten lead furrow the walls.

And yet we should consider towards what we go forward,
not as our pain would have it, and our hungry children
and the chasm between us and the companions calling from the opposite shore;
nor as the bluish light whispers it in an improvised hospital,
the pharmaceutic glimmer on the pillow of the youth operated on at noon;
but it should be in some other way, I would say like
the long river that emerges from the great lakes enclosed deep in Africa,
that was once a god and then became a road and a benefactor, a judge and a delta;
that is never the same, as the ancient wise men taught,
and yet always remains the same body, the same bed, and the same Sign,
the same orientation.

I want nothing more than to speak simply, to be granted that grace.
Because we’ve loaded even our song with so much music that it’s slowly sinking
and we’ve decorated our art so much that its features have been eaten away by gold
and it’s time to say our few words because tomorrow our soul sets sail.

If pain is human we are not human beings merely to suffer pain;
that’s why I think so much these days about the great river,
this meaning that moves forward among herbs and greenery
and beasts that graze and drink, men who sow and harvest,
great tombs even and small habitations of the dead.
This current that goes its way and that is not so different from the blood of men,
from the eyes of men when they look straight ahead without fear in their hearts,
without the daily tremor for trivialities or even for important things;
when they look straight ahead like the traveller who is used to gauging his way by the stars,
not like us, the other day, gazing at the enclosed garden of a sleepy Arab house,
behind the lattices the cool garden changing shape, growing larger and smaller,
we too changing, as we gazed, the shape of our desire and our hearts,
at noon’s precipitation, we the patient dough of a world that throws us out and kneads us,
caught in the embroidered nets of a life that was as it should be and then became dust and sank into the sands
leaving behind it only that vague dizzying sway of a tall palm tree.

Cairo, 20 June ’42

–Read at St. Lydia’s on December 11

Before Names

by Adélia Prado

I don’t care about the word, that commonplace.
What I want is the grand chaos that spins out syntax,
the obscure birthplace of “of,” “otherwise,”
“nevertheless,” and “how,” all those inscrutable
crutches I walk on.
Who understands language understands God,
Whose Son is the Word.  It kills you to understand.
Words only hide something deeper, deaf and dumb,
something invented to be silenced.
In moments of grace, rare as they are,
you’ll be able to snatch it out: a live fish
in your bare hand.
Pure terror.

–Read at St. Lydia’s on November 27

Sermon: John 1:3b-4

Read Emily’s latest sermon, “Life in Technicolor,” on her blog, Sit and Eat.  The sermon is part of our exploration of the Gospel of John.

Books on the Gospel of John

From Advent through Easter, St. Lydia’s will be exploring the Gospel of John.  If you’re interested in learning more about the fourth gospel, Emily recommends the following texts:

“Written That You May Believe,” an intriguing and readable introduction to the Gospel with a femenist perspective, by Sandra M. Schneiders.

Raymond E. Brown reconstructs the history of the Johannine Community in his work, “The Community of the Beloved Disciple,” and offers succinct commentary on the text itself in “The Gospel and Epistles of John.”

FInally, Craig R. Koester provides a introduction to the themes and motifs of John in his book, “Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel.”

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks

by Jane Kenyon

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner’s plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

–Read at St. Lydia’s on December 4

Sermon: John 1:3a-4

During the season of Advent, we are reading (about) one verse of the first chapter of John each Sunday.  Read Emily’s latest sermon “Not right but true,” on her blog, Sit and Eat.

Elementary Cosmogeny

–Read at St. Lydia’s on November 20

Stuffing

We had this stuffing with the Potato Mushroom Casserole last Sunday, and Lord was it good.  This recipe feeds a large group-we were about 15 and had some left over.

Ingredients:

2 16 oz bags of croutons
Approximately 8 cups vegetable stock
2 fennel bulbs
3 small yellow onions
Fresh sage
1-2 lbs mushrooms
8 oz wild rice
2-3 cups pecans
2 cups cranberries

Directions:
Chop the fennel, onion and mushrooms.  Sautee fennel and onion in olive oil till they sweat, then add the mushrooms.  In a separate saucepan, heat the stock to simmer.  Place croutons in a large stock pot and add the hot stock.  Melt the butter and add it to the croutons, then add the cooked fennel, onion and mushrooms.  Chop pecans and add them, along with the cranberries, to the mix.  Delicious!

–Prepared with our help by Jen on November 20, 2011

Potato Mushroom Casserole

This is Martha Stewart’s recipe for the delicious Potato Mushroom Casserole Jen made for us last Sunday!

Ingredients:

Sermon: Ephesians 4:1-7

Read Emily’s latest sermon, “What. Just. Happened?” on her blog, Sit and Eat.