This morning, the sparrows

I don’t dare tell the sparrows
they are saving my soul.
That is far too much
for these small creatures to bear,
and they must remain light
to dance on the wind. 

But it is the truth. 

Some speak to me of being saved.
Such words are ankle-deep 
in the ocean of divine love
that washes over me,
dissolving my fear in grace. 

And now, this morning,
with the sparrows singing,
cold wind slicing,
sunlight spilling across the water,
and the budding limbs whispering of
promises held in the earth’s slow tilt. 

I have no time for kings,
for those who tempt my attention
with shrill, hollow words,
a hammer-blow of fear,
wanting to affirm their own importance
in an illusion of grandeur. 

We have known their kind before.
Even names carved deep into stone
fade away in the wind’s mercy. 

My heart adores the sparrows
as they sit on the branches of the tree,
teaching me, once again, what it means
to truly live. 

--Stuart Higginbotham

I am working today on a manuscript that perhaps will go somewhere at some point. But at least the opportunity to slow down and swim in deeper experiences and reflections is a grace in itself.

This poem is an older one, from a couple years ago, I think.

Today I thought of it again when the sparrows were back at their work.

The song says his eye is on the sparrow. We would do well for ours to rest there too.

Blessings,

Stuart

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I am grateful…for a space to listen deeply.

I am grateful…for a community that dares to risk and imagine.

I am grateful…for colleagues and friends who hold a space.

I am grateful…for counselors and guides who encourage.

I am grateful…for friends and family who get me (and whom I get to get).

I am grateful…for glimpses of the divine that make my heart sing.

I am grateful…for laughter that flies through a room.

I am grateful…for dreams.

I am grateful…for the elements that teach me.

I am grateful…for practices that ground me and teach me to trust.

I am grateful…for Spirit that is the life of all.

Here’s to taking time to pause and pay attention. Even in uncertain days—especially in uncertain days—it is essential to pause and breathe and remember the core truth of our being: that all is loved and all is held—together.

Now, go eat a bit of chocolate and walk barefoot outside.

Learn the name of a new bird and tree today. I just think it’s polite.

Blessings to all,

Stuart

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In this final week before my three-month sabbatical begins, I am laying out the basic framework of a routine for my days: full of spaciousness, times of silence, rest, writing, and deep discernment. What might the container look like that will nurture my soul?

My analyst forbade me from trying to develop any type of program or product that I intended to bring back to the parish. He challenged me to let the poetic side of myself take center stage and see what arises organically. He’s crafty and wise.

I have been led to primarily focus on the figure and teachings of St. Brigid. She is the muse for this time (as she has been for a while now). She is a keeper of water and fire to me, and the dynamic between these two elements is core to my understanding of myself. The patron saint of poets, fire and water, creative arts, the hearth. Deep connection with the much older currents of divinity that still flow. Tender of sacred flames and holy wells.

I am paying attention to fascinating threads around active imagination and dreams, dragons and the elements, the healing stories of Jesus. I’ll begin the entire experience at the Florence + the Machine concert on May 1 with dear soul friends! I’ll have the chance to actually explore Yeats’s dream journal at the National Library in Dublin. I’ll go to Kildare to meet with the team who carries on St. Brigid’s work. We’ll spend hours deep in Mammoth Cave. I’ll soak up time in Black Mountain and Asheville. I’ll continue learning the names of the trees on the trails near our house. I will tend my tomatoes and herbs, working on my salves and tinctures. And we’ll have those moments when we just look at one another and smile.

So, I hope to use this next week as an on-ramp to this focused time of rest and reflection. It is a privilege to have this time, but a necessary one, if that is the right description. Thinking of dear Lerita Coleman Brown, I have no doubt that Sophia is hard at work (and has been for this whole time). If there is any “use” of this time in that sense, let me use it faithfully and prayerfully with the intention for deep trust. Resisting the urge to produce something. No strings attached.

Here is an earlier poem from my collection Bones of Light:

“Toward the breaking dawn”

You will speak to me of woe
and I, too, will speak to you of what I know
of stones rolled away from tombs
and graves cracked open with
hands reaching toward the breaking dawn,
as rivers flow once more on parched beds,
carving channels into dry desert rock
now singing with life again. 

I will write a great deal during this May, June, and July time, but I don’t know when or if I’ll pose anything. That may come later. I’ll keep listening—and I hope you do as well.

And let me say thank you to my team and the parish at Grace. I am deeply, deeply thankful for you. Deeply.

If anything strikes you during this time that you think would be meaningful to send, feel free to email it to frstuarthigginbotham@gmail.com.

Sending love,

Stuart

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Root Mother

I do not see you
as much as I feel you–
know you, the way I know
my bones hold me upright as I walk,
or the pressure of bare feet on cool grass.

You, Root Mother, draw my eyes downward
to the earth, where the heart of life beats,
the deep throb beneath
all the distractions we call life.

Root Mother, yes, that is the best name
I can give you, although your true name
sounds more like water over stone
or the creak of growing corn.

Some truths are hidden,
tucked away in the holy darkness,
far from my dissecting mind,
yet I know they are there,
safe in your hands.

Who says I must understand
something fully in order to celebrate it–
even to be held by it?

You call me back to the center
of my own being, a space much lower
than any lofty thoughts of my mind,
where you wait with divine patience.

I will never begin to know
the truth of my own body until
I rest in the rich darkness of yours,
and for this grace I thank you. 

--Stuart Higginbotham

I have noticed a direct correlation between the amount of anxiety I feel and my need to walk barefoot on the earth. Sometimes, when the weather is warm, I get an old sheet and lie on the ground, closing my eyes and seeing if I can feel myself sink just a bit into the ground beneath me. When I feel the earth pressing against me, that force of presence, I know on a deeper level that I am not alone. I am not separate. And, I can breathe more deeply.

This poem “Root Mother” is one from a couple years ago, I think. I woke up this morning and it was back in my consciousness, with the images that invite me beyond what I feel I can control. So, I took my watering can, headed out to the garden, and spent some time with the plant friends who live around our house. They had a good bit to say.

Maybe you can take some time today to walk barefoot. Maybe it will help you breathe.

Blessings,

Stuart

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Easter 2026

Become all flame, Become Easter

I cannot think about Easter without thinking of childhood memories back in Arkansas, especially one moment at my great-grandmother’s house when so many of us gathered to find eggs. As we walked around and scrabbled through the azalea bushes and other shrubs, my great-aunt Joyce suddenly jumped out clad in white long-handled underwear, as we called it. She was decked out as the Easter Bunny, and she absolutely terrified us children. It’s not every day you see a great-aunt jump out of a bush clad in long-johns with tall ears on her head. A moment like that leaves a mark.

Easter has so many associations, and so many customs have accumulated around it that it would help to pause and reflect a bit more deeply on where we actually are, to look more deeply at the deep teachings found in Easter itself.

To just jump in, we remember that Easter is a lunar feast, not a solar one. It is a sacred time marked by the phases of the moon, occurring on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Vernal Equinox. Easter is essentially linked with Passover, which is, of course, rooted in the story of the Exodus from Egypt. Since the full moon was April 1, today is Easter Sunday, the beginning of the Great Fifty Days of Easter. Easter is a Season and not just a day, and Pentecost is the Fiftieth Day of Easter.

We remember that so many lunar feasts across religious traditions focus on the cycle of death and rebirth, on new life coming into the world, rising again from the underworld. So, Easter is a lunar feast; Christmas is a solar feast. Solar feasts have a different tone. They focus on light coming into the world, and the interplay between light and darkness, many of them being there near the Winter Solstice. Lunar feasts focus our attention on the divine cycle of death and rebirth. For Christians, this is embodied in the death, burial, the anastasis or harrowing of hell, and the resurrection of Jesus.

With Easter, we have the hope that springeth green. The green blade rising through stone. The force of life rises again, offering hope. As the poet Dylan Thomas described, there is “the force that through the green fuse drives the flower.” As St. Hildegard of Bingen described, there is the veriditas, the greening power of creation that is the Spirit’s life in the world. The pulse of life coming into being again, stones rolled away from tombs. Easter focuses on the sacred alchemy of life rising out of death. It is a deeply embodied feast, carried in Christ’s own body. Now, we live these truths in our bodies.

Easter, and all its associated symbols and elements, from the eggs to the bunnies, even to the chocolate, with the flowers and the freshness of things, all direct our attention to the living pulse of divinity in our lives. Even the name Easter links us back to a time when we experienced the divine more through the earth itself than through mere rational thoughts, through the cycles of the seasons and in recognizing the presence of the divine through the transitions of life. Like we said, we live these truths in our bodies. As Brandon said in his Maundy Thursday sermon, our bones know the truth.

Through our practice of faith, we catch a glimpse once more of the divine cycle of death and rebirth that transforms our consciousness. But we struggle to swim out into the deeper waters beyond the accumulation of customs, the sticky refrain of “we’ve always done it this way.” We come to think of Easter primarily as bunnies and baskets of eggs.

Across the board, we often approach our faith like learning our multiplication tables. At some point in our childhood, someone taught us the basics, and we checked a box for memorizing the figures. And then we thought that was all we needed to do, all the time we needed to invest in it. We didn’t give it much more thought.

But then, perhaps, at some point in our life something didn’t add up, to stretch the metaphor just a bit. We faced a challenge or crisis that pushed us well beyond the memorized fact of eight times seven is fifty-six, but never having moved past this superficial level, we feel ungrounded and unsure of how our practice of faith actually connects with our lived experience. How does our practice of faith actually shape the way we live in the world?

The challenge of the church, on its institutional side, is that we have, for too long, supported elementary-level program maintenance in a complex world that demands graduate-level soul work. We need to name this and lean into the deep truths our practice of faith invites us to explore and embody.

Our souls yearn for a robust practice of faith, a faith rooted in the Easter reality. We need a practice that takes our lives seriously and gives us room to name the deep struggles we face rather than focusing on shallow fixations we feel we can control. Or just doing things because we’ve always done them. We yearn for a practice that has enough strength in its legs that it can support the fullness of our very selves. We do not need a brittle practice made only of accumulated customs.

It is easy to focus just on maintaining customs around Easter, but such customs don’t have the spiritual strength to hold us in these transformational encounters. Customs aren’t the crucibles we need for the alchemy that is now called for. Deep practices, however, those are the essential elements that nurture an embodiment of transformation.

There is an ancient story of two monks in the desert of Egypt. Abba Lot came to visit Abba Joseph one day and told him, Father, to the best of my ability, I do my prayers, I fast, I meditate, and I maintain my times of silence. I watch my thoughts and maintain the tradition. What else can I do?” The story goes that Abba Joseph stood up and lifted both hands above his head, where flames shot out of his fingers. His very hands became torches, and he turned to Abba Lot and said, “What else is there to do? You could become all fire.”

Our version may sound like this: we maintain all our customs. We have our baskets, the bunnies, our chocolate, our eggs. We have our brunch, and we even have a spiral-cut ham, as Cynthia and I were discussing. We maintain all the customs we have inherited. In terms of church, we work hard to manage all the details of ten services over seven days. We even work so hard on our sermons. What else is there to do?

We could become all fire.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke once envisioned God saying: “Flare up like flame and make big shadows that I can move in.” What a fantastic image to meditate on. Burn with the transforming fire of the Paschal reality and watch new life come into being out of yesterday’s ashes.

Here, we encounter the molten core of our faith, the deep and robust truth that rolls beneath the shallow crust on which we live so much of our lives. Here we find the burning presence of Christ Himself, the living flame in our hearts.

When we become all fire, when we flare up like a flame that God can move in and make big shadows in, we realize that we have stepped far beyond merely celebrating Easter. Perhaps we feel our souls coming alive once more as we recognize our union with God in Christ, and with one another. Here we find true hope that can stand the pressure of the struggles of life.

In this awareness, we have become Easter itself, and we see, perhaps for the first time, the true purpose of our life in God.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

To explore the other sermons, and resources, from our podcast, here is a handy link:

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Here are a couple poems from my collection Bones of Light: Poems of Spiritual Imagination, as we sit here in this Holy Saturday space. It is so easy to ignore this day, to anticipate what is to come rather than nurture a transformation in the deep present. 

Now is the time to pause and listen deeply, beneath the noise and distractions. Now is the time for deep soul work, for healing.

For Holy Saturday

The boatman, with a keen eye, lays down his oar,
watching the man walk slowly toward the far shore

of this river dark as ink, a place betwixt
life and death, his wounded feet blessing the Styx.

No coins were offered to enter this ancient hell,
but three drops of blood from his hand fell

and mingled with the water, itself now set free
while hand in hand they walked into eternity. 


The Healing of all Things

Hope indeed lands on your tongue
in that place where lemons flirt
with warm honey,
both of these full of the memory
of sharpness and sweet consolation,
standing side by side and whispering to you
of the healing of all things.

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Stuart Higginbotham

Perhaps a good place to begin this morning is to ask ourselves why we are here. Setting our intention nurtures consciousness, which resists that pernicious pattern of just going through the motions. Of merely doing something because we’ve always done it that way. Like I mentioned on Palm Sunday, mindlessness, unconsciousness, ignorance, is a force that has a certain gravity that pulls us away from deeper awareness.

So, why are you here? Why are you here today?

Just give a moment to become aware of this and perhaps set an intention for your presence once more. Be conscious in this space, at this time. Be here now.

Good Friday, or God’s Friday, is a particularly focused observance. It is a stark service, where the reality of human betrayal and death is laid bare in the space itself and in the prayers we share. No ornamentation, just presence. Seeing and being seen.

While our souls need to observe Good Friday before we enter into the liminal, transitional space of the Resurrection, the urge to avoid the uncomfortable often pulls us away. It is easy to have something else to do rather than be here on Good Friday. When we intentionally enter into the Good Friday space, we encounter a divine truth that challenges so much of how we live, about how we orient our lives.

The thing about confessing Jesus as Lord is that we should actually pay attention to how Jesus lived his life rather than just holding onto some domesticated image of Jesus that is actually divorced from his deep teachings and self-sacrifice.

The impulse of empire always seeks to grasp onto a fabricated, edited version of Jesus to hold out as merely a contrived, unifying figure, a means of manipulated propaganda. The living reality of Christ has power, and those supporting that imperial consciousness always seek to co-opt that power to use for their own ambition. Just look back to Emperor Constantine in Rome in the fourth century as he put a cross on the imperial flag and boldly claimed, in hoc signo vinces, “under this sign, I conquer.” As if Jesus would have anything to do with such vainglory. The more things change the more they stay the same.

Such a pattern has allowed nations to seek domination and colonization in the very name of the Christ whose entire purpose of being is to shatter the bonds and shackles that oppress. Jesus comes to nurture healing and peace.

We seem obsessed with domination at the moment, celebrating the spectacle of explosions and carnage as though that is something to be proud of. It is not.

Such behavior is rooted in our own shallow ego grasping and has nothing to do with authentic Christian practice, or with any spiritual practice for that matter, as both Pope Leo and His Holiness the Dalai Lama have reminded us in the past few days.

Domination is a hollow pursuit of the empire, and we should remember that Jesus refuted domination at the cost of his very life. “So you are a king,” Pilate asks him. “You say so,” Jesus responds. The empire wants to win, and anything that challenges that ambition to win is suspect.

If we are going to be obsessed with “winning,” we would do well to focus on winning at being a decent human being with an awareness that the Spirit dwells in all of creation.

I lived so much of my early life thinking that the point of my practice of faith was to be assured of my own personal salvation. Now I know that is not the point of my practice of faith at all. Rather, the point of authentic Christian practice is to be aware how my personal salvation is inseparable from the salvation, the well-being of others and of all creation. Whatever salvation I am blessed to experience is inseparable from your well-being.

Our Jewish siblings call this Tikkun olam, the healing of the world. This healing of the world is the point of what Jesus did–and continues to do. It is the life of the Spirit. This healing of the world is what we are each called to share in.

Earlier in John’s account, Jesus says, “and I, when I am lifted up, will draw the whole world to myself.” Jesus draws the whole world through his self-emptying love, never through violence. Never through celebrating a shallow show of force. Violence and arrogant ambition are an abomination to God’s dream for us all. God is not impressed with the scale of military might. God is impressed with a heart that embodies compassion.

So, let this be our intention this year, and at each moment of our lives: to share in God’s dream for this world, to reject the forces of empire, to reject violence and arrogant ambition, to reject greed, and to turn once more to face the cross of Christ and see, in Jesus’s self-emptying love for us all, for all creation. Such a grounding in an awareness of God’s transforming love for all creation is the only pattern of life that will heal us.

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As I sat and watched the BBC live stream with this evening’s launch of the space mission to the moon (still an hour away and not knowing whether it will go, but seeing no apparent issues), one of the commentators made a comment that made me pause. “We are not the Apollo generation,” he said. “We are the Artemis generation, and we can only hope that we are writing the narrative at the moment.”

His comment made me pause, knowing even the little that I do around the deep insight and images that Artemis as an ancient goddess brings with her.

Apollo is the god of reason, of clarity of insight. While he is the god of prophecy and poetry, the quality of both, in the sense of his identity, are marked by clarity and a precision in reason. Nothing escapes Apollo’s awareness. He is a full solar deity with all the baggage that brings with it. With Apollo, there is control.

Artemis is his twin, a lunar deity who brings with her another realm of wisdom entirely. While the tone of Apollo brings with it this rational clarity, the tone of Artemis brings with it something else, something that our soul needs desperately in these uncertain days.

She stands in the space alongside other so-understood “dark mothers.” The imagery around her focuses on the wildness of the world, a deep appreciation of solitude and self-awareness, and the wisdom of the moon and the lunar cycle. She is the protector of those in childbirth, guarding the vulnerable. The hunter. Her temple at Ephesus was one of the marvels of the world, and the connections between her image and other centers of focus with dark mothers, linked with creation, are profound.

I’m not sure the BBC commentator was aware of all these deep associations he was bringing with him in his short statement, but his words rang a bell in my soul. “We are not the Apollo generation,” he said. “We are the Artemis generation, and we can only hope that we are writing the narrative at the moment.”

Perhaps we can see the potential for a deeper wisdom beyond such a fixation on our rational capacity and the sense of certainty that comes with such a solar clarity. Perhaps now we can explore even more fully a deeper, more integrated wisdom that takes seriously the shadow, the wisdom of wilderness, and a self-awareness that challenges such illusions of control.

And here on the evening of a Full Moon as well. Fascinating… as we keep the astronauts in our prayers.

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Stuart Higginbotham
Palm Sunday 2026
John 12: 20-36

There is a certain focus to Holy Week, of course, that calls to our souls. 

There is a certain desire in our souls that yearns for a space to brush up against a truth that is robust enough to connect with our deepest struggles, an honest space deeper than the shallowness that so often demands our attention.

The rhythm of the year, marked by the moon herself, invites us into an intentional time of prayer and gives us permission to open, if only briefly, to an encounter that might just shift the way we live in the world. 

One could only hope. 

I say ‘might just shift,’ of course, because the gravity of our patterns of life–the mostly unconscious patterns and habits that carry us through the moments of our days–this gravity is strong. We get caught in routines. We begin to think that the pace and structure of our life is somehow beyond our control, that we cannot resist the busyness. Mindlessness is a strong force to reckon with. 

Even as we name once more that the ultimate goal or hope of what we do is to nurture a transformation of consciousness so that we live more faithful lives, we must also name that unconsciousness is a distinct force that resists change. 

This is who we are. That is who they are. We’ve always done it that way. I don’t have time. We recognize the patterns.

And yet as we take our first steps into this Holy Week, today’s Gospel hits us between the eyes:
Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains but a single grain. But if it dies, it bears much fruit. 

If it dies. If we’re willing for it to die. If we’re willing for the tired, old patterns to die. If we dare to open our hearts to spiritual imagination.

The deep teachings of Holy Week cut to the root. They get to the source of these entrenched patterns that constrict our souls. Patterns of imperial agendas, of grasping for power. Patterns of denial. Patterns of violence. Patterns of ignoring dreams. Patterns of hubris. 

These teachings show us our own struggles, and through the arc of the week, they show us that hope is possible, absolutely. Hope is real and is promised by the Spirit. That being said, we are not going to experience such deep and lasting hope and healing unless we go through the process of death and rebirth. 

As we have been reminded, our lives are our practice. Our faith is practiced within the embodiment of our lives, and we are called to use spiritual muscles that may have been long-neglected. 

But practice we will, because we have had enough of spiritual bypassing that takes the shape of so many church programs these days. Now is the time for deep and authentic soul work. 

Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains but a single grain. But if it dies, it bears much fruit. 

Somewhere along the way, we began to think that “church” was just a space that could make us “feel better.” Worse than that, some may think that “church” is oriented around entertainment, or being part of a club that provides services, or merely giving a hollow blessing to the vain pursuit of the culture. 

But the Spirit calls us to something more profound. What we do actually focuses on deep soul work, nurturing that transformation of consciousness, so that we can experience true healing. We are not going to “feel better” until we do this deep work, and we are not going to do this deep work until we are willing to face our shadow, those unacknowledged patterns in our lives that pull us like gravity back into the mindlessness, back into the reactive grasping. 

Yes, Holy Week lays bare our own tendency to yield to the pursuit of a shallow semblance of power and greed, and we cannot afford to be distracted in these anxious days. We cannot waste time spiraling or spinning, and we cannot give in to despair. We look again to the cross, and we see God’s willingness to enter into our struggle, into death itself.

As much as some leaders may try to co-opt the message of Jesus to twist into the brittle frame of their own egoic agendas and desire for power, the message of the cross will continue to stand as a witness of the true power of Jesus Christ–and the cross casts a long shadow on all human vainglory. The corruption of kings and rulers, tyrants and the caesars of the day are all laid bare by the self-emptying of Jesus Christ.  

The true power of Christ is this: that only through emptying ourselves, only through releasing our grasp on power, only through a posture of radical de-centering, of recognizing our incessant need to fixate on ourselves and resisting the pride and hubris that marks so much of our lives, only in this honest space can our souls truly be healed. 

Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains but a single grain. But if it dies, it bears much fruit. 

It is nothing new that political leaders want to manage and manipulate the message or image of Christ. That is a pattern that has existed since the earliest days of Christian practice when emperors sought ways to sway the crowds and maintain their own hold on the throne. We are quick to put an image on a banner or adopt a catchy slogan or clever message. Those are shallow actions rooted in our own ego, and they will eventually crumble. They are houses built on sand.

Warped and self-centered power always claims to have a spiritual mandate. Those who want to grasp onto power will find their choice bible verses to put out there to try to shape their message, but the lie will out in the end, as we turn our eyes once again to the figure of Jesus, entering to hosannas only to be placed in a tomb. 

In Matthew’s Gospel account, Jesus is confronted by those who have a very myopic view of power. He asks them to show him some money, to give him a coin. “Whose image is this and whose name is on this money?” he asks them. “Caesar,” they say. And Jesus gives him the coin back and tells them, “give to Caesar that which is Caesar’s and give to God that which is God’s.” Get a perspective.

In other words, never confuse humanity’s agenda to grasp onto power with God's dream for the fullness of creation.

While we may be slow to actually do the authentic spiritual work that the Gospel calls us to do, the invitation is always there, such as we experience again this week. And, to be sure, these are stories and lessons that make us uncomfortable. Like I said, Holy Week cuts to the root.

Looking at where we are on this Palm Sunday, there is a pattern to skip over the difficult parts at this point and come back on Easter Sunday dressed in our finest having missed the opportunity for healing entirely. We avoid the vulnerability of Maundy Thursday, the solemnity and sadness of Good Friday, and the strangeness of the Great Vigil of Easter.

But here we face a vital element of our practice: these difficult parts, or uncomfortable moments, are actually stirring up in us the work that we need to do. These holy stories and liturgies are mirrors that let us face painful truths about ourselves. This is the point of all that we do in a liturgy. If we come just to enjoy the music or the pomp and circumstance, frankly we’re missing the point entirely. 

This is a week of deep soul work that will stretch our spiritual muscles. It is a workout for the soul. 

This is a week to enter into the shadows of our lives and pay close attention to how the Spirit of Christ is always inviting us into a deep experience of healing. Christ enters into the fullness of our lives, even unto death, so that we ourselves can step forward on our path of transformation with open eyes and hearts. 

Here is a poem that has been working on me as I look toward the deep teachings of this week. 

Master of Shadows, Healer of Souls

The first brush of ash
against your foot, the wound still wet, 
sent a tremor through the shades,
as dull eyes brightened and turned to you,
in hushed anticipation. 

You dare to look death
firm in the eye, and yet more,
taste it on your tongue,
take it into yourself,
a seed planted in your own heart,
to bear fruit in our lives,
a germination of hope. 

That which we fear most
you embrace, holding mercifully
and healing it with your presence,
transmuting it into a doorway
through which we can walk
with open eyes.

You tease out the longing
that darkness fears to know,
and in this sacredness,
this alchemy of soul,
fear melts and puts down the rock,
gathering into a pool which quenches
the thirst of eternity. 

You may well be
the Light of the world,
but it is your hidden name,
O Green One, Master of Shadows,
that holds the true secret
to our healing. 

------
If you want to explore more, you can always check out the podcast that Grace offers, Glimpses of Grace.
This sermon will be posted along with others from Holy Week soon, but go ahead and mark the page. Here is Brandon's sermon from last week which is well worth your time!

And take some time to work in the garden this week. Plant something. Water something. 

Blessings,
Stuart

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Master of Shadows, Healer of Souls

The first brush of ash
against your foot, the wound still wet, 
sent a tremor through the shades,
as dull eyes brightened and turned to you,
in hushed anticipation. 

You dare to look death
firm in the eye, and yet more,
taste it on your tongue,
take it into yourself,
a seed planted in your own heart,
to bear fruit in our lives,
a germination of hope. 

That which we fear most
you embrace, holding mercifully
and healing it with your presence,
transmuting it into a doorway
through which we can walk
with open eyes.

You tease out the longing
that darkness fears to know,
and in this sacredness,
this alchemy of soul,
fear melts and puts down the rock,
gathering into a pool which quenches
the thirst of eternity. 

You may well be
the Light of the world,
but it is your hidden name,
O Green One, Master of Shadows,
that holds the true secret
to our healing. 

--Stuart Higginbotham

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Of bell and bone

Of bell and bone
to rattle and ring
of light that pours
and birds that sing,

as trees awake
on blooming land
now warm wind held
within my hand.

The bare foot feels
the living earth
while the elder tree whispers
of promised birth.

The angel speaks
to the listening ear
and feathers brush
away my fear.

--Stuart Higginbotham

Today is the Fifth Sunday in Lent, but more than that, it is a day, a moment, that invites us to explore a convergence of images that teach our souls.

With the Equinox, we find ourselves at a moment of balance, light and dark in their endless dance here at a moment when day and night call us to pay close attention. Both have wisdom that we need, and together…together.

From the day’s texts, the familiar story of dry bones invites us to pay attention for new life arising in unimaginable places. Death rattles we may know, but these are the rattles of life that catch our attention. Oh Lord, you know.

The story of the angel coming, a herald of new life that shook the old foundations to their core. For unto you shall be born. May it be with me. Truly these are words of power.

And this morning at our outdoor Eucharist, surrounded by birds and trees that looked like bones, with the wind and the hemlock, the black cherry and the boxwood all joining the prayers, we hung bells in the trees as in the old days. We remembered. We listened. We gave thanks. We tasted, and it was good.

Perhaps now we are ready to take the steps into this Holy Week once more, that Great Cycle of Life, Death, and Rebirth, with eyes, ears, and hearts open for what is coming.

Blessings to all,

Stuart

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Elemental

We stand upon the soil and stone
that holds the roots now reaching deep.
The one who’s made of earthen bone
sees all with power and never sleeps.

You hold the roots now reaching deep
and the flow that sates the ancient thirst,
seeing all with a power that never sleeps
while water from your full heart bursts.

The flow that sates the ancient thirst
meets sacred fire, the spark of life,
while water from your full heart bursts
and carves great mountains like a knife.

The sacred fire, the spark of life,
a molten surge beneath our feet,
carves great mountains like a knife
where destruction and creation meet.

The molten surge beneath our feet
and wind that blows through life unbound,
where destruction and creation meet
and the subtle force within resounds. 

The wind that blows through life unbound
holds feathered ones against your face.
The subtle force within resounds
in the slightest touch of endless grace–

the slightest touch of endless grace.

--Stuart Higginbotham

I have been reflecting more on the elements and how we engage with them—and how, by engaging with them, we experience and participate with the Spirit’s movement in our lives.

For me, any authentic practice of Christianity must be embodied. It must be incarnated, experienced through life. I prefer a Christian practice that has dirt under its fingernails, that smells like woodsmoke and incense, that tastes like good wine.

I struggle to get out of my head so many times, and it is easy to begin to think (notice that…) that Christianity is simply about believing (meaning thinking…) some correct set of abstract principles.

Taste and see, the texts say.

So, I’m spending much more time with the elements and continuing to wonder. And I see more and more that life truly is so enchanted.

Blessings,

Stuart

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Dark Matter

The only thing that can truly hold
the deepest yearning of our heart
is your silence and unwillingness to be
fully understood by our grasping minds. 

The spaciousness beyond our control,
the sweet kiss of a subtle grace,
this is the doorway to salvation. 

Some say turn to the light,
but when I turn within the shadow,
I keep turning, and what was
the sharp certainty of light
relaxes its grip and life begins to dance
with all the shades of my being,
welcoming me to heaven. 

--Stuart Higginbotham

This morning, I returned to one of my favorite meditation and listening places, tucked away at the back of Cherokee Bluffs Park. I have to hike over a mile to get there, and it’s worth it for the running water, the trees, and the stones.

I can sit fifteen feet or so above a creek in this place and lean back on a kind tree’s limb. I can rest. I can listen. I can dream. I can write and tease out parts of my soul that whisper. Parts that are shy—or frightened.

When it comes to the news (which I take in very, very sparingly and only by reading, never by listening to commentaries), there is a part of me that craves some sense of clarity. For this—whatever “this” is—to be over.

But, when I am honest in spaces like this, my soul tells me that “this” is much larger than what my grasping mind wishes it to be. There is a much deeper shift in consciousness happening right now, and I am called to listen for my role in this, my purpose in holding a space that can nurture this transformation, this evolution of consciousness, in whatever is mine to do.

I keep returning to the deep teaching across spiritual traditions that we are all interconnected at the fundamental levels of our being. As the mantra/prayer says, “Between you and me there is no between.” That is the deep truth of our being, and our shared work is to do our shadow work and name those impulses in ourselves that want to promote this sense of separation.

I was reminded of the deep truth today as I sat on the ledge. When I looked behind me to climb back up to the trail, I noticed that the laurel and oak trees there were growing out of the rock itself. That’s when I thought of this older poem.

There, the oak trunk, the laurel trunk, the lichen, and the stone have all joined in a fantastic conjunction of shared being. I leaned close and couldn’t tell exactly where the tree ended and the stone began. All is connected. The categories of “animate” and “inanimate” break down, don’t they? All has a spirit that permeates and reminds us of our union.

So, I hold onto that in the face of so much that uses force and warped power to assert control. This is my prayer, as the poem tries to say:

Dark Matter

The only thing that can truly hold
the deepest yearning of our heart
is your silence and unwillingness to be
fully understood by our grasping minds. 

The spaciousness beyond our control,
the sweet kiss of a subtle grace,
this is the doorway to salvation. 

Some say turn to the light,
but when I turn within the shadow,
I keep turning, and what was
the sharp certainty of light
relaxes its grip and life begins to dance
with all the shades of my being,
welcoming me to heaven. 

Blessings to all,

Stuart

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I woke up this morning with a teaching by Fr. Thomas Keating on my heart, connecting with Tilden Edwards as well, and giving thanks for those who remind us how important it is to ground ourselves in an awareness of our essential union.

The lens through which we see the world shapes the world that we see. That is a lesson throughout all the world’s religious and spiritual traditions. If we see the world through the lens of separation, we will continue supporting policies and frameworks that leverage one group against another, allowing oppression.

Our call to nurture our spiritual imagination is essential because it deepens our awareness of what is most real, what is most true.

So, war and oppression, hunger and cruelty to our neighbor, all these are failures of spiritual imagination.

Prayers today as we seek to nurture this deep tap root of union that nourishes our souls and transforms the way we live in the world.

Blessings,

Stuart

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What the Lady told me

At the edge of the forest
there is a well, ringed
with ancient, weathered stones.

Beside the well, a wooden bench
waits for me to pause
and breathe as the sun sets.

The leaves in the watching trees
rustle, whispered prayers
by the ones who see all.

The last light of day
pours through the limbs
like the last push of water
singing from a pitcher. 

As I rest, a lady appears,
her soft gray robe flowing,
wrapped in silver light. 

Her forehead is marked
by a crescent moon,
her eyes fierce with wisdom. 

I see myself in them
as she sees me.

She speaks to me of bridges,
of standing between the worlds 
with an outstretched soul,
holding a vision of all things
beyond the illusion of separation. 

Then we sit in silence
beside the well, reaching deep
to the heart of the earth,
as the moon gently slips 
across the ink-dark sky. 

Come back, she says to me.
There are more things
I must tell you. 

--Stuart Higginbotham

This poem came a while back, but I returned to it this morning as continued anxiety saturates us.

Here, as the full blood moon passes, tucked behind the clouds but having its sway nonetheless.

It is hard not to get pulled into the swirl of fear, of what might happen next. Of anger.

But, or and, these are days to focus on our practice, to seek ways to stay grounded. These are days to listen for Wisdom, because She is always here, whispering and waiting, coming to visit and encourage us to trust.

What is helping you stay grounded? For me, it’s working in the garden some, reading, listening, paying attention to my dreams, cooking and soaking up moments with my family.

We need to look for those ancient wells that delve deeply into the earth, into a space that can nourish our souls.

Prayers, always,

Stuart

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An Invocation to Wisdom

Hail Sophia, Wisdom of God,
force of imagination,
you who danced at the dawn of time,
who dances still, singing all life
into being, holding all in an embrace
of love and healing.

We call to you. 

Fiery source of life,
whose presence lies within
the stability of earth,
the power of fire,
the flow of water,
and the breath of air,
we call to you. 

You whose hands take bone and tears,
weaving them with the dreams of countless souls,
coaxing new life to rise from ashes,
may we know you in all things 
and within ourselves,
and may our awareness of you
kindle the spark of healing
that will transform this world. 

--Stuart Higginbotham

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The dream that sings

Listen now, he tells me,
the one who walks the path
of the one who has no path,
who is not bound in chains
but free, dancing, living,
whispering in my ear:
Dig a hole in the soft earth
with your bare hands, fingers stained
with soil, deep enough to hold
your body as you sleep and wait
to welcome the dream that sings
you into a new life.

--Stuart Higginbotham

On Sunday, we continued our conversation around creativity and what it means to be human, as Meg McPeek led us through a reflection on praying with herbs, paying attention to our connection with (life in and as) nature. It was such a great experience, as we continue our exploration of imagination, creativity, and practice—what have become three pillars for my own vocation.

So, I’m thankful. Thankful for soul friends who encourage me to listen, explore, and dare to trust that we truly are held by something that can hold all of us—and we need this awareness in these days.

Oh, and this is the candle I made on Sunday. Beeswax rolled with dried sage, lavender, and marigold flowers. It smells fantastic, and it feels great too.

Blessings to all,

Stuart

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This part of the forest

We have never seen
this part of the forest before,
trees with their boney fingers
interlocking above our heads,
a shelter at some moments,
at others a net pulled tight
with shadows and beams of light
that sing to thirsty eyes
and guide us on paths untouched. 

We have never seen
this part of the forest before,
a home of ancient creatures
with names lost to time,
some bearers of blessing,
others prowling at the periphery
of our vision, waiting for the moment
to grasp our distracted souls
and drag them deeper 
into the land of dry wells.

Yes, we know we have never seen
this part of the forest before.
We just never knew
it was within our own heart.

--Stuart Higginbotham

I can’t tell you how many times Cynthia Park and I would look at each other at Grace and elsewhere, when we encountered something that was strange, and say “well, we’re in a part of the forest we have never been in before.”

Perhaps it was something that didn’t make sense about life, about a situation, about a person’s behavior—even our own. When we couldn’t easily get our heads around something, we would look at each other and gently remind each other that there are parts of the forest we have never visited before.

There are new paths to explore, new paths to make. There are new lessons to learn, and perhaps the greatest lesson of all is that there are some things we will never be able to get our heads around. Some things can only be understood by the body or the heart—or that mysterious capacity that exists beyond any pursuit we might have. There is a knowing beyond our knowing.

Today on a podcast*, I heard a phrase about the silva subterranea, the image of an underground forest that we see in many Greek myths—and elsewhere. The underground forest is a place of challenge, a realm beyond our rational capacity. It is a place infused with deep meaning that resonates with Gaia, the great Earth Mother, with Dionysus, the Ecstatic One, with Hades, even, the Rich One, the One Beneath. There are many other guides and teachers who dwell here. It is the real of the Anastasis, even, the deep truth of just what happened between Jesus’s death and resurrection. Layers and layers of meaning—and each one challenging us to release our grasping mind and trust in a deeper knowing.

All this makes sense to me given where we are now. This image of a forest beneath, a part of the forest we have never visited before, helps me stay grounded and pay attention to the deep work I am called to do. Beyond what my mind tells me is possible. Beyond my fixation on controlling. I want so badly to understand, so that I feel more in control, but I want to understand within the framework which has helped me understand up to this point. And what happens when that framework breaks down?

I am learning things in this forest that, perhaps, I would not have chosen to learn. There are truths here that we need to face about ourselves if we are ever to step toward healing.

Take the next step.

Blessings, always,

Stuart

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As we step into Lent this year, our souls may feel stretched. On one hand, that can be a painful thing, to be pulled out of normal routines, pinched and challenged out of habits. On another hand, it is always an opportunity for conscious engagement. Our lives are our practice, as we keep reminding ourselves.

These are not days for traveling on auto-pilot, although the impulse is strong to yield to someone else who may fix our problems. (Beware the ‘strong man,’ as other stories in the Gospel remind us).

Here is my sermon for last Sunday, on the cusp of Lent, looking at that foundational story of the Transfiguration: the encounter of something beyond ourselves, the impulse to control, and the grace of being overshadowed.

A quote from the sermon transcript sums up much of the lesson this year for me. Reflecting on a game we played as children, this image rang true. I can’t help but connect my experience of hide-and-go-seek with the deeper dynamics of our collective experience in these days.

And that’s when the lesson hit me. In order to win this game, I have to sit alone in the darkness longer than anybody else does. I have to sit alone in the darkness longer than anyone else does. And as it went on, I didn’t want to be stuck in there in the darkness anymore. And I didn’t know how to get out. I was stuck in the wall waiting for someone to find me. So I did the only thing I could think to do. I waited for the person who was it to crawl back down the hall. And when I saw them getting closer and closer to me, I tapped on the wall and gave myself away so I could be found.

Take a few minutes to pause and listen to it, if you’d like:

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The shadow of divinity
(Matthew 17:1-9)

We are lived by powers
we pretend to understand.
	W. H. Auden

The stones we use to build the walls,
to catch the force of life itself,
we carried in clenched hands up the hill
with hearts whose brittle tightness felt

a secret yearning to be free,
a kiss of warmth in golden light,
to meet the truth beyond ourselves,
a life that is more than mere clever might.

Each stone is carved with words of fear,
the letters gouged by shaking hands,
each mark a link in an iron chain,
keeping us bound in a barren land. 

We stack the stones as high as our arms
can reach above our heads and strain,
yet in this moment, we feel in our bodies
the alchemy that transmutes our sharp pain. 

Although we see the truth of you,
glory unsheathed before our face,
we still cannot bear to ease our tight grip,
so mercy overwhelms us, an exquisite grace.

When brightness falls like morning fog,
with clouded eyes at last we see
the stones now scattered and polished smooth
by the shadow of divinity. 

--Stuart Higginbotham

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