Proper Thirteen 8/2/20

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The Still Point: A Time of Meditation and Reflection

The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 13

… At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance…

T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton


Peace on each one who comes in need;

  Peace on each one who comes in joy.

  Peace on each one who offers prayers;

  Peace on each one who offers song.

Peace of the Maker, Peace of the Son,

   Peace of the Spirit, the Triune One. 


Opening Prayer

Praise to you, God, for all your work among us. Yours is the vigor in creation, yours is the impulse in our new discoveries.
Make us adventurous, yet reverent and hopeful in all we do. Amen.

The Gospel                                                                                                 Matthew 14:13-21

Jesus withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.

Poem: “Realism”                                                                                        by Czeslaw Milosz


We are not so badly off if we can

Admire Dutch painting.  For that means

We shrug off what we have been told

For a hundred, two hundred years. Though we lost

Much of our previous confidence.  Now we agree

That those trees outside the window, which probably exist,

Only pretend to greenness and treeness

And that the language loses when it tries to cope

With clusters of molecules.  And yet this here:

A jar, a tin plate, a half-peeled lemon,

Walnuts, a loaf of bread — last, and so strongly

It is hard not to believe in their lastingness.

And thus abstract art is brought to shame,

Even if we do not deserve any other.

Therefore I enter those landscapes

Under a cloudy sky from which a ray

Shoots out, and in the middle of dark plains

A spot of brightness glows.  Or the shore

With huts, boats, and, on yellowish ice,

Tiny figures skating.  All this

Is here eternally, just because once it was.

Splendor (certainly incomprehensible)

Touches a cracked wall, a refuse heap,

The floor of an inn, jerkins of the rustics,

A broom, and two fish bleeding on a board.

Rejoice! Give thanks! I raised my voice

To join them in their choral singing,

Amid their ruffles, collets, and silk shirts,

One of them already, who vanished long ago.

And our song soared up like smoke from a censer.



This poem’s literal connections to today’s Gospel reading include fleeting references to “a loaf of bread” and “two fish bleeding,” within the context of several other mundane, everyday details of what might seem like an uninteresting life.  Yet there are other ways to approach both this poem and today’s “loaves and fishes” miracle.  Milosz’s poem invites us to consider how we reflect on what is around us, whether we’re absorbed in the details of famous paintings, transformative miracles, or simply caught briefly by something glorious that we hadn’t noticed before.  The transcendence of art is, like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, life-giving and nurturing.  Language, after all, can’t capture every “cluster of molecules,” let alone our deepest hopes, our faith.


Questions for reflection:

What “ray” of light gives you joy during cloudy times?

What small miracles have you observed recently?

Perhaps this poem gives you inspiration for how to think about our sacred texts: how does scripture’s “lastingness” feed you?



We bring before God someone whom we have met or remembered today


We bring to God someone who is hurting tonight and needs our prayer


We bring to God a troubled situation in our world


We bring to God, silently, someone whom we find hard to forgive or trust


We bring ourselves to God that we might grow in generosity of spirit, clarity of mind, and warmth of affection


We offer our thanks to God for the blessings in our lives


We name before God those who have died.


Gracious God, you hear all our prayers: those we speak aloud, those we hold in our hearts, and those prayers for which we have no words. Hear the prayers of your people, and grant them as may be best for us, for the sake of your holy name. Amen.


Accept our thanks for all you have done, O God. Our hands were empty, and you filled them.


May Christ’s holy, healing, enabling Spirit be with us every step of the way, and be our guide as our road changes and turns, and the blessing of God our Creator, Redeemer and Giver of life be among us now and remain with us forever. Amen.



Posted in The Still Point.