the moment we find ourselves in
july 4th gathering at oblingers
This Sunday, for July 4th, we are going to have a big party. We will not meet at the Student Center but will meet at Mike and Barbara Oblinger's house. We will meet at 4 (not 5), tell our stories emerging from our seed-money for hospitality, restoration and shalom. Then we will have a baptism in the pool, followed by a grill out and pool party. Then, whoever wants can go see fireworks. So, here are the details:
|when| july 4th, 4:00
|where| the oblingers, 1145 old garth road
(map here | 9th drive on right after passing
farmington country club entrance)
|food| burgers, hot dogs and drinks provided - bring a side
dish or dessert
evensong
Evensong, a monthly rhythm for the summer,
will be a free-flowing space for music and prayer.
pentecost
On Pentecost (this Sunday), we celebrate that God's Spirit has come into the world with healing and life.
Breathe in me, O Holy Spirit, that my thoughts may all be holy. Act in me, O Holy Spirit, that my work, too, may be holy. Draw my heart, O Holy Spirit, that I love but what is holy. Strengthen me, O Holy Spirit, to defend all that is holy. Guard me, then, O Holy Spirit, that I always may be holy.
{A Prayer from St. Augustine}
{A Prayer from St. Augustine}
falkland road: a poem of resurrection
Falkland Road
{rachel adams}
From the Grant Road Station the road curls past
mango carts and steaming tea stalls
past the paan-wallah where a crowd clusters
to spit blood-red streams and chew the merits
of the Congress party
past the congested boulevard
flanked with ambassadors
that buzz like black beetles by
glass storefronts where saris glitter and beckon
their silky fingers
Down a right-hand road the air falls still.
Monsoon-blackened buildings clamber to the sky
compressing the air, warping the sun.
Beside the open sewer a thorny yellow flower
roots and stretches in search of photosynthesis
the necessity of light to life.
Between the sodden laundry which
hangs from the line like devanagari script
on a dingy page
I see
You.
Your silhouette is haloed by garish light,
eyes ringed in kohl, or shadow
spine curved over a broken plastic stool
head flung back against the bricks.
You await the seething crowd
as incense curls sweet and heavy along the street.
At dusk you will ride in a gilded carriage
drawn by a soiled horse whose knotted tail
flicks away the swarming flies
your head flung back in laughter
as life bleeds into the hands
which count your flesh in tattered banknotes
and rusted coins.
But
for a moment the sun falls across your lap
like the light from a Nepali hillside
your ears straining for the bellow of the water buffalo
and the chatter of pots steaming with
cardamom over an open flame
The light begins to fade.
Through the low alleyway, two steps down
into a slanting room, there is a crooked woman
who lives with her eyes toward the sky.
Her bones frame the tent of her body
the tabernacle of God among men.
The agony of redemption clings to her faded purple sari
as prayers fall in drops from sunken lips to splash upon the stones.
Her arms tremble as she sets about her tasks
extending palms to the needy.
Her lamp does not go out at night.
Sisters, the cry of the rocks on the broken road
is the ache of the new creation
longing for the day when the Rider
will come upon his white horse.
The justice in his eyes will blaze
brighter than an oil lamp
than the Nepali sunlight
piercing the crush of blackness
and this groaning will give bloody birth
to that which is new.
Resurrection.
{rachel adams}
From the Grant Road Station the road curls past
mango carts and steaming tea stalls
past the paan-wallah where a crowd clusters
to spit blood-red streams and chew the merits
of the Congress party
past the congested boulevard
flanked with ambassadors
that buzz like black beetles by
glass storefronts where saris glitter and beckon
their silky fingers
Down a right-hand road the air falls still.
Monsoon-blackened buildings clamber to the sky
compressing the air, warping the sun.
Beside the open sewer a thorny yellow flower
roots and stretches in search of photosynthesis
the necessity of light to life.
Between the sodden laundry which
hangs from the line like devanagari script
on a dingy page
I see
You.
Your silhouette is haloed by garish light,
eyes ringed in kohl, or shadow
spine curved over a broken plastic stool
head flung back against the bricks.
You await the seething crowd
as incense curls sweet and heavy along the street.
At dusk you will ride in a gilded carriage
drawn by a soiled horse whose knotted tail
flicks away the swarming flies
your head flung back in laughter
as life bleeds into the hands
which count your flesh in tattered banknotes
and rusted coins.
But
for a moment the sun falls across your lap
like the light from a Nepali hillside
your ears straining for the bellow of the water buffalo
and the chatter of pots steaming with
cardamom over an open flame
The light begins to fade.
Through the low alleyway, two steps down
into a slanting room, there is a crooked woman
who lives with her eyes toward the sky.
Her bones frame the tent of her body
the tabernacle of God among men.
The agony of redemption clings to her faded purple sari
as prayers fall in drops from sunken lips to splash upon the stones.
Her arms tremble as she sets about her tasks
extending palms to the needy.
Her lamp does not go out at night.
Sisters, the cry of the rocks on the broken road
is the ache of the new creation
longing for the day when the Rider
will come upon his white horse.
The justice in his eyes will blaze
brighter than an oil lamp
than the Nepali sunlight
piercing the crush of blackness
and this groaning will give bloody birth
to that which is new.
Resurrection.
matt king
We grieve the tragic death of Matt King. Matt was a vital part of both the All Souls and Eunoia communities. A memorial service will be held on Thursday evening, 7:00 p.m @ The Baptist Student Center, where both Eunoia and All Souls meet (directions). Please be in prayer for Matt's family, all his friends, his fellow students and teachers @ UVA and all of us who mourn his death. If you need to speak with a pastor or with Evan, our campus pastor at Eunoia, we are here for you.
When All Souls gathered last Sunday night, Matt read us the gospel reading. And Matt's last hours Monday morning were spent serving his neighbors, alongside his All Souls community at The Haven. This is fitting; this is how Matt lived his life.
We grieve, but we grieve as those who have hope in Jesus' resurrection. We are amid Eastertide, and we believe that death will not have the final word.
Here is a recent photo Matt took in Eunoia's space, with the image of one of our homeless neighbors, the very community Matt loved to know and serve.
You may also view Matt's pieces that were part of our Lenten photography series here and here.
When All Souls gathered last Sunday night, Matt read us the gospel reading. And Matt's last hours Monday morning were spent serving his neighbors, alongside his All Souls community at The Haven. This is fitting; this is how Matt lived his life.
We grieve, but we grieve as those who have hope in Jesus' resurrection. We are amid Eastertide, and we believe that death will not have the final word.
Here is a recent photo Matt took in Eunoia's space, with the image of one of our homeless neighbors, the very community Matt loved to know and serve.
You may also view Matt's pieces that were part of our Lenten photography series here and here.
homeless
J.D. Glass was homeless since 1972, and in the past year his life has changed. Ready his moving story in the Washington Post.
[Ernie] doesn't dare dream, because he has nothing to dream for.
"Everybody's going home to their little fancy houses, their families. More power to you. There are people out here dying around you. It's time to get on the stick and do something."
[Ernie] doesn't dare dream, because he has nothing to dream for.
"Everybody's going home to their little fancy houses, their families. More power to you. There are people out here dying around you. It's time to get on the stick and do something."
