Nunc et Hora Mortis

When I have been taught, when I have learned,

Truly been taught, been silenced so as to learn;

When I have ceased to babble and to quibble

Ceased to quarrel, grouch, gripe, grumble

Ceased to mumble

Ceased to fumble about for words, ceased to frustrate

The prostrate center by the erect mind,

Ceased to demonstrate, remonstrate, illustrate

(As even now I seek to illustrate my own absurd

Illustrations by the multiplication of words)

When, I say, I am silent and learn to turn inward

Out of words, away from myself, and burn with thirst,

With urgent yearning for that which is not I…

In short, when I number my days aright

Then shall I concern myself with two moments only:

Now

And the hour of my death.

For they are the same moment.

The same point of intersection, the same cross

Between the horizontal and the vertical,

Between the point which is my “I” and something

Someone

Probably quite dimensionless

Or at any rate beyond all dimension.

Now is the timeless hour of death,

The hourless moment of utter decreasement

To make way for His increase.

Now!

The hour of my death, which is His Life

As His death is my life and my life is now no more mine

Since I have been nourished on flesh and blood

Not mine. The only food

The only medicine to do me any good

Is Him. And He is only here and now

Which is everywhere and always.

The Sign of Jonah

I have long been anxious of signs.

I have searched for God in sortilege

And tea leaves, and on tarot cards printed

On the pages of my Bible. Clinging

To past and future I have wandered

Lost in darkness following fancy lights.

But the point of intersection was found in Starbucks

In the SM Supermall,

General Santos City,

Mindanao,

Philippines,

Earth,

Milky Way Galaxy,

Universe,

Mind of God and

Hollow of His Hand.

In a timeless moment within His eye,

I ordered a venti English breakfast tea

Three minutes steeped. Time not specified,

Implied that a barista would know.

But no. And I, foolish I who knew full well

Smell of overbrewed tea, received and paid

Said, “Thank you” and let it steep ten more

Before returning to the now to taste

The waste I had made of that innocent creature.

I know not what power tea leaves have to tell

The mind of God to their foolish fellow creature.

But unlike I, they answer to one only teacher

And praise Him without endyng righteous well.

In Lent our thoughts are turned to death and hell,

Heaven and judgment, and prominently feature

The cup presented in the garden to the wandering preacher

Who claimed to be who He is: (He Who Is)

Who saw, and mourned with sweaty drops of love

That tinted red the earth and washed it clean;

Who drank the bitter cup, the draught not His,

The mortal poison meted, not from above

But from the brewers of tea leaves (though truly we have seen).

Why blame the creature? The tea leaves did no wrong

They never claimed to know the mind of God

And if the brew now tastes of dirty dishwater,

Unmitigated by honey, whose fault is that?

There is still even now, thus, late, a chance for love.

My loins were girt about with khaki shorts

With flip-flops on my feet, and book in hand.

I raised the bitter cup and humbly quaffed

One-ing myself (by invitation) with Him

Who drank the worst I ever brewed for me.

It does no good to sink

Into myself and drink

Nod to Heaven, offer it up,

Toss it back and break the cup.

I must sip, sample, slowly savor

Swirling with my tongue the flavor

Strange, sharp and brown,

The rush to my head and down

Into my stomach the coarse

Clumsy

Callow

Tannic acid rudely forc’d,

Rudely overbrewed from innocent leaves

(At which sacrilege all creation grieves).

I must not waste

The moment! I must taste

And see its goodness

In its very rudeness

In its being-what-it-is,

All His and none of mine.

The bitterness divine

In-joys me and I enjoy

That tea like none other.

Blessed be He!