A Prayer for Right-Things -or- Sore Knees and Burnt Necks

From "Little Gidding" by T.S. Eliot
"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one."

Look around us at this mess. A mess of time and history and humaness. A mess of wars and defeats and victories. A mess of only dead and dying. We work so hard over so much mess. We weep and scream and argue and struggle over it.

I've heard myself say in my own voice; "Don't let life happen to you, you happen to life." and I have no idea what that means. I guess I think that is so many parts truth and so many parts funny. This is the equation that I release so many breaths over?

We reason and we calculate and we colate. We can compile and measure and plot. But our business is still the same old broken business of living and dying. Somehow we've managed to use the calculations to speed up the living and the dying and our humaness; but when the smoke clears, when the silence pours over, we can't do anything but wait and watch and listen and hope.

There is so much weight to life, and we carry it; alone and in little groups. It's heavy and it makes our knees sore and our necks burn. We amass lives full of stories and scars. We fluctuate between good news and bad news. We generate noise and kick up dust. We try so hard to be something--to mean something; our best efforts lift off the ground for a moment in ecstasy just before things fall apart.

And inside, all we want is peace. Everything in us longs for a quiet space where we cannot hurt or be hurt. We want to rest sore knees and rub burnt necks. The chaotic mess of humanity banging out our existence as loudly as we can; angry with ourselves that we can't make it all mean anything more than broken pieces.

"O God, make us children of quietness, and heirs of peace." our insides all pray like St. Clement. But we do not know how. So we bang and stumble and cry out loudly and weep softly every moment as we rotate on our axis and believe we can measure our existence.

And all we are is tired and lost. There are no more games to play or battles to fight. Only aching for peace and rescue.

God, give us rest when we are weary. Give us peace when we are troubled. Sit us down comfortably in your presence and teach us how to breathe your divine God-breath again. Be comfort and strength to those who are neglected and weak. Be hope and courage to those that are sick. Be home and rest for those who wander. Be the stable for the unstable. Be the victory chant of the oppressed and the strong embrace for the lonely. Thank you that you are good. Let us all know your love and your peace even when we can't comprehend your complexity. Finally, bring us home, to that right place that we will know again for the first time. Amen.