O Holy One,
we are a sleepy lot,
slow to stir to the calling of the cosmos,
deaf to the cries of Earth
and the forgotten ones,
human and other-than-human.
We distract ourselves
with trivialities that have become idols;
while the sun and the moon darken,
and the stars fall from the skies,
we are mesmerized by the market’s alluring power,
eyes unflinchingly fixed upon the navel of our own net worth.
“O that you would dear open the heavens and come down,”
cries the prophet, or at least tear open our hearts, pry open our eyes,
and end this slumber that blocks out pain,
but with it, wonder.
Our hope, O Holy One, is found in eyes wide open,
in hearts linked in common cause,
in small gestures of compassion,
and in alertness to your coming,
again and again.
As fire kindles brushwood
and causes water to boil,
so we await to be set on fire
with hope and gospel passion.
From If Darwin Prayed, by Bruce Sanguin