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Month: November 2021

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Eulogy for Cousin Jack

Posted on November 24, 2021 by stephen t berg / 22 Comments

As a kid, summer holidays at my cousins was like living in an episode of Darling Buds of May. Jack (second eldest of nine) taught me the questionable joys of mi...

Faith

Faith

Posted on November 21, 2021 by stephen t berg / 11 Comments

  Friend, you ask me why I still believe,well, it’s this little memory of standing at a frost-laced windowin my upstairs bedroom,looking out over a winter morni...

Anthropology/Christianity/Mercy

Boy of Sorrows

Posted on November 14, 2021 by stephen t berg / 3 Comments

  He was ungainly, a loner, kind, intelligent, and a natural outcast. We cornered him after class but he slipped away. I was a runner. Caught him, tackled him a...

Aging/Presence/Spirituality

Gratitude for the Whole Package

Posted on November 6, 2021 by stephen t berg / 26 Comments

  I took a nap and woke up 50, blinked twice, hit 60,swung my legs off the couch,boom, 67 (which I hit yesterday). Gets one thinking about life.How not a lot tu...

Over the coming months, I’ll be slowly retiring Grow Mercy. This Easter marks 20 years and some 1500 posts. (And here, a deep bow to you, for reading and/or responding.) I’ll not, however, be retiring the impulse behind Grow Mercy, but will be shifting, exploring, following a hybridized urge, and a genre to suit. For me, what these decades have increasingly revealed is how writing is a spiritual path. Now, for whatever time and energy remains for me, I’ll be tilting more toward The Ragged Psalmist, still inchoate, but the handle feels like it fits. I do hope you’ll subscribe.

Why — The Ragged Psalmist?

Because some stubborn ember, still warm, compels me to write some cobbled songs — praise and lament, cries and sighs — and sound them back to the sacred Mystery.

To throw a wrench into a world geared up for business; to resist the moneychangers in their corporate temples — because poetry is political, and light is its administrative wing.

Because old lies and old words screw us over and must be remade to tell the truth; because our glossary of mockery needs burial, and the lexicon that’s left needs anointing.

To strive to honour the life of a sparrow; attend the spell of a dead star — whose light we still see; to feel, down to the bone, the quantum foam, we all flail in.

To thicken compassion and thin out aggression; to oppose injustice and hate in a way that excludes no one, not even the hater.

To let failure, discouragement, suffering and perishing have their say, without any spoon of bromide; to let joy, delight, and beauty come as they may.

To penetrate darkness and delusion — and so discover all this love in us.

Because mindfulness and mercy need constant oxygen.

Because in the time that’s left I want to tattoo the implications of our “forgiving victim” on the body suit of my heart.

Because reality points to unity — and we must hurry to catch up.

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