Broken humanity spends a lot of time and energy trying to cover up their scandal, sin, and shame.  But when Jesus comes into our lives we are exposed as imperfect creatures.  Exposed as we are, Jesus loves us anyways and clothes us in his robe of righteousness.

Vicar Neal Cannon; Time after Pentecost, Sunday 11, year C; texts: 2 Samuel 11:26 – 12:10, 13-15; Galatians 2:15-21; Luke 7:36 – 8:3

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

Have you ever had that dream where you’re about to do a presentation, or a speech, or a sermon, or you’re in the middle of a crowded hallway and all of a sudden you realize that everyone is looking at you?  “What could they be looking at?” you wonder.  Is my hair messy?  Do I have something stuck in my teeth?  Is my makeup on funny?  You start feeling really anxious because people are pointing and laughing at you. And then all of a sudden you look down and you realize you’re naked!  If you’re a preacher you think, “Thank God for pulpits!”  The rest of you might not be so lucky.

Dreams can often be complicated things but it doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to diagnose what is happening here.  No, we regular arm-chair psychologists and Google experts can pretty easily identify that this type of dream is about more than our fear of being naked.  These dreams are about our fear of being exposed.  They are about our deep and inner fear that people will see us fully as we are and we’re scared to death of that.  After all, nakedness symbolizes scandal.  Nakedness symbolizes sin.  Nakedness symbolizes all the things that we feel ashamed about and if people see us as being naked, how could they love us?  How could God love us?  We barely love ourselves.

This is an age old fear, Adam and Eve old.  Adam and Eve’s first instinct after eating from the forbidden tree was to be ashamed of their nakedness and cover it up with leaves and hide from God in a dark place.  It seems like ever since then we’ve been ashamed of our nakedness to the point where we subconsciously fear and dream about our sins, faults, and failures being exposed.  We love the light, but the last thing we want is for the light to expose our sins leaving us vulnerable to public ridicule and judgment.

In our Gospel lesson today, there is a woman who is a known sinner.  We are not told what her sin is, but apparently this is a publicly known sin.  This woman’s sin is exposed.  It’s out in the open for everyone to see like a reality TV star.  We’re not sure if she is a servant or if she is supposed to be at the Pharisee’s house in any way, but when Jesus arrives at the party and sits at the table, this sinful woman approaches Jesus with an alabaster jar of ointment.

Now at the time it was customary to wash your guest’s feet, but quite frankly what happens next is a little bit obscene.  She begins to weep and wash Jesus’ feet with her tears and dry his feet with her hair.  Imagine if this happened in one of our homes.  We might be a little embarrassed by what was going on or at the very least, feel very uncomfortable because this is a really strange public display of affection (we’re not too into PDA).  This “sinful” woman is intimately close to Jesus, weeping and carrying on.  This is above and beyond regular hospitality.  This seems more like love.  One might wonder, “Did she ever hear Jesus speak? Did she ever speak to Jesus directly?”

Simon, overlooking this spectacle, concludes that Jesus must not know her because if Jesus really knew her he wouldn’t associate with her.  He thinks, “What is this guy doing?  If he was really a prophet he would know that this woman is a sinner.”  And by doing this, Simon distances himself from the woman and from Jesus.  After all, Simon expects that Jesus would associate with him, a Pharisee, but doubts that a true man of God would associate with a known sinner.  In other words, Simon creates two categories of people; a category for sinners, and a category for religious people like himself.

Categorizing people and distancing ourselves from “them” is something this culture does frequently.  We experience this phenomenon through reality TV.  Shows like Jersey Shore, Toddlers and Tiaras, Hoarders, and Bridezillas, are or have been popular shows based on the premise of exposing the inner mess of people’s everyday lives.  These shows are designed to make us judge this bizarre human behavior, and like watching a train wreck as its happening, we can’t take our eyes away.

Reality TV can be addictive because watching people act in obscene ways makes us feel a little bit better about ourselves and our lives.  Reality TV can be a way to cover up or lesson our own scandals, our own sense of sin and shame and say, “Well at least I don’t do that.”

And if you don’t relate to this particular example because you don’t watch reality TV, keep in mind that this is the exact same thing we do when we gossip about others, or mock/make fun of/or lessen other people for any reason.  When we do these things what we’re doing is pointing out other people’s sin and thereby distracting or covering up our own.

Unfortunately, this is often a religious problem too.  The problem almost all religions have is that religious piety can be a tool to expose other people’s sin while at the same time acting as a cloak to hide under.  Religious self-righteousness can be the garment we wear to hide our nakedness, to tell ourselves we are not sinful and that we have nothing to hide.  The scary thing is that if we do this long enough, we can actually come to believe that we are without sin.

And this is exactly what happens to both David and Simon in our stories today.  Out of a sense of their own self-righteousness, David from being a king and Simon from being a Pharisee, they thought they were above others; above and thus not subject to the law.  And acting as men above and beyond the law, David and Simon spend a lot of time and energy trying to expose others while covering up their own sin.  Simon wants to expose this woman as a sinner and he wants to expose Jesus as a fraud.  David wants to expose the man in Nathan’s story.  Both cover themselves in self-righteousness while doing so.

So, Jesus tells Simon a parable.  Two people owe a creditor.  One owes a lot, and one owes a little, but the creditor forgives the debt of both these people.  Which person loves the creditor more?  Simon knows the right answer (David probably would too): the one who owed more is the one who will love the creditor more.  That’s the obvious answer.  But I wonder if Simon picks up on the subtle part of this story.  Namely that Jesus’ question is not about debt.  Jesus’ question is about love.

Jesus’ isn’t preoccupied with who owes the creditor more money and he doesn’t create a scale of holiness based on the debts of each person.  He doesn’t categorize the debt.  Instead, Jesus essentially says that before God, before our Creditor, all our debts are wiped out.  Jesus question then isn’t about our debts; it’s about our relationship with our creator.  Jesus’ question asks us how we respond to a God who doesn’t keep track of debt.

After all it was the “sinful” woman who washed Jesus feet with her tears and dried them with her hair, she’s the one who extends her love and gratitude and hospitality to Jesus, and she’s the one who recognizes the extravagant and free gift that she has been given, not Simon.  Simon seems to think that his sins are somehow less than this woman’s sin and because he doesn’t think he’s been forgiven much, his sin of not loving much is exposed.  David can’t get off the hook either.  After committing adultery and murder God sends David a prophet with a parable that exposes everything that David has done.

One of the Apostle Paul’s greatest realizations is that we all sin and that all fall short of the glory of God.  We can’t cover up our sins with religion.  Piety does not actually make us more holy.  We cannot judge our sins in comparison with others.  Paul writes, “And we have come to believe in Christ Jesus, so that we might be justified by faith in Christ, and not by doing the works of the law, because no one will be justified by the works of the law.”  Put another way, being religious doesn’t justify us, it actually exposes us.  It doesn’t cover up our sins, it unveils them.  Before the Triune God, we are exposed and our sin cannot be hidden.  And this is one of the oldest and deepest human fears, as old as Adam and Eve, to be naked and exposed before God and the world.  When we feel naked we try to hide because we are afraid that if God sees us as naked people, then we won’t have a relationship with God.

Ironically, hiding is precisely the reason we don’t have a relationship with God.  By hiding we take ourselves away from God and don’t trust that God loves us.  We fear being exposed because we fear God’s judgment so we withdraw from God.  In response, God, like a shepherd seeking out the lost sheep, sends his only Son into the world and the judgment that the Son proclaims is found on the cross.

It’s on the cross that we realize that our scandal is forgotten, our shame taken away, and our sins forgiven.  On the cross God’s judgment is love and it’s on the cross that we no longer have to fear our nakedness because Jesus clothes us in garments of righteousness.  Isaiah says it best,

I will greatly rejoice in the LORD,
my whole being shall exult in my God;
for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation,
he has covered me with the robe of righteousness.

When Jesus sees us naked, exposed, ashamed, Jesus gives us his robe and says, “You’re debts are forgiven.  There’s no reason to hide.”  This is good news for us all that causes us to respond with faith, hope, and love to the point of weeping because we were afraid of our nakedness and Jesus clothed us in righteousness.

When Jesus comes into our lives he sees us as we are.  We can’t cover it up, we can’t deflect attention elsewhere. Jesus sees us as we are and says “you are forgiven.”  And in this we remember our right relationship to God.  A relationship based on love.

Thanks be to God.

We look to Jesus for life and salvation, but we are to look not in miracles and amazing acts, rather in the life with the Triune God he comes to initiate and teach and into which he longs to draw us.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen, Time after Pentecost, Lectionary 10, year C; texts: Luke 7:11-17 (18-23); 1 Kings 17:17-24; Psalm 30; Galatians 1:11-24

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

One of the many iconic moments in the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz occurs after Dorothy and her friends return to the Emerald City at the end.  They’ve done all the wizard asked, and now he is brusquely sending them away without the promised gifts.  While Dorothy protests, her dog Toto trots over to the side of the audience hall and pulls aside a curtain, behind which stands a man talking into a microphone and working many gears and levers.  “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” the voice of Oz booms out.

Of course – and I apologize if this spoils the movie for those who haven’t seen it yet, but really, it’s been out for 74 years, so you’ve had plenty of time – of course it turns out that the Wizard of Oz isn’t the huge, frightening head with the booming voice and the special effects that hovers above the throne.  The wizard is the very ordinary man behind the curtain, and the “Wizard of Oz” that everyone has known and feared is all projection and mirage.  He has no actual magical talent.  “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain” has become a byword for things that appear to be greater than they are but which are really illusion and deception.

Which makes Jesus all the more interesting and compelling.  Because Jesus, it seems, is the opposite of the wizard.  Jesus actually has power, is able to do amazing things.  He can even raise people to life who once were dead.  But if we listen to Jesus, the message we hear is “pay attention to the man behind the curtain.”  Jesus repeatedly seems to refocus people away from his miraculous actions and toward himself, his teachings, the life he is calling people to live.  The miracles, the wonder, these seem incidental to Jesus’ mission and goals.

It’s refreshing, actually, compared to the world experience in which most of us are well used to being told not to look too carefully behind any curtain.  But it’s no less challenging.  The miraculous things Jesus actually does can be so compelling to our interest, we can often think they’re the only point, and never get to know the man behind the curtain.  Never get to talk to him, listen to him, and learn what he really came to do.  Never fully commit to following him, walking with him throughout our lives.

Actually, on a Sunday where all four of our readings from God’s Word speak of miraculous transformations, it’s pretty powerful to realize that in at least three cases, those transformations point to something far more important behind the curtain, and invite us to come and see ourselves.

In all four of these readings, the miracle leads to praise of God, and even more, in three of them it leads to listening to the truth God needs heard.

When Elijah raises the woman’s son, she praises God (which is good, since she blamed God when her son died), and says she knows the truth about Elijah now.  “You are a man of God,” and – and this is the important thing – “the word of the LORD in your mouth is the truth.”  Now everything Elijah has told her about God is something she can trust.  She can believe that he tells the truth, because God has used him to raise her son.

The same happens with Jesus.  Because he raises this young man, people praise and glorify God for sending such a prophet.  They see Jesus the way the widow sees Elijah, confirmed now as a servant of God.  And when word of this gets to John the Baptist in prison, he decides to follow up.

It’s a little odd at first to consider why John has to ask.  After all, he’s the one who pointed Jesus out first as Messiah, the Lamb of God.  It was his job.  But it’s likely because it was his main job that he needs to act on his doubts.  He’s in prison, and probably aware that it’s likely Herod will have him killed at some point.  And Jesus isn’t preaching the fire and brimstone John preached.  He’s preaching grace and inclusion along with his call to repentance.

For Jesus, the reign of God is extending to non-Jews and Jews, and welcomes even “sinful” people.  But he’s doing miracles, too.  So John wants to know the truth.  That’s why I had us hear those verses – the appointed Gospel ends with the miracle.  But we also need to hear the rest, the truth.

Jesus starts out his answer to John by saying, “Go and tell John what you see and hear.”  And he gives the laundry list of miracles: the blind see, the deaf hear, even the dead are raised.  The implication is that who else would he be, if he’s doing things like this.

But the final statement is the real answer: “the poor have the Good News preached to them.”  This is the whole point for Jesus.  Look at the signs I’m doing, sure.  They’ll tell you I have power from God.  But the important thing is that I’m bringing Good News from God to the poor.

This preaching I’m doing, the way I’m showing is of God, this is Good News, John.  Blessed are you if you don’t take offense at it.  It’s not fire and brimstone, it’s not axes and judgment.  It’s grace and welcome, and yes, invitation to sin no more.  But it’s Good News: to the poor, to the Jew, to the Gentile, even to the wealthy.

The miracles are not the point, not even this amazing resurrection.  The point for Jesus is this: God is now among you, and is calling all of you, all people to a new reign of God, to the Good News of God’s way.  It’s the way to life.  It’s more important than anything else.  Even than having a child raised from their coffin.

Jesus isn’t ignorant.  He knows this is going to be the sticking point for many.

We all like a good miracle.  We all know the desperate desire for such things.  And he provided them, again and again.  But if you look at the record, not only does he often downplay and even discount his miracles, telling people to keep quiet about them.  He most often doesn’t seem to plan any of them.  They just happen.  Usually because he’s the Son of God and loves people and can’t walk past suffering.

Look at today’s story: he comes to the city of Nain for who knows what reason and just runs into a funeral procession.  Because he feels compassion for the bereft widow who now has no son to support her, he raises her son.  It almost feels like an accidental encounter.

This is important to understand because of our desperation.  When I first preached this text it was in my first parish, and we had just experienced a horrible event in our very small town of 600 people.  One of the recent high school graduates, who was also even the prom queen, had been killed in a traffic accident a week after graduation.  She belonged to another parish, but there were only three churches in town, and everyone, everyone was grieving.  You hear a Gospel like this on the next Sunday and the only question is, “Why doesn’t God do that anymore?  Why doesn’t God raise dead children anymore?”

And with the number of children who have died tragically in only the past six months, from Newtown to Boston to Oklahoma, or the tens of thousands who have died of hunger and disease and war, this is no small concern.  Add to that our concern and love for the suffering of all sorts of other people, loved ones, people on the other side of the planet, people of all kinds.

If our proclamation about Jesus is that he heals all these things, we’re back to the Wizard of Oz, because while he certainly can heal all these things, there are millions of times that he doesn’t.  And if such miracles are the point of his coming, then either he’s not very good at what he is supposed to be, or he doesn’t care about us like he did the people of his day.

But in fact, the miracles were never the point.  They were the outflowing of love from the Incarnate Son of God because he couldn’t walk past pain.  But the point of his coming was to show us God, to be with us as God in person, and to lead us into a life of love and faith with the Triune God in whose hands all life rests.  To show us a way of life which can live in a world of tragedy and pain and find abundance and joy.

To show us that even in this world we can know grace and hope, even if all our requests for miracles aren’t granted.  And in dying and rising, to forever give us the Good News that no matter how or when our lives end, or the lives of anyone, that is not the end, and there is life in a world to come.

But Jesus wants us to follow him, not his miracles.  To commit to him.  Because with him there is life.

His miracles only help establish his credentials, so we can trust our lives to him.  Like Elijah, because we can see what he has done, including rising from the dead, we know he is from God.

But the point of that knowing is then to follow him.  To invite him to lead us in our journey of life, guide us, show us a way of life.

It’s the same thing Paul is doing in this word from Galatians.  He tells of his miracle, that one who violently persecuted Christians was transformed by God into a great preacher for Christ.  And look what he says: “they glorified God because of me.”  Once again, the miracle leads to praise of God, not the person.  And the reason Paul tells it is to establish his credentials for the Galatians so they will listen to him and do what he says.  Not so they’ll be amazed at the miracle.  So they’ll trust that he brings them the truth from God.

Just as the widow trusted Elijah.  Just as Jesus invites John, and all of us, to trust him.

This isn’t an easy lesson for us to learn.  We long for the ending of all suffering and pain, and if God can shortcut that through the power of the Son of God, we’re all for it.  But we can’t avoid the truth that very Son repeatedly wants us to hear: life with God is possible and real and available, and it isn’t about getting or not getting miracles.

It’s about – and this is a wonder beyond wonders – it’s about living in a full, life-giving relationship with the Triune God who made all things and who loves us.  It’s about having God’s grace as a constant companion in our journey of life, sustaining us even in our suffering, giving life and meaning and purpose to our existence.  It’s about walking with the man behind the curtain and learning his way, and finding it’s a way of rich, abundant life.

I think Jesus would understand our desire to see such miracles as these all the time.

His compassion is likely pulled greatly at the suffering we inflict upon each other and this planet.

But that’s the reason he needs us to pay more attention to him than to these things.  The way of God he brings us will lead to life for all, and bring grace and healing to this world in profound ways.  We know this.  We’ve seen it happen before, and will again.

And we’ve seen that the salvation we have in Christ Jesus is something we can experience and know every moment of our lives, even as we rejoice in the hope of the life that is to come.  Following him, committing to this Way, that’s our path.  And it’s the path of life for us and for the world, the way that turns our wailing into dancing, and clothes us with joy.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

We can come up with plenty of reasons why we are not worthy to be loved by God, forgiven by God, welcomed by God.  But Christ, whose love defeats death and our own unworthiness, calls us beloved.  Worthy.  And it is so.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen, Time after Pentecost, Lectionary 9, year C; text: Luke 7:1-10

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

George Herbert, an early seventeenth century Anglican priest, gives us this poem:

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
                        Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
                        From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
                        If I lack’d anything.

A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
                        Love said, you shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
                        I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
                        Who made the eyes but I?

Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
                        Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
                        My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
                        So I did sit and eat. [1]

There is a question of worthiness that flows through this story.

This centurion, assigned to Capernaum by the occupying Roman government, is a remarkable man.  The Jewish elders of the town plead his case, plead his worth to Jesus.  “He loves our people.  He built us our synagogue.  Help him, if you can.”  This centurion might not be unique in supporting local religion that is not his own faith; the emperor Augustus recommended such behavior because it helped keep people in order.

But there’s more here, isn’t there?  “He loves our people,” they said.  This is no cynical bureaucrat, seeking to appease a restless populace.  The community of people whose oppression is visibly symbolized by his very office argues on his behalf to one of their own, a miracle worker of the Jews.

So why doesn’t he see that same worth, at least not when it comes to what he asks of Jesus, recognizes in Jesus?  Is it just that this centurion honors Jewish custom by not asking Jesus to risk becoming unclean by entering a Gentile home?

Like Naaman the Syrian, whom Jesus mentions in Nazareth a little earlier, the centurion sends people as go-betweens, respecting Jesus’ authority.  Unlike Naaman, he seems to consider himself unworthy of direct contact with the Jewish prophet.

The first group of advocates, the Jewish elders, speak of his worth.  But then he sends his friends, who downplay his worth.  “I’m not worthy to have you come under my roof,” he asks them to convey to Jesus.

This is such a strange, unexpected thing to hear from the representative of an occupying army.  Where’s the arrogance?  Where are the demands?  No, this one doubts his worthiness to receive Jesus.

But there is third assessment of worth here, that of the Incarnate Son of God.  Jesus heals this man’s slave, he sees worth and value in the centurion, even if the centurion does not.  He made the slave.  He made the centurion.  And he says, “worthy.”

We’re getting used to hearing this from Luke about Jesus, but it’s still surprising.  When Jesus preached for the first time in his hometown he emphasized God’s grace to foreigners.  His friends and neighbors were enraged.  Why would he say that about unworthy people?

But this goes back even to before his birth, Luke tells us.  And when Jesus was a baby, Simeon said that he would be a light to bring light to the nations, and the glory of God’s people Israel.  All would be in this love of God, this kingdom he was bringing, Jews and non-Jews.  So Jesus declares even this foreign soldier and this unknown slave worthy of God’s grace and love and healing.

And there is also this: even though he felt unworthy, he did trust Jesus’ decision and authority.  “If you say this will be so, it will be so.”  And Jesus says he is worthy.

This question of worthiness flows through the Rev. Herbert’s poem.

Love, who is Christ, bids welcome to a feast, but the speaker holds back, feeling guilty, sinful.  When Love notices the hesitation, the speaker claims there is no guest worthy to be here.

What follows is so beautiful, as Love argues with the speaker about his own worth.  “I made you.”  “Yes, but I’ve messed that all up.”  “But I took that blame.”  “Then I should serve you for that.”

But Love insists: no, you must let me serve you.  Feed you.  Come, sit, and eat.  In spite of any perceived unworthiness, the speaker is invited to face this fact: he is loved by Love himself, by the Christ whose love saves all.

The only one who can declare someone worthy is the One who made and redeemed that one.  And Love, Christ, says, “you are worthy, indeed.”  So the speaker relents, and eats.

So again, there is this: though he feels unworthy, he trusts in Love’s invitation.  And Love says he is worthy.

This question of worthiness seems to flow through the heart of our lives.

It’s dangerous to imply that everyone at all times feels similar things, because that’s not true.  But I suspect that there are few people who, when they consider God, always and at all times believe themselves to be worthy.

We come here because we long for God’s love and grace and healing.  Because here, in this place, we have felt welcomed by God’s grace.  People here speak of Mount Olive being a place where many who have been wounded by the Church and by the world have found healing and grace in the love of God.  I doubt there are any here who can’t identify with feeling such grace and welcome here.  I know I can.

But it’s not always easy to believe we’re deserving of that.  How many of us would like every thought, every action, every personality trait we have to be brought into the open amongst the people here?  I wouldn’t.  How many of us, when we confess our sins in silence before liturgy are grateful that it is done in silence?  I am.

We long to hope that we are welcomed with open arms by the Triune God, even by others here, but in our inmost hearts we aren’t always sure we can ask for that.

There are times the law of God needs to come to us from the outside, breaking through walls of denial, but many times at our core, we can feel the sting of God’s law without even being told, we can hear an inner voice saying that we’re not what we should be, what we were meant to be.  That maybe we’re not worthy to be here this morning.

It used to be the stereotype that churches were full of holier-than-thou types, people who insisted on their own righteousness.

That has not been my experience as pastor.  Again and again, when I talk to people I get a sense that there’s at least a part of everyone that recognizes the view of that poet, a part that recognizes the fretting of the centurion.  Even the most holier-than-thou person typically uses that bravado to cover up an inner fear of not measuring up.

Simply, we desperately want to know if God’s face is turned to us in love or against us in anger.  We want to know if we’re worthy of God’s love and grace.  But like the poet and the centurion, we might be tempted to turn away, or avoid seeing Jesus in person, just in case the answer is what we fear it might be.

But then we come here, and are welcomed by the very Son of God.  We begin to see in Christ that the face of God is love toward us and toward the world.

It’s almost more than we can grasp: we come to this altar, to the Meal spread before us, and are welcome.  We hear the voice of the Incarnate Son of God, who made us, say “you are worthy of my love.  My forgiveness.  My healing.”  Worthy to bear the same flesh the Word of God put on himself.  We hear the voice of the Crucified Son of God, who died for us and rose from death, say, “I have made you whole, healed what is sinful, taken away your judgment.  And I love you.”

No one can say we are truly worthy but the One who made us and redeemed us.  And here we find that he says, “worthy.”

And in this place, Love, the Christ, speaks through all these people around us, these faces who say to us in our deepest fears: “you are worthy of God’s love and grace.  You are loved.”  Who serve now as Christ to us, and to the world.  In whose eyes we see love and welcome, not judgment.  Who take seriously the Word of God, the Incarnate, Crucified and Risen One, and repeat his words to us again and again and again until we believe them: “You are worthy.  You are welcome.  Come, and eat.  Be healed.”

So then there is only this remaining for us: Can we accept this?  Can we, too, though unworthy, trust Jesus’ command?  Trust his judgment?  Can we trust Love’s invitation?

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
                        Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
                        From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
                        If I lack’d anything.

A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
                        Love said, you shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
                        I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
                        Who made the eyes but I?

Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
                        Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
                        My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
                        So I did sit and eat.

Amen and Amen.

[1] George Herbert, from The Temple, 1633.  George Herbert: The Complete English Works; Everyman’s Library: Alfred A. Knopf: New York, London, Toronto; copyright 1908, 1974, 2005; p. 184.