Sign of the Dove

 

"Sign of the Dove"

I am a country chapel girl sitting in a magnificent cathedral

Waiting for a friend’s glorious ordination in which

By some extraordinary grace, I am reading a lectionary Scripture.

The service begins with pomp and pageantry all around:

Pipe organ and choir, vestments and chalices.

It seems so formal that I hope I don’t make a mistake

When I ascend to the lectern at my appointed time.

Then I see, at the front of the grand processional

A sign of divine grace that makes my heart leap:

A man in a robe swirling a beribboned pole  

With a white fabric dove swooping and bobbing 

Fluttering along wherever it will.

That dove is the sign of the Holy Spirit

Who is not at all tethered to a pole with a silken cord.

I instantly know in my own spirit that

The Holy Spirit moves where the Holy Spirit wants to move.

The Holy Spirit does what the Holy Spirit wants to do.

The Holy Spirit is not bound by human plans.

Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty!

The Holy Spirit sets me free to worship and love and serve

So I am filled to the fullness – alleluia!

I ascend to the lectern with confidence

To speak forth the Word of the Lord (Thanks be to God!)

With exuberance and joy among his holy saints

Knowing that the Holy Spirit who has led us all to this place

Is the Holy Spirit who still moves all around the world

Doing the mighty work of the Lord far beyond

All we could ask or even imagine – alleluia!

~~~~

This is a video of the dove on the pole during the recessional after the ordination. 

In my last poem, Echo of the Sacred Story,  I reflected on an Advent sermon by my dear friend Patricia Orlando. This newest poem is inspired by her ordination on May 22, 2022, at the same place, The Cathedral Church of St. Luke in downtown Orlando.

(In this photo, the people I recognize are Bishop Greg Brewer who is seated, Patricia in the white robe, and her husband Michael in the black suit.)

I was absolutely thrilled when Patricia asked me to read a lectionary passage at the service. She knows how much I love to do this at our "country chapel" which is actually at a retreat center overlooking a lake. Beyond that, though, it is just such huge honor for me to be chosen out of all of the people she could have picked. The Old Testament passage was read so marvelously by Dr. Jeff Frymire, professor of preaching at our own Asbury Theological Seminary. I was assigned to 1 Peter 5:1-11, which is about the responsibility of a pastor to serve a congregation with humility and grace. 

But I did feel nervous! I practiced before the service at the lectern and tried to listen carefully as they gave me liturgical instructions such as, "Bow to the verger before you start reading." Of course, I forgot that entirely once I got up there to do my thing. My mind was only on the Word, my friend, and the rest of the precious saints in the beautiful building. The video below begins when I start my reading.

So it was the dove on the pole -- and the glorious liberty of the Holy Spirit -- which set my mind at ease and reminded me why we were all really there: to worship and glorify the Lord, who is Spirit.

Apparently, the dove on the pole is often used during the season of Pentecost (which marks the descent of the Holy Spirit in Acts 2) in liturgical churches. This service was just before Pentecost, so I guess they broke theirs out early at the cathedral. The video above is from the recessional. Our small Episcopal chapel (below) had a dove on a much shorter pole on actual Pentecost Sunday.

A word about alleluia in my poem: I wrote this in there first because it seemed so fitting in worship, but then I realized that it's also an inside joke. In our liturgy, we don't say the usual alleluias during the season of Lent, saving it for Easter. But I'm a bit of a rebel, so most weeks I would still whisper it loudly at the regular spots, and Patricia would nudge me and whisper it back to me.

So, ALLELUIA! And congratulations, Mother Patricia!

Echo of the Sacred Story

In the resounding Echo of the Grandest Narrative,
Hear your own invitation to the Sacred Story.
Say along with the saints:
“Be it done to me according to your Word!”
Imagine and realize what this means:
What wonder and honor
To be an ambassador of grace and mercy
On a mission of redemption in this world!
Then be filled with joy in your eager heart,
For in this moment,
The God of Glory becomes bigger than the world around you
You will find your purpose or, shall we say, 

Your Purpose will find you
As you listen within the quiet and within the noise.
Listen for that echo!
Enter his Mansion of Joy:
Explore each doorway, gaze out each window,
Dwell in each new place you find,
And feast at each table, sharing the riches of the Word
Singing a Magnificat of praises with thanksgiving
And inviting others into the Sacred Story
Welcome home!

~~

I wrote this poem as a reflection of a sermon by Rev. Patricia Orlando, my dear friend and mentor. A transitional deacon awaiting her ordination as an Episcopal priest this spring, she is on the pastoral staff at the Cathedral of St. Luke in downtown Orlando. I visited there the Sunday before Christmas 2021 when she was preaching this message on the ministry and Magnificat of Mary. 

In some ways, this is a "found poem" since I wove in the words from the notes I scribbled on an offering envelope.

  

I usually write an Advent poem each year. This one would have been perfect for 2021, but I didn't write it until earlier this month. 

These words encourage me today as I contemplate where I fit in with the Grand Narrative, what my specific ministry is as I move forward. Echoing my poem, I know I am "an ambassador of grace and mercy on a mission of redemption in this world." I have always said that God leads me in unusual ways, with unexpected twists and turns. I continue to wait, work, and pray as he shows me what is next in my life. As this stained glass window reminds me, the Lord is my Shepherd and he leads me on the path. 

Grace and peace,

Virginia Knowles

You may also like to read some of my more recent Advent poems. 

• Dear Bezalel (An Advent Poem for Artists) - 2019
• We Can Rise - 2018
• God of Joy, I See Thee - 2017
• Bring Me - 2015
• Pure Devotion - 2014

At Church of the Incarnation (where I attend), we are studying the book Radical Hospitality: Benedict's Way of Love on Wednesday evenings. (We eat soup together first!) I read this poem during our breakout group at the last meeting. I wrote it many years ago, but it seems to fit not only with that study but with this current poem. Here's the link: Bella Sophia (Lady Wisdom Sets Her Table).

What Do I Know?

What do I know?

I saw a mourning dove yesterday morning

hopping along the sidewalk near me.

My mother taught me of mourning doves

so I knew this one by her shape, color, size -- 

though then she did not speak. 

I crept up quietly, but she knew and flew. 

The roof was a safe place; the roof and the sky, 

because she has wings and I do not. 

I could see only her silhouette there

but it still said mourning dove to me.

This morning I heard her plaintive call: 

Coo ah coo coo coo.

And: Coo ah coo coo coo.

That was all she ever said, over and over again. 

But now I only hear the chirping and trilling of other smaller birds. 

I wait with my ears open. 

Now I hear her again: Coo ah coo coo coo.

Yesterday I did not hear. Today I do not see. 

So tell me, is there a mourning dove around?

Tell me what you know.

~*~*~

I wrote this as a simple Facebook post last year, not even as a poem. It came up in my Memories feed. I did not mention in that post that this day, July 19, is the anniversary of my mother's death in 2013. The image of a mourning dove is so relevant here.

I am writing a book now, Burned: Rising from the Ashes of Spiritual Crisis. In my chapter on the restorative spiritual practice of Lament, I tell a "small story" about the grief of losing my mother after a long hospitalization due to surgical complications. It is my mother who taught me so much of what I do know, about nature and so much more. I am so grateful for her life, even as I still mourn her death eight years later. The grief is quiet, like a mourning dove, but it is still there, even if I do not always see or hear it.

So tell me, what do you know?

Grace and peace,

Virginia

P.S. #1: It's been over a year since I've written on this blog. I'll do a new update post soon. So much has happened!

P.S. #2: Other posts related to my mother:

• Thunder Hole in Acadia National Park
• Brookside Gardens
• A Eulogy is Also a Begnning
• Radiant Nurturer: Recent Photos of My Mother
• In the Garden: When the Caregiver Needs Care

We Can Rise (Advent Poem 2018)

We Can Rise

by Virginia Knowles, Advent 2018

We can rise because he descended

Glory upon Glory dwelling in a tiny child

Meek and mild in a manger.

This is the exquisite mystery of

The Son of God and Son of Man

Redeeming the ashes of death through his birth

And so we rise to new life

We can rise because he descended

The Shepherd Savior rescuing his lambs

From the dark and rocky crevices

Where evil lurks and thorns entangle

He longs to lead us home to safe haven

Gentle yet strong arms free us, lift us up

And so we rise in new liberty

We can rise because he descended

As the Great Physician tending the sick

He heals the wounded heart and yet much more

He brings a fullness and wellness

By sacrificing himself, his very life, body and blood

Then rising victorious over sin and death

And so we rise in new strength

We can rise because he descended

As the sovereign Head of his new body

Gathered together from saints made new

Living temple, royal priests rising to serve

Rising to descend as he did

To lift others to his life and liberty and strength

And so we rise in new love.

And though we too descend again and again

Still we rise and rise and rise and rise.

My other Advent poems:

• God of Joy, I See Thee - 2017
• Bring Me - 2015
• Pure Devotion - 2014
• Peace and Joy - 2013
• The Jesus Poem - 2012
• Christmas in Malawi, Christmas in America - 2011
• Invitation to Stillness - 2010
• Grace Will Lead Me Home - 2009
• The Story Did Not Start with a Stable and a Star - 2008
• Candlewick - 2008
• Shepherd's Tale - 2008
• Corpus Christi - 2007
• Rhapsody in M - 2006
• Psalm to Sweet Jesus
• Paradox

"Over Utah in January" - 10 Years Later

Ten years ago today, I attended the funeral of my grandmother Margaret Driggs in Salt Lake City, Utah. I had little idea what to expect, since I had never met any of the extended family via her second marriage. (My dad's stepfather, Dr. Howard R. Driggs, was much older than Grandma. He was born in the 1870s into a polygamous Mormon family with 22 children. I have never been Mormon.) And all I could think of, as far as Utah terrain goes, were the salt flats we had driven through way back in 1976 on a family vacation. I was in for a surprise! On the airplane, looking down over Colorado and Utah, my breath was taken away by the gorgeous snow covered mountains. I took out my journal and started writing, and my poem "Over Utah in January" was born. 

Today, I post this with love for my step-second cousins whom I met at the funeral and reception near Salt Lake City. (Thank you to Dan Christensen for reminding me of the anniversary of the funeral.)

Over Utah in January 

by Virginia Knowles

I am in the sky looking down on

Vast speechless stretches 

  of frozen white

Curved round and round by

Slicing crevices and streams

And human roads 

  abandoned though they be

Foothills then soaring 

  mountains beyond

Majestic tall yet distant small

From the sky where I look down

Clustering pines

  (wilderness steeples)

Defer to barren ground below

Shedding to it cumbering, 

  nurturing snow

Upright spires green

Evergreen over branches, trunks, 

  rough and woody brown

Rooted deeply into ascending slope

Yet as living arrows aiming high

To the sky where I look down 

Up and over mountain towers, fly

Peering through mottled fog outstretched

Amid earthy upturned layers, variegated ripples

Shadow clouds now upwisping 

  sharply angled peaks

Oh! These are of no human 

  construct or design

Not even marked by 

  footprints in pristine snow

Just fingerprints, signatures divine

Where winter earth meets winter sky

Yet in the valley 

  I see manly habitation

In patterned rows, 
casual curves beneath the mist

Nestled in yet beckoned 

  to a deep and high communion

Only bold ones venture 

  beyond certain fringes

Strive upward, breathe hard, 

  ascending steep, behold

Some faithful cannot climb 

  but still lift souls to see

To know and long to know

Others seem content merely to stroll 

   in evenness beneath, below

Oblivious to wonder

I am in the sky looking down

Then gazing up in awe at Him

Who gazes down in grace on me below

On me, who sees and longs to know