spiritual reflection – Salt: Seasoned Theology

Where is the porch light?
We long for its steady promise
to appear somewhere out there
as we journey wintry roads.

Longing for light, we wander.

Someone has lit a lamp.
An obligato flame dances,
comforts aching eyes,
choreographs bone-tired feet.

Seeing the light, we follow.

The mountain house keeps vigil,
Watches through the night.
Waits up for heart-weary travelers
to find their way home.

Sharing the light, we wonder.

Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.

Isaiah offers our first image for Advent this year (see Isaiah 2:1-5):

2The word that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem. ²In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it. ³Many peoples shall come and say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob. . .[C]ome let us walk in the light of the Lord.”
Isaiah 2

In the prophet’s vision, we see a mountain in the distance and crowds of people streaming toward a house on the mountain. A lush garden surrounds the house (at least as I imagine it). The garden has been cultivated by swords and spears that have been refashioned into plowshares and ruining hooks.

What does this mountain house image mean for the 2025 Advent season?

I am always glad when I come home after dark and Sheila has turned on the porch light. When I drive up and the light is on, I know that someone is waiting for me. Watching for me. When I drive up and the porch light is on, I know I am home.

I hope this year’s Advent includes a prophetic porch light liturgy for those whose hearts and bodies ache for home. What do I mean by this? I hear a double call to action in Isaiah. We are called to keep seeking home—God’s home built of justice, love, and peace. We cannot settle down and abide anything less than this. We are also called to keep vigil. We are called to watch through the night for homesick travelers who need for-now dwelling places.

We are approaching the winter solstice—the longest night of the year. People in our lives—people in our world—are bone-tired from wandering uncertain roads. One part of our Advent liturgy—of our work as God’s people—may just be to turn on a porch light and welcome somebody home.

Poetic Theology in the Key of Thirst

The world feels parched these days, literally and metaphorically.

Summer days in my city have been sizzling so far, and many places around the world are facing water shortages.

Too many places also feel parched in other ways. Justice, kindness, breath–these are in short supply as wars rage and people seek hope for the future.

In these days, I find myself turning not to answers but to songs. An ancient biblical song, Isaiah 55, speaks of wisdom that quenches thirst. I hear that wisdom, that word, as a river-song. Not a lecture. Not a system. But a shimmering breath that calls us to be braver, more courageous, in our everyday lives.

Poetic theology, for me, flows in this key, in the ache of longing, in the improvisation of grace, in the rhythm of rivers that rise again and again to call us to be bearers of justice-making and transformation in this dry, desert land.

In the Key of Thirst: A River Rises

an improvisatory poem based on Isaiah 55

Listen.

She calls.
Sings.
Full of ache—
And mercy.

She sings—
Come—you with dry tongues
And empty pockets.
A table is set—enough
And more.
No ticket. No toll.
Just the hush of a listening heart.

She calls.
Sings.

Justice

Falling,
Cascading,
Rolling away stones,
Saturating—dry souls.
Soaking into fields cracked open
From heaped-on
Loads of dusty promises
That weigh almost nothing
But choke out life—

She sings.
And the river rises up—

Singing.

Opens her arms,
Not to cleanse,
But to claim.

Can you hear her?
Feel her misty breath
On your tear-soaked face?

Jazz notes played in reverse,
Riding a single reed,
Curling through the serpentine horn,
Up and out a tilted bell
Into this old world’s midnight.

No chart—just a shimmer to inhale
And follow—
Sometimes running,
Sometimes stumbling,
Sometimes dancing
Toward freedom,
Toward home.

She sings—
Rain finding splintered openings,
Soaking hardened places.

She sings—
Spirals outward,
Inward,
Sounds circling up,
Embracing stormy skylines
With rainbow arms,
Greening the earth
With sprouts of life.

Listen.

The river rises.
She always does.

The smoky voice of longing—
And loss.
The holy heartbeat of memory—
And desire.

It shall not return empty—
Not the song,
Not the breath,
Not the longing
That brought you here.

The river will rise.
She always does.

The river rises

She always does.

Always—

In silence

In song

In you and me

What songs are stirring in your spirit these days? What rivers are you listening for in the midnight hush? May the river rise in us to water the world.

📄 Want to print this newsletter?
👉 Click here to download the printable version (PDF)