The sixth Sunday of Easter, May 5, 2024
Acts 10:44-48
by Allison Courey
Last week,
at 3pm,
walking to the library,
pulling the red wagon,
trying to keep busy
like I always do
when thoughts
are racing through my mind
and a child
is screaming on the stairs,
and a toddler
is crying in my arms,
too loud to ignore,
I saw a sign.
“Drop in” said the sign.
“prayer” said the sign.
“Women only” said the sign,
in red letters,
too big to ignore.
“Bait and switch”,
I said to myself,
“That’s not belonging,”
I thought to myself,
believing that the sign
was a facade,
like a layer of cheap paint
which begins to peel in the sun -
until you see that underneath
the welcome isn’t real
and the sign
is only calling
for converts.
It’s a trick.
I rolled my eyes
and told the child
to cross the street.
Because a woman
was on the corner,
leaning on a trash can,
wearing red lipstick,
too bright to ignore.
The toddler wrestled
in my arms,
kicked
against my chest,
itching
to see
where she belongs.
I held her close
and felt the sun’s heat
burning against my neck,
too hot for spring,
too dry for May,
and felt as if the earth
was shifting beneath my feet.
What shape
is the world I’ll leave my children?
what colour
will their lives be,
I wondered,
stepping over a needle,
too filthy to ignore.
A raspy voice
interrupted my thoughts.
“Her eyes are like the stars,”
the stranger said,
holding a sign
I didn’t read,
sitting on a blanket
I didn’t touch,
mumbling words
I didn’t hear.
“Her eyes are like the ocean,
grey and deep,
bright and stormy,
reminding me of a woman
I knew once,
long ago.
They sparkle,
like joy
and love.”
Love.
Love is the shape
of a lilac leaf,
fluffy
like poplar seeds,
red
like the paper
the child made
for Valentine’s.
Love is a myth.
Last week,
at 3pm,
walking to the library,
pulling the red wagon,
trying to keep busy
like I always do
when thoughts
are racing through my mind
and a child
is screaming on the stairs,
and a toddler
is crying in my arms,
too loud to ignore,
I saw a sign.
“Drop in” said the sign.
“toiletries” said the sign.
“1-6am” said the sign,
in red letters,
too big to ignore.
I stopped.
Space for the broken?
I said to myself,
A place to belong?
I thought to myself,
This is where Jesus would be,
in my neighbourhood,
on Saturday morning,
at 3am.
This love
is not the white-washed,
rule-bound
lip-sync
of institutions.
This love
is not the Bieber,
Frozen,
me-time
of culture.
This love
is the vision of Peter
taking shape.
You see,
Peter thought
about love’s shape
too.
Peter thought
that when Jesus said
to abide in love,
it would come
in a shape
he could recognize.
He thought the lines
around that shape
were solid,
like a lilac leaf.
Inside
were men,
like him,
Israelites,
good people.
But Peter learned
that the love
which gets you up
at 3am
to hang out
with the woman
from the corner,
leaning on a trash can,
wearing red lipstick,
too bright to ignore,
the love that Jesus spoke of,
that Cornelias longed for,
is not the shape
of a lilac leaf.
It is not fluffy
like poplar seeds.
It is not the colour
of the paper
the toddler made
for Valentine’s.
Peter learned
that the love
which gets you up
at 3am
to hang out
with the woman
from the corner,
leaning on a trash can,
wearing red lipstick,
too bright to ignore,
is what Jesus meant
when he said
to dwell in love.
He thought of that day,
at 3pm,
when Jesus died
and the curtain in the temple
tore,
like crumbling brick,
that at last gives way
to pressure pushing up
from shifting earth.
The curtain tore,
and Peter saw
that God could not be
contained.
God’s not contained
by basic shapes
like temples
or churches,
where some are in
and some are out;
God’s not contained
by the shapes
and colours
and categories
we have
for ourselves.
At the house of Cornelius,
Peter sees
love poured out,
defying limits,
spilling over
on folks
who should not belong.
The Spirit of God
is unexpected,
unconstrained,
swirling forward
like an ocean of water
released
in a single room.
He sees Cornelius
at 3pm -
foreigner,
solider,
occupier,
outsider -
swept up in God’s radical welcome,
too wide to ignore.
It’s not a shape
he’s seen before,
not Cornelius,
nor Peter,
where out is in
and in is out
and the Spirit’s welcome
sweeps up
everyone -
and everything -
in her path.
“Dwell in love”,
says Jesus,
“You belong”,
learns Cornelius,
as if belonging
in love
is who we are.
Last week,
at 3pm,
walking home from the library,
pulling the red wagon,
trying to keep busy,
like I always do
when thoughts
are racing through my mind
and a child
is screaming on the stairs,
and a toddler
is crying in my arms,
too loud to ignore,
I wondered
if the myth of love
might live.
But I felt the sun’s heat,
burning
against my neck,
too hot for spring,
too dry for May,
and felt as if the earth
was shifting beneath my feet.
I smiled now,
at the woman
on the corner,
leaning on a trash can,
wearing red lipstick,
too bright to ignore,
getting into an SUV.
The child pointed
across the street,
in front of the church,
at the statue of Mary,
and asked
for baptism,
like Cornelius did,
at 3pm.
The water,
she said.
I need it,
she said.
So I took her tiny finger
and dipped it
in the bowl.
I held her tiny finger
and drew lines
on her face.
“You belong to Jesus”
I told her,
“Grow in the shape of love”
I told her,
“God’s spirit is always with you”
I said.
The toddler screamed,
too loud to ignore,
because water
is her favourite toy.
So I splashed a little
and laughed
as we pushed out the door
and back to the street,
lest someone
might think
that the water
is shaped like a lilac leaf.
“The water,”
I said.
“You need it,”
I said,
“Because people will tell you
that the woman
on the corner,
leaning on a trash can,
wearing red lipstick,
too bright to ignore,
does not belong.
And people will say
that you
are too young,
your thoughts
are too small,
your feet
are too slow,
Like they always have
when someone doesn’t fit
the shape they expect.
But the Spirit
will tell you
that Jesus paints
in every colour,
embraces those
who live unseen,
welcomes you,
when you are small,
or lost,
or alone.
A plastic bag
blew past her feet
and I told her
that the Spirit
is the shape of wind.
But the Spirit’s wind
does not blow
like bags,
or leaves.
The Spirit’s wind
will fill you up
and make you whole
and grow you
in the shape
of love.
The Spirit’s wind
makes it so you
may become
the you
God made you
to be.
Because you,
dear child,
belong here -
like Cornelius,
the Eunuch,
the women,
the Gentiles,
the sick.
And from the water,
and in the Spirit,
we too spill over,
into the street,
to paint the world -
together we’ll paint
with colours
of belonging,
too bright to ignore.
I do not know
the shape
of the world
we’ll leave
our children,
what colour
their lives will be,
or even if
the Church will be there
to paint with them.
But I do know
that 2000 years ago,
Peter learned
about the shape of love
and the colour of belonging,
when he met
Cornelius.
Peter learned
that God,
like water captured in a paper bag,
cannot be
contained.
Peter Saw
that the Spirit flows
in unexpected places,
changing the landscape
like spring rains
on the escarpment.
And when she fills you, too,
with the colour
of belonging,
and the story
of Jesus,
and the shape
of love,
the earth beneath your feet
will begin to shift,
and you will see the myth of love
come alive.
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