This icon of the Mother of God is discovered in the Ethiopian Orthodox Monastery, Ura Kidane, on the edge of Lake Tana in Ethiopia (Africa). Pilgrims visit the monastery, though perhaps not in the numbers that travel to Lourdes in France or Knock in Ireland. Ethiopia is a rugged place without first world conveniences. Here's a short tourism video that gives us a hint.
Let's not be tourists, but troubadours, and join the monastic community and friends in their praises. To that end, I have asked the Mother of God to allow my first thought each morning for the past month, to be a thought of her. She has kindly consented.
I immediately picture myself standing before the wall-painted icon. The church is open, filled with breezes and scent. I let the imaginary tourists move around quickly with their cameras and comments; I have come to pray. My thoughts begin with an original title for Mary, according to the letters of our alphabet, because I think religion should be at least a little fun.
But I must remember that we live in a big world, a troubled world, a world struggling to stay alive, and that the arms of the Christian heart are invited to encircle that world.
Abiding Lady,
Before your
Ethiopian icon,
I've a holy work to do.
Symbolically dressed,
as offering priest
with amice — asking for a clear mind,
alb — may my prayer spring out of Baptism,
cincture — like a cloister wall around me,
stole — may I be restored and stay standing,
chasuble — may my prayer be a house of love.
I set out with an eager heart,
hoping to gladden your own.
Benificent Lady,
some priests need you to tug on their vestments—
the cleric who's forgotten his ordination day,
whose heart no longer knows how to bow,
highly couture-d,
but whose soul
is shade—
distracted by money,
climbing the clerical ladder,
kingdom building,
taken with power,
emotionally un-evolved,
lecturing without spiritual vision,
no longer seeking beauty.
Or simply
the poor fellow,
dis-spirited,
confounded,
lonely,
afraid.
Clement Lady,
some politicians need a night visit from you,
a kiss,
a dream perhaps—
that wakes them up
in a start—
the microphone loving,
press room posturing,
pandering,
partisan,
pretender pro-life politician,
the scheming,
aggressive,
greedy,
obstructing,
vain politician—
the ones who've
abandoned their servant role.
Dulcet Lady,
I awake in the dark morning,
despair at my door,
then remembering the
greeting of your angel,
Rejoice, favored one!
But Gabriel messages me as well—
You, the first,
and I,
sneaking in somewhere along the
long line of learners,
who aren't content to be
admire-rs,
but who want to be light-bearers too.
Elected Lady,
Chosen to give a body
to God's
breathed-out,
self-revealing Word.
But elected too,
to show us,
with your Child,
how to stay human,
how to become human again,
for when we forget,
only blood,
death,
flame and dust
remain.
Forbearing Lady,
when the Polish people
pilgrim-ed with your Czestochowa icon
to every city and town,
the Soviet soldiers
ticket-ed them for disturbing the peace,
seized your image,
placing you under house arrest,
sending you back to Jasna Gora.
But the people laughed
and continued their journey,
carrying the icon's empty frame.
Oh, that I would be enduring too.
Genial Lady,
gratitude in me for—
cobalt candle light,
May procession,
lilac bouquet and
Monday night novena,
sentimental hymn and
perpetual help,
the middle name of every nun,
concrete Mary in the corner garden.
But is there real love in my heart?
Holy-Apparelled Lady,
in your flowered maphorian,
reminiscent of your Guadalupe dress
and the lush garden
the creator made for us.
But we're chopping it down,
digging it up
paving it over.
We need to stop.
Inclusive Lady,
In the human story,
the past is savagery,
the present is repellent
with the blood-letting
we enable,
protect.
Each day,
some new awfulness,
the only creature
which destroys what it creates,
even its own children.
But all I can do,
standing before your icon,
is give myself
to you,
in love,
that tomorrow may be happier.
Jubilant Lady,
There are people who frighten me—
the other-ists
who tout the American Dream
but abhor the ones who come
from anywhere else—
geographically,
spiritually,
ideologically—
immigrants,
women,
refugees,
Jews,
Muslims,
Catholics,
black,
brown,
gay,
trans.
My first morning thought
before
your African icon—
people long to feel safe,
to have their dignity recognized,
to be loved.
Knowledgeable Lady,
the monks of Ura Kidane
are dancing monks—
two interfaced choruses,
di-poled
line dancers,
alternating,
rhythmic,
shuffling monks,
drum beating,
hand held,
tintinabulators.
Lovesome Lady,
people travel a great distance
to visit you,
to smile back at you,
traversing
high rugged mountains,
gorges and valleys,
plains and high central plateaus
before crossing
Lake Tara.
And today I will travel the great inner distance
of mind,
emotion
and heart,
from the old race of cruelty,
to the new race of love.
Marveling Lady,
at Gabriel's word,
the angel song and
Bethlehem star,
the palm tree's shade,
the cherry tree's yielding,
the Egyptian road,
the bandit's change of heart,
the wild boar becoming tame,
the spring of water out of desert sand.
Maybe you marvel that
I still believe.
I've got nothing to say,
just my smile;
my gaze.
Noble Lady,
I'm not afraid of the 4 A.M dark,
the animals in the woods—
the bear,
the porcupine,
the raccoon,
the fox,
the skunk—
they're not interested in me.
But the darkness of hate,
of destructive greed,
of exploitive selfishness—
I fix you in my eyes
as healing
antidote.
Open-handed Lady,
be medicine for the sick at heart,
be like rain to the spiritually dry,
like a star for the lost.
Offer the comfort of your lap for the friendless,
a gladdening shout for the sorrowing ones,
deliverance for the distressed.
Preserving Lady,
above your head,
handsome angels bear double-edged swords,
not menacing,
but at the ready.
Are they flying nearby to ward off
the little gods, alluring,
who threaten to de-throne
you in hearts?
But oh,
now I remember—
the double-edged sword
cuts twice—
that the Child's command,
to love God and others
would enter
my heart
doubly-deep.
Qualitied Lady,
your eyes, wide opened,
your head, gently inclined;
I expect you are listening.
But your mouth is small and closed—
no toothy,
white-glistening,
sexy smile.
And we,
running voice-over,
scrambling for something to say.
Silence the talk-a-thon,
make us more ponder-rs.
Rejoicing Lady,
strange,
this first morning thought—
remembering the neighbor man
who stood under the tree,
pointing a rifle
up at the possum
he'd cornered,
the frightened animal looking down
with glassy black eyes.
And I asked, "Why are you going to kill it?"
just doing what possums do—
sniffing the air,
returning to its young,
turning over a stone
looking for its breakfast.
And he answered something stupid,
like, "Because it's there."
God gave us the honor of naming the animals.
When did we stop letting them take our breath away?
All-Seeing Lady,
not watching to catch us out—
our childhood mistakes
the petty examinations of conscience,
but like a mother,
whose child plays
along the edge of danger.
Thank-Worthy Lady,
there are only a few stars seen this morning,
the still air,
the thick clouds,
obscuring.
But Sirius,
standing out in the pre-dawn,
is the brightest star in the night sky,
of the constellation Canis Major,
trailing behind Orion as he sets in the west.
Ura Kidane Lady,
I meet you at the level of interface,
along the chapel's ambulatory way,
round and round,
returning, returning,
we are always beginning again.
Veridical Lady,
coinciding with reality—
the Creator's idea for us.
Your Child looks anxious,
perhaps anxious for us,
that we are stuck in
barbarity
whose features are war—
entertaining ourselves with it,
protecting it,
preparing for it,
expending on its behalf,
re-imagining it,
it giving us meaning.
But you're of the next race,
with the divinized mind.
Wonder-Working Lady,
see me down below,
hidden,
tucked into the bottom left corner
with the down-to-earth monk
whose eyes look up to you
from out of the margin
of our hallucinations—
the thing of real value
having garnered five stars,
the loudest shout out,
the side-splitting laugh,
the actor's endorsement,
the authority's go-ahead,
the longest applause.
Exalted Lady,
exaltare—
our coming up and out from within—
our glory,
like water
deeply sourced,
I love you...
We'll see each other again...
I'll stick with you forever...
Give peace a chance.
Make love, not war!
But how alienated is this—
the child-sound,
imitating birds,
tweet, tweet,
the elder tapping
the canary's cage,
tweet tweet,
now devolved
into the label for our
smear campaigns,
ego tripping,
our wild,
incendiary ramblings
and rants.
Exaltare—
our coming up and out from within.
Young-at-Heart Lady,
the day before diaconate ordination
word went round
that the nine of us were to meet
right away in the
crypt chapel.
The Academic Dean
and the Moral Priest-Prof
met us.
Leaning on the altar,
we were told to put our signature
on the line
at the bottom of the promise
that we would never marry.
A last minute check off—
like signing up for the cable channel
or the refrigerator's extended warranty.
The palpable sigh of relief
above the bishops' tombs
that someone had remembered in
the nick of time.
Imagine if we'd first sat around
in a circle near your icon,
and talked at length
about what Jesus might have meant
when he said simply,
Blessed are the clean of heart.
Zephyrous Lady,
my first morning thought
is really a night time thought—
of patting down the wall
beyond the great wooden doors
of the dark and vast
seminary chapel,
a molecule of intimacy and light
before the side altar's
oak statue of the
young mother and her infant son,
standing in the carved
gothic niche,
the rust-red dorsal curtains
with gold-embroidered flames.
I asked to be a holy man;
not an ordained tradesman,
a new Pentecost,
new Elijah-breeze,
waking us out of our
cerebralized,
rubricized,
codified
lives.
