What we need is here

The sunset was stunning tonight as I left church. As I walked to my car, I watched a flock of geese fly past the blend of pink and golden hues, and I was reminded of one of my favorite poems by Wendell Berry, The Wild Geese.


Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.

The pastor tonight encouraged the congregation to focus, breathe, and relax in the peace of Christ Jesus. Sin has corrupted our world, but He is the ultimate victor, and He will come to our rescue. He is all we need. What we need is here.