Lately, I’ve been typing favorite poems, with my reflections, into a file.

I’ve also been preaching often, having landed in a part of the country with lots of small Reformed Churches, many without pastors. What delights me is the way the poems speak into the sermons I’m preparing and vice versa.

I didn’t preach much as a chaplain or administrator of a spiritual care department. And the writing I did, as Phil Tanis notes in a recent blogpost, (December 31, 2025) was “more corporate” and “reflected the views of the organization…”  When I led quarterly memorial services I typically reflected on a poem, instead of Scripture, given that the attendees included Muslims, Christians, Jews, Buddhists and what have you. I preferred this to using snippets from the various faiths in an effort to be inclusive. 

Poems plumb the depths, as does scripture. They can even be “love songs from God” (Harlan Van Oort in his reflection on a Bob Dylan song, January 3, 2026). Here’s one I love by William Stafford, though I’ve never quoted it in either church or hospital.

The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.                                                                                                                               

William Edgar Stafford (1914-1993) was an American poet and pacifist. He was drafted into the US Army in 1941. As a registered conscientious objector, he did alternative service in the Civilian Public Service Camps from 1942-1946 for $2.50 a month. Poetry was his vocation, and peace-making a bright thread through all of his work as professor, poet and mentor. He gave poetry readings all over the world.

The following story was told by Stafford’s son, Kim Stafford, in the preface to a volume of his poetry, published posthumously. 

At a reading, following one of his deft, quiet offerings, a listener helplessly spoke aloud, ‘I could have written that.’  And William Stafford, looking kindly at the speaker, replied, ‘But you didn’t.’ A beat of silence. ‘But you could write your own.’  (p. xii in Ask Me).

I can relate to that baffled listener. The poem is so short, simple and plainspoken you can well imagine yourself having written it, or something similar. The poem is made up of ten short sentences. When you follow the thread sentence by sentence it opens itself to your imagination, like a good expository sermon can open a biblical text.

1: There’s a thread you follow. 

This is every day figurative language with deep roots. Stafford himself connects it to William Blake’s Jerusalem, the longer poem of that title:

I give you the end of a golden string;
   Only wind it into a ball,
It will lead you in at Heaven’s gate,
   Built in Jerusalem’s wall

from William Blakes’ Auguries of Innocence, quoted in a video conversation with Robert Bly            

Common language, but it’s enough to hook you. What thread?

 2: It goes among/ things that change.  

What is this, a riddle? What “things”?

3: But it doesn’t change.  

Here’s another clue, but it’s still abstract. It feels a bit like you are being teased.

4:  People wonder about what you are pursuing.  

Ah, the plot thickens. Characters enter the story. Who are these people?

5: You have to explain about the thread. 

This line cracks me up. I take the line with me into my day, this awareness of all the ‘splainin’ you have to do to get through a day, through a project, through a life. 

6: But it is hard for others to see.

It’s hard for the characters in the poem to see and it’s hard for you, stumbling along behind the poet/speaker. Where is it, this thread, what is it? Still curious.

 7: While you hold it you can’t get lost.  

So the thread is hard to see but the poet can “hold It.” I see him, slightly stooped, walking, his arm stretched out in front of him, like a mime holding the invisible leash of an invisible dog. I see him hurrying along the sidewalk in a small town. People are staring. What’s he doing? Where is he going?   

 8: Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and get old.

This is the longest sentence. These are the “things” referred to in the second sentence, the things that happen in any ordinary life. Now the thread is looking like a timeline.

 9: Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.  

This feels like the punchline, a proverb, though “unfolding” is a gentle word to describe life’s “tragedies”. It seems like the poem could end here, but it doesn’t. It unfolds to the final sentence.

10: You never let go of the thread.  

The poet stops short of the imperative, that you SHOULD never let go of the thread. In fact, this is the thread you already hold. There is nothing you can do to stop time’s unfolding— it is just “the way it is.”  

The given Gospel text from the lectionary is often not much longer than this poem. How does one preach a parable? What can I say, yet one more time, about The Beatitudes? What if I say something wrong or hurtful or banal? It feels heavy and my ego adds to the weight. I wrestle with poems, too, but there’s less at stake. It’s playful and invites me to be playful when I am preparing a sermon. 

Does this poem have a moral? You can argue with it. After all, we often talk about losing the thread. But it seems hopeful to me, and gentle. This week, I picture the disciples picking up the thread.

Immediately they put down their nets and followed him.  (Matthew 4:12-23)

Photo by Johnny Briggs on Unsplash