To Be Seen in Public

 

To Be Seen in Public

(“May the Master of Peace himself give you the gift of getting along with each other at all times, in all ways. May the Master be truly among you!” 2 Thessalonians 3:16)

 

Veils of asbestos keep us apart in the way that words
remain unheard. All we remember is the last conflict and
how we had been proven right. The judges consulted briefly
and crowned us correct. We stopped talking after that; after
one win
we did not want the chance that we might miss the boat.
So beside the cry of the doves cooing, I hear no more arguments
from you.

It is an uneasy peace where no one talks and everyone thinks
there is nothing wrong. I doubt the Prince of peace ever imagined
we would hang a blanket between us to unsolve any future conflict.
There was a time when we walked together through a torrent of rain
and we shared the one umbrella we had. We were still soaked, but
only strategically.

But we forgot the words somewhere along the way. We left and
went our own path after the rain. We ran into each other downtown,
just a block from a mega million-dollar church. We greeted each other,
the obligatory hug, and shared updates since the storm. Then
we walked away again.

I heard you had lost your beloved, the one of your dreams, the one who
clung to you in every challenge of conscience. You were both in
a scrappy sort of love. There was no perfect picture way to describe it.
But love had battled hard and it hit you deep and sharp when she
lost the last battle of life.

I reached through the blanket that separated us, I tried to find your heart.
I spoke words of sorrow, wrote odes of remembrance, but there
was no sound from your side, no response to the offer of consolation.
It is an uneasy peace the relies on silence. It begs the questions
we never asked.

I am still here, and you are still there. Who knows how much
longer we have. Let us walk to the coffee shop around 2,
let ourselves be seen in public, and recount the ways we had
walked together so often we knew the route by heart. And
if the silence is because of me, I will beg your forgiveness. And
If it is due to you, all I offer are my hands outstretched to
the same friend I knew those many years ago. Our
lattes were hot, so we took them outside and walked along
the river. And there, the blanket was blown away by a
swift breeze that caught us by surprise.

The Fog was Ankle Deep

The Fog was Ankle Deep

(“Jesus said to Nathanael, ‘I can guarantee this truth: You will see the sky open and God’s angels going up and coming down to the Son of Man.’” John 1:51)

The fog was ankle deep as the sun
warmed the wet morning asphalt. It slunk like
snake tracks and spoke of something that wrapped
us all up like common denominators, like children returning
from exile. It hinted that we might all have wings if
we only inhabited the thin places where heaven seeps
through.

It makes us doubt our own significance as if the breath
was taken out of our lungs at the very thought that
there may be more than we imagined going on within us.
If the sun can coax land-locked clouds on the ground
why can we not linger while spirit breathes a presence
we had only guessed at until now. What if the very place
we stand
is also an anteroom to the throne? What if we are invited
to enter in like Spring coaxing the cherry tree blossoms?

I’ve stood here before, thinking I needed to knock down the door
and crawl on my hands and knees to prove my piety.
What if the throne is unoccupied? Or what if, instead, it
is filled with the author of nurture? What if every blade of
grass invites us to sing around prayers like maypoles
and mumble inaudible but well-intentioned alleluias?
What if our morning walk is just the start of
the very heartbeat we had been waiting to hear?

Can’t Quit you Jesus

Can’t Quit You Jesus

(“The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, “Look, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” John 1:29)

I can’t quit you Jesus, though
heaven knows I’ve tried. I walked out
of your house where the whoops and hollers
overshadowed the Spirit flowing in living streams of love.
I left behind every edifice where people name
the anti-christ time and time again and call for
armageddon to be fought to prove the fat-armed
god
they serve is ready to return with an ax and sword.

I can’t quit you Jesus, and I
wish I hadn’t waited so long. Disabused and
enlightened by the primeval light I walked out
to hear a quieter persuasion like daffodils smiling
for the sun. I lost you in the sanctuary; my heart was
famished for love. But you vanished from the place
I had always expected to find you free.

I can’t quit you Jesus, and I
know I am not the only one. We were enchanted
by the lover of our souls only to be bowled over
once we wondered how universal it had to be.
Stones were politely thrown at that heresy that
could not see the divisions between A and B.
Borders were drawn so precisely that we knew who
had to be in or out.

But I just can’t quit you Jesus, though I wonder
what the warriors in the pews must think. They
make it so distinct,
like weeds among the rye they are ready to clear them
out to protect their perfect lawn.  I was angry with you
for deceiving me to become such a fool. I started at only love
but the occupants of your house have retuned every chorus to
sound like marching orders. They ran out of time.

I remember dancing with you, Jesus, and my eyes wet
with tears at the thought of your touch. I remember simple
homes where circles were enlarged to make room for the next
outcast to come in from the storm. That’s why these memories
that inform me there must still exist some way that insists
holy kisses can begin a passing of the peace that
leads us to follow a now unfamiliar path. We walked
out and woke up reborn. And usually without a hint of
your permission. But we walked.

I can’t,

I simply can’t,
I cannot even quit your Jesus. I cannot.

Wide Open

Wide Open

(“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was fully God.” John 1:1)

Wide open is where I want to stay,
walking on the paths, laughing daffodils and
seeing your Lyrics in every passing cloud.

Every missile launched rewrites the history
that divine language has conceived. Every
reference to war
erases the First metaphor written in
holy DNA; the life of the Beloved.

Every day is a rehearsal and bids us
memorize
the Song we first heard that caused us to
swoon at the mention of the Prince of Peace.
Every moment bids us to come closer to the
Sound we might have rejected had we
shut our ears to the Song that carried us
from a single spot of dirt on the earth
you created in Artistic collaboration.

Every piercing remark leaves a scar on
the hearts that were meant to dance at the
invitation to war-no-more.

We are curious
and want to hear more. We throw ourselves open
and listen for the beginning from the end,
for the Message you sent from front to back,
around the utter reaches of universal stars to
the patch of earth occupied by two simple feet
learning to Dance anew.

Firstfruits

Firstfruits

(“We will bring the firstfruits of our land and of every fruit tree to the Lord’s house year by year.” Nehemiah 10:35)

We took it all and laid it in piles,
treasures of golden wheat, bushels of dates,
apples round and red.
We gave away as much as we could and heard
the answer from heaven. We were only taking
what we were given from our fields and sharing
them candidly. We remembered how it all looked
like ruins,
the walls leaning and falling into the ground.

We captured the evening sun as it drew the shadows long;
we sang the ancient Psalms we had learned from our birth.
We stood together in the pleasure of bringing the firstfruits
of our fields.

We laid the sheaves side by side like open doors to the
interior of the house. Children ran between them, in and out,
side by side, chasing each other and giggling as the parents
paid little attention. There was safety in the air and amity
along the dusty paths. Everyone imagined a renewal,
everyone captured the revisions the sun cast upon the
exterior walls.

We held back nothing. It was our privilege that sent us there.
We felt no reluctance, we were so joyful for such a hearty harvest,
and the chance we possessed to twirl like dancers
and bring our best this time of year.  

The night grew cooler and we gathered around campfires,
warming our hands and finding new ways to rejoice.
We told our storied history, our deliverance from mediocrity,
and thanked, hands out and up, the One who supplied what
we had brought.

Ready to Announce

Ready to Announce

(“We had the courage through God to speak God’s good news in spite of a lot of opposition.” 1 Thessalonians 2:2b)

From the moment I opened my eyes the only
conversation I wanted was the one about grace.
And wider than I imagined, deeper that some friends
unknew, I awoke to speak more coherently than I ever had.
There is a lot to say that embarrasses me now, so many
stories halfway through their happy ending.

Threatened with hell, the sensitive hearts cry like God
would soon send them to the fire, to the everlasting flames,
to the torture of ages over a simple lifetime of missteps.

Threatening hell, the whitewashed tombs harden up
and put a Halloween mask on Jesus to scare the aching
hearts into catacombs of shame. No one showed them the
Father’s smile.

Peacemakers belong as children of God, but big-hair
and butt-hurt purveyors of steel grip doctrine don’t
waste a minute to imprecate anyone they think has
eyes too wide open. They see anxiety as evidence of
demons in crying eyes. They yell that depression
belongs to the devil and a dozen more people hit
the floor begging for some sort of change.

What if we woke and sat next to the dejected,
What if we took the hands of the anxious and,
without a word invited them into our space.

This is what opened my eyes. This is what made me see.
People needed more than fiery proclamations. How
can we reflect the father when all our affectations
pain him angry and ready to smite with wrathful fury.

Woke, I see the wrinkles from constant agonizing prayer
that pled to take every misstep away.

Nothing will keep me from being the Good Story
no matter how many take me as the original heretic.
I am ready to announce the world-wrapped hug
that God calls us to embrace. People, your doctrines
may be strangling you. Christ meant for you to
be free.

Kids Playing Giddily

Kids Playing Giddily

(“Here there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all and in all.” Colossians 3:11)

The lenses I used to use only saw the unabused
and kept the battered in the dark. I could see them
if I wanted
but only to point out their obvious flaws.
Did hide them or did they shrink from my view?
I could not help but think their invisibility was their own failing;
my blindness was sanctified by voices from emperors and pulpits.

Then yesterday I was wondering where all the lonely people go
when I refuse to see them in their fully grown human glow. Then yesterday
the light broke in and shattered the mirror I had been primping in.
I looked again and saw the cracks and splinters that had hindered
my access to the truth.

I thought I might be pulled into the uncrafted classrooms
that taught
nothing but invented stories about the minds behind the
eyes of the people I never wanted to see. But yesterday I
sat down in the back of the room and heard languages I
did not understand.

But the cadence was familiar. The emphasis on the third syllable
of a sentence or the rising of a voice after a question. My pilgrimage
had led me here so I decided to stay. They gave me a name tag
for my shirt and I wrote as plainly as I could. I learned these were
all graduates from a school just down the road from the
block I grew up on. Now I heard their voices and they sounded
like my neighbor’s kids playing giddily in the yard. I had to admit
I missed the playfulness and changed my lenses to see

Everyone who was different from me. And I joined them,
learned their language, and sat in their circle learning the
inclusive invitations of the spirit’s voice.