I Thought it Was Courage

I Thought it Was Courage

(“Peter said to him, ‘If they all fall away because of you, I will never fall away!’” Matthew 26:33)

I meant it when I said it; I thought it was courage and
never entered my mind it could be hubris. You were our hope,
our royal, our King, our divine deliverer and we were just waiting
for you to ascend the judgement seat where you would dismember
ever inch of empire. We knew you would bring some kind of coup,
a regime change, that would set us truly free.

I didn’t understand then, sometimes I still miss the meaning;
but I didn’t take your words into me and only thought this would be
a victory march up to the temple walls.

I wasn’t alone in my over-glossed promise, all the others backed
me up. We thought we could ignite it by some sword-play and
one of us cut off the ear of a palace official. And all you did was
reach up and heal that mercenary.

I wanted to look you in the eyes and see the fire burning that
would consume every adversary of empire that kept us under its thumb.
We only heard the bells ring from another time to announce
the call to vespers and long-robed mendicants praying on
bruised knees.

They took you to the judgement hall, the began to interrogate
you. The stripped you and whipped you and stripped your back
of flesh. And that was when I became afraid.

I watched it all from the outside warming my hands by a
welcome fire. And they thought they recognized me (I wish
I had hidden my eyes) and insisted I knew you. How did they
know? How could they tell?

But it took a young servant girl, a whisp of one, to get me
to curse and deny you full-throated.

And then I heard the crow. I wanted to sink, to melt between
the cement cracks. I wanted to see you, I wanted to tell you
I never meant it, I never wanted to let it come to this.
So I ran and hid. I heaved in silence. I didn’t trust myself with
even the slightest sound for fear I would say the same things
again even in the solitary darkness.

I was afraid I would never see you again, never speak with you
and hear your words that set me free.

I lumbered to the street where the criminals walked carrying
their crosses
on their backs. I waited, not knowing how long before
I would see you once more. When you passed by, I saw your eyes
and I hope you saw mine. I hope you saw the sorrow, the regret,
the self-loathing that led me to admit I was less than I imagined.

I saw your eyes and could not decipher them. Was that disappointment,
sadness, pain? Was that affection hidden behind the tears welling
in your eyes?

I know you, I knew you, and I shall know you more. Dearest
Lord
forgive the mud I found myself rolling in only to
protect my tiny self.

A Dozen Webs

A Dozen Webs

(“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.” Matthew 25:34)

This foggy morning, I spotted a dozen different webs strung from
mailbox to support. The strands were braids of diamonds made by
dew drops hanging still.

You gathered us in the way you usually do, to teach us,
or send us out again for miracles’ sake. But you instead
said we were blessed by the Father, and now we are inheriting
the dream that has been dreamed from the foundation of the world.

Did we feed you when we filled the bellies of the hungry?
Did we give you a drink when your throat was parched?
Did we welcome you, stranger, even if you came from across the boundary?
Did we round up a new suit of clothes when you were naked?
Did we sit by your bed, holding space for you in your illness?
Did we visit you in prison even though the paperwork was tedious?

You told us every time we did any of this that we were doing it to you,
even if they were the least, the smallest, the last in line. We had
no idea it was your mouth we fed, your thirst we quenched, your hope
reignited. We only felt like we were doing what we could for
the suffering in the world.

And you called us the “nations”. Sheep or goats.
And you called us “sheep”
Other nations were goats and did nothing to alleviate
the pain of people trod down by systemic hatred.

It is nations you look to do this, isn’t it?
I acted like an individual, but you long to tear down the
systems that hold people hostage, that call them freeloaders,
that name them illegal, that mock the spectrum of their autism,
and spew invectives at the queer nation that carries Christ too.

In a couple of hours the webs will not shine so brightly;
the dew will evaporate once the fog lifts and the sun shines
on them.
Maybe they are there to remind me that sometimes waiting
is waiting far too long.

My Agenda

My Agenda

I laid my agenda down on my desk and noticed
there was nothing empty there, no plans for the
day.
So I got myself up, hung my body on the hinges and
let it sway with the ebbing and surging of the wind.
I never meant to spend all the daylight there;
I was waiting for someone to notice me and
invite me to town.
That’s when it occurred to me that if I blinked
one time too many I might miss the
Wave of the white-gloved hand that saw me
breathing slow.
I let myself down and wrote in my calendar:
“Tomorrow I will just hang around.”

It Has Been Too Long

It Has Been Too Long

(“God is faithful, by whom you were called into fellowship with his son, Jesus Christ our Lord.” 1 Corinthians 1:9)

It has been too long between steps that
lead to your house. I visited years ago and
still have the memories misting in my mind.
We both grew bolder with age.
What could we talk about that we didn’t
already suspect? Predilections of piety
sometimes shamed our silly expectations
that someone might buy us lunch.
For those who thought it all was certain,
for those who had answers to every question,
we only kept our silence and waited for something
less extreme.
We longed for a baptism that would make the
circle larger. We knew it younger and
wondered how it splintered now.

Do you remember the halcyon days when
pretense
had not yet been learned? Do you call to mind
the ways that finished the days when we walked the
two miles home from school? We took the bus
a couple of times when we were freshmen.
Sometimes we hitched a ride with the girl from
down the block. I think we both fell for her and I
doubt
she remembers either of us now.

It has been too long since we shared a glass of wine
together. We let it breathe. The last time I saw you
a machine was doing the breathing for you and I hope
you know I came to visit you. I muddled my way through
the Lord’s prayer three or four times holding your hand
a day before you left for good.

It has been too long and now only lengthens like
the shadows on an autumn afternoon.

Slowly Leaking

Slowly Leaking

(“You will be righteous, Lord, even if I bring a case against You. Yet, I wish to contend with You: Why does the way of the wicked prosper? Why do all the treacherous live at ease?” Jeremiah 12:1)

When will you let the iron hammer fall on the
plywood boxes of hypocrisy? When will you
lower the boom for the sake of the dying?
It used to bustle along the streets, the avenue
markets
were full of mothers and children.
When will you blow away the smog and smoke
that chokes the tiny lungs of these little ones?
Now the markets are dust and crumble and the
appendages of hope have disintegrated.

When will you judge, when will you answer?
When will you capture them, trapped by their own words?
Why is your timing so slow, so different than mine?
Why have you not destroyed the backroom plans
of the wicked? Why do the billionaires float above
it all like space rats escaping gravity?
Where is the moon on the nights of gloom;
hidden behind the shrapnel that exploded this
afternoon. The day is fading and we
fear the night when the sirens will bid us
to our bunkers and wait to next wave of destruction.

How long will the grass wither, how long until the
healing rains come?
How long until the unrighteous are taken
to task
who hide the truth behind spoiled facets of
sacred words?
Show them what their end will be, but do it
sooner before more are shot down in the streets by
icy masked men hunting for game.

Why do you take your time? Why do you delay?
Why does it take so long for you to drag them
with the dividing line of justice? Hear our petition;
act before we are all taken like a helium balloon
slowly leaking.
Take these words and give us a token,
hear the aches that we have spoken
and turn your face away from them who
pretend to speak for you.

This Groggy Heart

This Groggy Heart

(“If you feel you must brag, then have enough sense to brag about worshiping me, the Lord. What I like best is showing kindness, justice, and mercy to everyone on earth.” Jeremiah 9:24)

You stayed long after every thought had its day.
You were the heaviness of contemplation and the
lightness of hilarity when morning came.
My mind is still stuffed with worries,
my brain with the unease that comes from
dreams filled with inadequacy. I need
you
closer than ever and every moment
when my thoughts stray like neighborhood dogs
on the prowl. I need the kindness that meets me
in the middle of my dirge. I need the laughter that lasts
well beyond the afternoon.

The earth feels old today, long in the tooth and
bearded in gray. It was younger when I walked to
the corner bowling alley and played pinball most
of the afternoon. I thought summer was the
best playground and would never end.
The earth feels stale today, I hate to say it.
For I know it is full of verdant discoveries and
colors of autumn as the leaves depart for the winter.

While I clean out the cobweb thoughts, you remain,
just the same,
and bid me mirror your love at the speed of light.
Can I, quietly and quickly, silence the report of gunfire
and let the drops of rain coax life from this
groggy heart of mine?

Soundproof Panels

Soundproof Panels

(“To whom can I speak and give warning? Who will listen to me? Their ears are closed so they cannot hear. The word of the Lord is offensive to them; they find no pleasure in it.” Jeremiah 6:10)

I know you gave yourself over to ghosts
many years ago. Finally, most of them escaped outside,
but a few remained within. They filled your ears with
consequential thievery. They blocked them from any
scenery that might change your mind and make you ache
for better paragraphs to enter your head.

And why did you swallow those stones that stopped halfway
down your digestive tract to take the place of you heart?
When did you decide to replace your eyes with gray and black
kaleidoscopes.?

You used to sing “Be Thou My Vision” from memory:

    Riches I heed not, nor vain, empty praise.
    Thou mine inheritance, now and always;
    Thou and Thou only first in my heart.
    High King of heaven, my treasure Thou art.

But today you sing a different tune so out of key, so under
spooned. You’ve kept up the masquerade so well that
people still throng to hear your catchphrase wisdom. No one
leaves
without dropping a ten on the box at the front of your door.

What can god say that would turn you round. What could
any of us do to open the blockage of your ears? When did it
seem so right to declare God as “only first in my heart”
while you deny the very song that sets free.

I remember your eyes, ages ago, bright with pleasure at the
thought that god was at work in the world. Now he recruits
you and all is stone and soundproof panels shut up against the
chambers of your heart.