Leftovers

“Anything from the ordination ram or from the bread that is left over until morning you are to burn up. Don’t eat it; it’s holy.” Exodus 29:34 (The Message)

Sacrifices accompanied the ordination of Aaron and his sons as High Priest among the Israelites. This sacrifice of a ram was eaten by the Priest during the ordination ceremony. Whatever was left over was to be destroyed by fire; both the meat and the bread.

Going to Drown

Going to Drown

(“So the disciples went over to him and woke him up. They said, ‘Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!’” Matthew 18:25)

I don’t want to fight the squall all alone,
or wake to find I feel I must beat the storm back down.
I heard Your words, memorized others, know the stories well,
recite them to the waters that roll, pitch and swell
reminding my only that the angry foamy is
under divine control.

Whether You are awake or alert, the floods spill
and I cry for You to still what I cannot endure.
You did it for them, a cork on the rage,
a bobber on the roar. While I sleep waiting to wake
without the pressure pounding my eardrums blind.

Must faith always be without sight, trust without
audibles massaging the bellow until I reach the distant shore?

Is my faith so miniscule it cannot move the simple dirtpile
upon my brink? Is my trust such a hallucination that to see is
never to touch?

I hold the tears violently within, cannot bail fast enough
and I give in
to the tirades cascading from memory to now; the flood undammed
and the tidal wave bulldozing hopes in the sun.

I am such a whiner, I know. Everyone else, I know,
has troubles more than mine. And so I am caught between
a storm untouched by the divine
and my own refractory mind unresponsive to
love’s comfort said.

I would step across time, or boundaries, or memories if I could,
to revisit more golden days my mind says were stiller than now.

Because my companions, once bailing left and right, clever
and center, are beyond my reach. Perhaps once they read
the labels I’ve acquired, they would walk arm’s distance
unbailing my daydream during the siren screech of the wail.

That is one thing I know, You have not bail or jumped ship,
but I would, please Dear Sir, for You to stop the waves

Now

Whether climate’s stew
or my broken mind’s vast
imagination.

Calyxes

Calyxes

The rain batters between shutter bursts of sunshine,
the buds bow their heads in reverence, protection.
While puddles fill, mud clods break, and
light punctuates the occasional hiatus,
the sprouts and not yet blooms are covered, protected;
Calyxes keeping delicacy for summer to observe.

Headline: Good News!

“I am proud of the good news! It is God’s powerful way of saving all people who have faith, whether they are Jews or Gentiles.” Romans 1:16

 I am so glad that I can always have good news. No matter the weather; darkly wet or scorching dry, the good news remains the same. I am glad there is always a headline to each day that reads: “The Good News is still available.”

Of Pearls and Pigs

“Don't give to dogs what belongs to God. They will only turn and attack you. Don't throw pearls down in front of pigs. They will trample all over them.” Matthew 7:6

We love to be right. And, we love be right about what we thing is righteous even more. If we are convinced we are part of a good and just cause, we tend to argue that point stronger yet. And why not? Any fool should be able to see the worth of our belief as well as we do.

I Long to Hear

I Long to Hear

Sleep I do not fear, acquainted with its tow that
sucks me below consciousness. Sleep is the safest place
I’ve found, night or day, no matter the sounds around my
ears. Only my back can wake me sure with its electrical slice.

I miss the day, I miss the hours, I miss the walks, I miss the
daffodils peeking from warmspring dirt more faithful than
my recent attentions to duty.

I do not want to write another dirge, and would be happy
to interpret birdsongs as salutes to the sun; dogbarks as
percussive dances with the windchimes. Dots like rain,
underline the day; green like clover, sings the refrain;
sapphire skies complete the chorus,
but my days remain porous, holding each circuit within
spongy combs. Everything new has been done
and nothing wakes me to see what no one
has seen before.

One occasion in a million, and I talk to a friend,
still 18 in my faulty memory, when neither has seen
our sagging faces for 30 years or more. I do not recognize
even my own.

My dog still would romp, and I simply shuffle, leaving
shavings from my sneakers in wandering lines upon the asphalt path.

I cry, rarely tears, I used them up a year ago; but still
I cry, fairly often, between dozing and praying that
sleep would leave. But having been shoved out the door,
sleep leaves pain in its wake, and I want to go to
sleep once more where pain cannot reach me;
where trust and dreams speak
the language I long to hear upon awaking.

The Wild Ox

The Wild Ox

(“Can you depend on (the wild ox) to use his great strength and do your heavy work? Can you trust him to harvest your grain or take it to your barn from the threshing place?” Job 39:11)

There is no way to train your strength,
yoke you, cajole you, lead you, plead with you.
Your power is greater than mind,
your attention boasting, nostrils flaring like
a fire-breathing dragon.

Why would I try to tame, sun or rain,
the elephant’s cousin, the rhino’s comrade,
the stomping that grinds the earth to powder,
the pawing that turns the prairie dark as arctic winter;
as dozens of paws make the sod roar applause
leaving clouds upon the flatland, clouds upon the
razorbacks, clouds upon the buttes, clouds contending
with the sun.

Nets cannot collar and clatter annoys,
smoke rings comply with blue instinct alone.

Wielding microscopes and parsing DNA,
dissecting brain matter and genealogy
only take me to the cliff’s of Ocham’s razor
positing what I cannot posit by
reason alone, while I look within time

For That which time cannot contain.

When Words Meet Truth

When Words Meet Truth

(“There is no night dark enough, no shadow deep enough, to hide those who do evil.” Job 34:22 [The Message])

Oh Lord, I am just a poor man who
carries his life in a kerchief with holes
in the fabric.

Oh Lord, I have wondered as far as I can see,
why the efforts of goodness sometimes are lost,
buried, faded and dusty as moths.

Oh Lord, I have often wandered as far as I can walk,
slowly looking back to the sun above trees,
seeing jigsaw pieces between the branches
and asking the same questions again.

Oh Lord, I am just a poor man here
carrying my doubts, stubble and bruises
in the fabric dusty as moths.

Oh Lord, I puzzle at the words concrete,
and place the pieces along the corners
where word and reality meet.

Oh Lord, I am just a sinner who
likes to think He loves You more
than the carelessness that comes,
morning to midnight,
knocking at my door.

Oh Lord, I often saunter, glancing over my back,
and wish all the evil lit up the night like fire
and clouded the day like smoke. I am neither
more evil
nor
more saintly
than the paths I remember. But I often desire
to tender

My poor resignation to ask questions that
would not get me fired.

Oh Lord, I would rather be a poor man,
a pauper, who does not need to alter
his speech and hike; but only walks
as close as joy, up as truth, without
mincing down the honesty of questions
when words meet truth.

Housefuls of Hope

Housefuls of Hope
(On the Japanese earthquake, March, 2011)

Lodgingly we cling to housefuls of hope, shiftingly
the road reloaded its avenue, bending the open below
the level of the sea.

We had watched clocks wonder for seconds on the wall;
cars wiggle on the their rubber in the parking lot.
We usually waited, then ate our lunches
without remark; talkingly taking our time.

But the earth erupted at sea where we blinded
and sucked the ocean unkindly toward earth’s hot core.
Strung, disrupted lungs imploded and buildings pancaked,
wrinkled hats long the sidewalk.

We had no power, no authority to stop the wave
outrunning airliners.
We had not dominion but collision as sparks flew
and went dead. Water burst and dried up. Plates crashed
and pantries emptied fastingly.

Grab the sonar, diggingly low between layers of lots,
cars, papers and bones. Find the life before the breath
is stolen in the dark.

The worst since World War II, a nation gainingly risen,
a face before the world, eyes that dance and define propriety.
A face before the world, technology’s face, a face displaced
by tears cutting the dust.

I wish I could dig with you, bloody my hands on the corners,
dryingly finding my eyes strained, reaching between parking lots
to help a package of hope out into the sun. I wish I could
cry with you, wettingly combining my tears with your own.
I wish I could wait the night, search the day, suck the air
dry of pain and fill it lovingly with propriety again.

I will wrestle for you where I can, before the merciful throne,
and give more than I can, for your children are my children,
and our children are echoing to runningly come home.

Until the Miracle Comes

Until the Miracle Comes

The moment refreshment lights upon my eyes,
a sleep from closed to open, and I want to take a drive,
or walk for more than a moment,
the pain wraps like an eel around my head
and keeps me stranded on this island

With moons that revolve morning and night,
booms and headlights, bees and polite phone calls
giving me the data for the day.

When I hit “send” after sending my heart to the page,
I knew you would see who you’ve always seen,
a brother, another just like you, who has seen it all
and still plays it cool (behind the screen we both
know the way words sound when we give ear,
not fright, to what we hear).

When I hit “send” I was not asking for a place on
another list of prayer. My name is mentioned
more often now, than ever I suppose. And the breath,
the fragrance, the incense, the intense love that ascends
to the throne is more than life in these moments between
pulses of pain and prayer.

When I hit “send” I did not expect a season of Miracles,
though I never turn down fresh-baked goods, free loaves
with cinnamon swirl, although I’ve eaten a bagel 15 minutes
before. I would not turn down a Miracle at all, yet

Until the Miracle comes

I hit “send” to hear a human who knew me; whose
silence-in-waiting maintains my moment just one
day longer; who, through the narrow tunnel of time
recognized the voice across the canyon yawning to read

“I can’t imagine the pain.”

And, having read once the words, could wait another 5 or 6
rounds of the planet, could thank his God
for a warm-blooded “ah yes and I know” from one of
a dozen left who see him head to toe,
faint to grand, sand to granite and know that holding a hand
is as good as a prayer until

The Miracle comes.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

“Jesus, the One who says these things are true, says, ‘Yes, I am coming soon.’ Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!” Revelation 22:20

There is a bumper sticker that reads, “Jesus is coming, look busy” And, though it is tongue-in-cheek, it may reflect some peoples’ attitudes. The “threat” of Jesus’ return is used to motivate us to do what we should be doing all along.

I am Free

I

"I am Free"

(“Because I am innocent, and He would say, ‘I now set you free!’” Job 23:7)

They offered me freedom on a stick
held out in with hands that had dug their
ditches and planted their
wheat. Now those hands pointed away
to a country repeated on their nameplates
on oak desks stacked with travel vouchers.

You gave me freedom without reserve
embraced by hands punctured by the
listeners who heard nothing and by the
musicians who played only notes. Now those
hands still scarred showed me Your heart
with my name written, a signature of love
penned like it could never be wiped away.

I’m free, I cry, I cry,
I’m free, tell the sky, the sky.
Leave the curses behind,
the whispers unkind,
the bells peal, remind, remind.
I’m free, I cry, I’m free.

The Grade Book

“I further saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened. Another book too was opened, that of life, and the dead were judged according to their conduct from the entries in the books.” Revelation 20:12

Every schoolteacher has one. Every student knows about it. It contains record of the entire semester’s conduct for each student. Some students can’t wait to see what scores are hidden it its pages. Other students wish the book did not exist at all. But, no matter the student’s desire or belief system, the grade book exists. There will be an evaluation come the end of the semester.

There will also be an evaluation at the end of time. Everyone, “great and small” will stand before God’s throne. This verse describes the book of life being opened and then the dead being judged “according to their conduct from the entries in the books.”

A quick doctrinal note: We are saved, always and only by grace, through faith in Jesus’ forgiveness on the cross. But the Scriptures also speak clearly about rewards and our lives coming under scrutiny by God. If I were writing a commentary, I would examine this verse more diligently, reconciling the grace by which we are saved and the rewards by which we are judged. For now, though, I simply am thinking about the idea that ALL will face God, one way or another.

What we do in this life matters. It matters here, for certain. But, if that is not enough to make us sit up and take notice, it matters to God. There will be no difference when the grades are posted at the end of the semester. Rich and poor are measured by the same standard. Great and small face the same questions, and are required the same answers.

Though a student may try to appeal his grade, there is no such appeal in heaven. “I did turn in that paper, Mr. Phillips. I swear I did. I remember.” Mr. Phillips can either accept the student’s plea, give the student the chance to rewrite the paper, or disbelieve the student, giving him the zero.

But no such appeal can be brought to God. He knows the end from the beginning. He knows our dogs and He knows our homework. He knows who ate what! God will open His grade book and there will be no excuses, no claims of misplaced papers, and no request to retake the final exam.

But here is the amazing thing. God desires that we all pass. Most teachers hope that every student passes as well. In fact, the ones most likely to fail are the ones the teacher would rather not have in their classroom again. God wants every name in His book to shine as each every person was Valedictorian.

God is on our side in this business of judgment. God is the One who paid our tuition to be in Kingdom University in the first place. He is the One who gave us the Holy Spirit to tutor us through each and every test along the way. He makes every single test open Book, directing us to the text He Himself has provided.

The best teachers I had were the ones who inspired me to do my best. It really didn’t matter their testing method. It didn’t matter if they weighted homework more than exams, if they used pass/fail instead of letter grades, or if they let me grade myself. If I knew the teacher was directly invested in my success, I wanted to do as well in that class as possible.

God is invested in our success. He created us; we each carry His image in us as the pinnacle of His creation. When we marred His masterpiece by sinning, taking our own ways instead of His, He took the penalty upon Himself. We should have flunked. Instead, He replaced our failing grade with straight As when Jesus died upon the cross. The forgiveness we received was the same as putting us at the top of the class.

It is hard to understand, then, how we take His love for granted. It is a sad commentary that offering Him a nod on Sunday, hoping our children grow up to refrain from swearing and drinking, and memorizing a handful of selected Scriptures is our idea of an acceptable response to such outstanding love!

What will be my response when the book is opened? Before the throne, when all eternity is gathered up into a single moment, will my lackluster enthusiasm really stand out as A+ work? Why do I settle? Why do I merely want to “pass”? Why is most of my Christian life spent doing just enough to make sure I don’t flunk out of heaven?

There is a book, and I am being graded. That really shouldn’t scare us. Even though we might fear what the teacher’s grade book on the desk reveals, we all know it is a pretty fair evaluation of where we stand in the course. How much more with God’s Book of Life? He does not want us to fear, but He does want us to know we will be evaluated.

Wicked Advice

“Their feet are grabbed and caught, their necks in a noose. They trip on ropes they’ve hidden, and fall into pits they’ve dug themselves. Terrors come at them from all sides.” Job 18:10,11

Bildad, one of Job’s “friends” is describing the fate of the wicked. If he were merely giving a general proposal about what happens to evil people, there would be little argument with what he has to say. Given enough time, and enough rope, those who do wrong eventually do hang themselves.