First Time Heard

"First Time Heard"

(“Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane. When they got there, he told them, ‘Sit here while I go over there and pray.’” Matthew 26:36)

Carried along into the cave where olives branched to make
a cavernous ceiling, the worst dirge was sung with only
a Single One understanding the words.

Though the words may swirl around our heads when the
dying heart asks our attention; though we cannot grasp
which rhyme was chosen or why, the aching unto death
demands companions who will stay though the song
as perplexed as sitting at a Seder for the first time.
You know it is holy, and cannot perceive what each
cup, each herb, each prayer means. But you stay with
all attention; like hearing Leonard Cohen without knowing
he is a genius.

With the final Psalm sung, they stopped midway into the
grotto where sadness sank beneath their feet like mud
under the crusted earth. They were invited this
musty night and knew not why, trying to match their
mouths to the words their Muse had mastered.

Sad, frightened, agony and pain-till-death; these were
not words they had heard from the Joy of Heaven before.
They were absurd, their hearts bubbled like boiling,
in love’s strange attachment tonight to the Lover
leading them to their darkest encounter. They could
not
pray
but
slept.
And so would I, at the way the darkness made
the refrain a migraine unfastened from verse.

He stepped just outside their sight,
but they heard every word of His pain blasting
through the canopy to Heaven’s remote outpost;
and sleep only echoed the words in dreams as real
as their waking.

Sadness encountered sleep; sadness twice and then
the weeping was done, the will respun to symphony’s best
while others slept the words they could not forget.

My Most Vigorous Shower

"My Most Vigorous Shower"

(“Finally, before entering the camp, the priest must wash his clothes and bathe his body with water; nevertheless, the priest is still unclean till evening.” Numbers 19:7)

Clean once before, cleaner than spring’s electricity
flattering the buds about to bloom. Clean once more,
clean as prewarmed breezes creeping in from the coast.

As clean as I can make me, as squeaky as my skin can be,
it lasts a mere day or less until work buries dirt in my knuckles,
workouts burn the scorched ambiance of gym locker towels.

As refreshed as I may feel, and sight renewed, polished
crystal blue; I find the focus blunted by a single night’s passing.

Ask my loyals and they will joyfully recite my grooming’s best;
ask the suspicious and they will turn my most vigorous shower to
nothingness.

Attempts with soaps and shampoo matter less when friends do not care,
foes will not be convinced,
and I weary of the new fragrances loaded into plastic bottles.

Nevertheless, cleanliness remains such a priority that I devote
prodigious energy promoting my innocence on stage and off.
The smell of the crowd and greasepaint’s roar no longer last
until the next show’s opening. I must mask the evaporation,
dry-clean the costumes and un-act, de-memorize and rewind
my way to more blameless days.

I can’t blame anyone for trying to decide how long it’s been
since I’ve showered and dried; besides, I could blame everyone
for sniffing so long where noses do not belong.

Lately life less simple is clearer. Defenses less elaborate,
ruses unpremeditated. Thinking takes longer, whims whimper
like last night’s campfire, and pretences only make me sad.

With less left to say I reiterate; wash, lather, rinse and repeat.
With less on the line I find One Life that cleaned it all
One Spring
when few were watching. And those who did misinterpreted
how innocent Defendants might be. And those so guilty,
so grimy and left suspended with the Guiltless above the crowd
that everyone could see they belonged there (and me)
discovered (before us all) a blameless spot reserved
in Paradise’s best hall.

Campfire Smoke

"Campfire Smoke"

“You may also offer sacrifices voluntarily or because you made a promise, or because they are part of your regular religious ceremonies. The smell of the smoke from these sacrifices is pleasing to me.” Numbers 15:3b

We moved to southwest Washington almost four years ago. The hills are lush with old growth trees. Known for its logging industry, many households in the Northwest use wood burning stoves for their heat.

When the King Returns

"Then the King will say to the people on his right, 'Come, my Father has given you his blessing. Receive the kingdom God has prepared for you since the world was made…I tell you the truth, anything you did for even the least of my people here, you also did for me.” Matthew 25:34, 40 (The Message)

It has happened once again; a date for Christ’s return (or the rapture, final judgment, the Second coming…whatever name you like) has come and gone. We were all supposed to face Jesus by May 22. Harold Camping, the proponent of the latest prediction, has a long history of foretelling Jesus’ return. Puzzled by his most recent failure, he retreated to an isolated motel room and then came out with a new date; sometime this coming October.

The Host's Request

"The Host’s Request"

(“First, I get this report on your divisiveness, competing with and criticizing each other. I’m reluctant to believe it, but there it is.” 1 Corinthians 11:18 [The Message])

Why do you fight over the plate when the dessert tray is full,
Why do you arrive so late and push yourself past the front
without a word, your hands moving quicker than the
usual welcome when invited to someone’s home.

There are so many vying for the head of the line,
so many trying to use their rank while others wait to dine
at the Master’s table spread first to last, pinnacle to basement
so the banquet outlasts the sojourners showing up without
RSVPs.

The word gets out, a word wrapped in yesterday’s bacon,
that the crowd of Christ has let another soufflé fall in the oven
while they argued every jot and tattle. They bring their calendars
to match the dates for Christ’s return, being sure to stock their cellars
with canned goods, crossing off the dates until they know within
a week they will be pulled higher like kitestrings performing a
full reversal.

Facedowns and finger-points occupy each free square
upon the well-worn bare wood floor. They know that they know
their favorite sayings. They must reduce their opponents to
nonsensical phrases. They stuff their faces. They turn grace
into doctrinal mazes and sing the praises of know-it-alls who
can tell you exactly how many will show up to the banquet
and how long they will be allowed to stay.

Dissertations and dialogue decay into dissensions; cleverly
disguised as the host’s best intentions. Some are swayed,
others paid to believe. Some set up shop to sell the
controversy copywrit to keep it all legal.

Some, a meek minority, feel no desire to tackle those who
cut in line. They will wait, they have been here before
(though once, a great while ago, they actually wrestled a few to the floor).
But they will wait, having been here before,
knowing the plates are never empty within the doors of
GraceHouse.

The host only requests their attention.

One Song

"One Song"

(“No matter where I am, your teachings fill me with songs.” Psalm 118:54)

Advice weaves in and out of consciousness, word and words
looping like barn swallows, swooping upon the pages we would
write our next memoir. The syllables from well meaning acquaintances,
the sentences from lastly friends, are all meant to ease the layers
of questions tangled about our legs, blankets in midsleep.

I would rest longer, or next time fight through the pain,
I need more fellowship, friends around my grimace,
I should take time off, work longer, seek solitude,
find new voices to tell me how to find the final fork
before I see home from the last lonely hill.

With every meeting I miss I kiss peace goodbye
because I know I should have attended, and those attending
know it better than I.

With every day I put my words into the blender
adding hints and spices hopefully hidden in the puree,
I wish I would come up with just one original recipe,
or at least ingredients in a different order from the cookbooks’
command.

One song has remained the same, I recognize it when I can
hear nothing else. It is like the birds before dawn who know
spring is awake well before snow has receded. It is the newborn
whose cries create smiles, the lullaby sung by a toddler to her doll,
or the kitten whining for her brother-dog let outside without her.

I would let past-tense go if I knew present-tense would pay the bills.
I cannot guarantee applause or tears; the song never plays the same way twice.
I can hear it just around the riverbend, but today I can get no closer than
the whispers heard between the words in my suggestion box; or above

The lull that comes between easterly blusters.

Rolling Rocks

“…They drank from the spiritual rock that went with them; and that rock was Christ himself.” 1 Corinthians 10:4

While the Israelites wandered in the desert, God provided water for them that sprang supernaturally from a rock. God told Moses to strike the rock with his rod, and when he did, water gushed out. A later time God told Moses to merely speak to the rock and water would come out. Moses, acting presumptuously, struck the rock just has he had done before. In God’s kindness He still allowed the water to proceed from the rock, but He disciplined Moses by disallowing him from entering the Promised Land.

Who is the Clown Now?

Who is the Clown Now?

Anyone has enough air to blow a balloon
until it bursts.
Let the voice be heard, afterward, that
apologizes the destruction of a child’s cheap toy.

I have observed, perhaps you have too, that those with the greatest air,
who have destroyed the most balloons,
have no apologies left of their breath
and yet
still monopolize the conversation over
who left the latex colored bits busted across the floor.

A Better Language

A Better Language

Nothing more than sharks circling blood,
the brood of a dozen move as one upon
the perceived threat (yet less hurtful than
a thundercloud to a seal).

They could not hide their contempt for
the species they surrounded, and reeking
of testosterone, flexed their ignorance
in their attempt to drive the intrusion
to the ocean’s bottom.

Their nostrils flared, spit and grease,
their noses broken in previous altercations.
Referees sometimes get it wrong and fists are left
to make an impact on the foul unrighted.

Animals incite without a moment’s thought;
hormones calling the shots.
Men, on the other hand, find a moment
for amends, post-aggressive for the
names sprayed with saliva (without excusing it
as a simple shot across the bow.)

Find a place to tear each other’s rights away,
fight the night in an alley, choose up sides
among the sharks, and stick your chins
into each others’ chests.

But don’t take down the suspected foul
on the pickup field, city-league soccer,
when the offender is twice your age,
half-a-century, to your mid-twenties.
It takes courage, meat in the mouth,
blood in the teeth, to swarm around that
middle-aged man, for such a sorry foul as his.
It takes strength, and focus, and such a command
of the language
to call teenage girls names, with your chins stuck out
and your nostrils ablaze. Your toddlers watched your rage.

But do not expect, for a moment, or a school year’s term,
anyone to back down whose prodigies are treated like
cheap-cut-glass on the shelves. Their lowest stutterers
speak a better language than you.

The Price

“God paid a great price for you. So use your body to honor God.” 1 Corinthians 6:20

One ancient rite of marriage included the bride and groom paying a price for each other. Being a ceremony, it was not about the sum of money, but about what it represented. In fact, the common amount was referred to as an eight of a farthing. Since a farthing is equivalent to a quarter-penny, that equals a measly 1/32 of a penny. But, having been paid, it said that the bride and groom had bought each other, and therefore belonged to each other.

Bless the Lord...always

“Bless the Lord, all His works in all places of His dominion! Bless the Lord, O my soul!” Psalm 103:22

An attitude of praise implies two things. First, and most obvious, that God, as God, is greater than we are and deserves our devotion. The second is not as apparent, but I believe just as powerful. Praise unites all living human beings on one level of kinship. We are all part of God’s dominion, none neither greater nor lower.

Upon Their Brightest Days

Upon Their Brightest Days

(“All Jerusalem should praise you, our Lord, when people from every nation meet to worship you.” Psalm 102:21)

I should be strong, less old, less likely to ache my way downstairs;
but it seems, I know not why, You, O Lord have made me old much
before my time.

My father slouched like an octogenarian before he reached 60,
and shuffled so much that sparks of static electricity constantly
tingled from his fingernails.

You, Lord, live forever, never a doubt in my mind. You are ageless,
from predawn to afterglow, over and under the bridges and tunnels
we use to connect yesterdays to today. You invented time before
time existed at all. You will never die, never having been born,
and will wrap time in a ribbon, intersecting every moment in
a beautiful bow at the end of days.

Please don’t cut my life in half, do not make me walk with a cane
or hold my head in agony over pain that will not escape. I do not
know
how to talk to you, though I
know
you will allow my cries, my fist in the air, the resounding of it
from skyhigh to pounding on my table. I do not know how to
make demands
on the Judge of All, the Writer of every Ordinance from sky
to canyon, desert to delta. Alpha to Omega, You include all
that there is, and my pain, my limp, my lately ailments must
be a portion of all You include.

You, Lord laid the foundation of the earth,
painted the vaulted ceiling of the sky.
In the beginning You started it all; Love laying brick like
a king building a castle for his princess.

But I still remain the same, with these ailments that nail me to my bed
until midafternoon,
the pangs that shoot through my head like a sniper laying the crosshairs
across my temples.
I only feel the hot lead and never hear the bang.

You, Lord, investigate this tragedy,
report back to me, if it is likely to
yield an answer that gives me back the half
that has been stolen from me.

Yet I know You can never change,
Yes I know you are always the same,
Each friend, each relative, every voice that cries
for You
whether pain or praise
finds You closer (at the end of the length You have measure)

Than they thought upon their brightest days.

FirstBorn

FirstBorn

(“The first-born, as firstborn, already belongs to God.” Leviticus 27:26b)

It wasn’t quite the backdoor
where we snuck into the mansions bright,
but it was nearly the same as burglars
catwalking within the farewell night.
Once we thought we would earn it,
we catered to the high hands,
recited our profession upon center stage
to prove how well we had learned it.

Afraid we were second-class, middle-born,
or diet-free substitutes to the real thing
we disguised our fears with cellophane tears
and kept on climbing the crags past noon
until sunset,
and blackened our faces to skulk into
familiar dwellings, hoping for acceptance
at the dining table, even as unnoticed guests at
next morning’s breakfast.

But You surprised us all!
For those ready for it, it felt like
no surprise at all.
And perhaps that is why
so many others miss it,
so used to living after the fall.

We belong like FirstBorn, such an old way
of viewing things, all things being equal and all.

But God’s Son, the firstborn among many children,
integrated us who once belonged to no one in particular,
harmonized our songs that more than once deferred
to the next man with a banjo.

Before long we hummed dances and spent our late night
securely feeling right at home. Backdoors were used for
going out and in at cookouts, block parties and fireworks
displays sparkling freedom that never needed to check
immigration status.

The adoption was ratified; our lifelong hope to belong,
given full status before which the entire universe longed
to bow.

Days and nights are now the same, comfortable and
ready to find something better than the next warm meal.
A meal indeed, but more to the point,
a family to share a breakfast with,
all complete.

Generous or Unfair?

(They said, “The ones who were hired last worked for only one hour. But you paid them the same that you did us. And we worked in the hot sun all day long!” Matthew 20:12)

“The ones who were hired last…you paid them the same that you did us.” “That’s not fair!” Those three words are among the most common from toddler to teen. Adults find more sophisticated ways of expressing the same sentiment, like filing lawsuits. Or the threats thereof!

Boasting in the Lord

“Boasting in the Lord”

 (“Christ Jesus…became for us divine wisdom and righteousness and holiness and redemption, so that as has been written, ‘Let the boaster boast in the Lord.’” 1 Corinthians 1:30b, 31)

Have you ever noticed someone who simply can never be wrong? Suppose a friend misplaces a book they were reading at your house. He calls you up and says, “I know my book is over there. I’ve looked all over my house and in my car. I even opened up my dog’s mouth. It’s not here, so you must have it.”

Without Using Big Words

"Without Using Big Words"

(“He sent me to tell the good news without using big words that would make the cross of Christ lose its power.” 1 Corinthians 17b)

I had accumulated too many marks for my misconduct;
demerits handed out over the course of a lifetime.
Though I wanted to argue, I wanted to complain,
I wanted to say, with the eternal chorus, “It’s not
fair” to the teacher who heavy-handed me my
red-checked marks.

I deserved the blame, had whited when I should have blacked:
I was censurable.
I could find no occasion to mis-explain my absence from
truth when the evidence stared me straight in the eye.

Still I was convinced a small group, faithful only to those
happy about my failure, my fall;
a cabal meeting behind closed doors. I was merely a
rag doll of words made up by a marionette.

I wanted to deny every charge spoken against me,
stomp my feet until they could hear my red-faced anger;
I found no voice, language or philosophy capable of
making it clear, a speech so high and mighty they
would have to look it up in a dictionary:
Grandiloquent, and proof I had studied well.

Haply (it was not joyful), my schemes fell below the bar,
passwords cracked, an alphabet scattered on the floor.
I was undone, guilty, the regretful one;
Compunctious, I crawled blindly to find pity
after my cornered performance of faked inequality.

Mercy and Power richly meet; a committee, a strategy
beyond mind or muscle. All immoral, I stood with
more red-checks than I dreamt possible. And cried
where the linoleum puddles the tears between my dirty feet
and the bloody holes in His.

And I felt, I cannot say when-who, but surely, the
mercy that made me reject every argument about my
innocence;
and accept, happily, the fate that lately made me see
white x’s where the red-checks once made me
wince at imperfection simply stated.

I was gravel and ash, now, with a dream after the waking,
Commencement is now a day launching me loveward,
a new word I cannot construct that combines every utterance
that loaded my guilt, my back breaking, onto the back of the
LoveWard, his heart aching,
taking it, tears and cruel gashes, to Death where He, I and
my red-checks also, died at once.

And still, I do not know how-why, but I know
Who.