Coffee Together

Then the king's personal servants said: Your Majesty, a search must be made to find you some beautiful young women. Esther 2:2

“Then let the young woman who please you most take Vashti’s place as queen.” King Xerxes liked these suggestions and he followed them. Esther 2:4

“When the king ordered the search for beautiful women, many were taken to the king’s palace in Susa, and Esther was one of them.” Esther 2:8

In about 45 minutes I will meet with a number of people from my church for coffee. I have no idea how many, and am not really concerned with the number that show up. As I fell asleep Saturday night I was thinking about ways to increase real openness among ourselves as well as ways to let God’s word take a deeper place in our lives.

Washing my Face

Washing My Face

 (”Then he washed his face, got a grip on himself, and said, ‘Let’s eat.’” Genesis 43:31)

I never expected you to bring this up so many years after,
I never expected you to be so sensitive.
I told you then, and I tell you again,
I only did what I thought was right
and no, I will not politely say I’m sorry it hurt you
anyway.

+I knew you would think me weak
+stubborn or troubled, bitter or twisted
+to bring up the issue a dozen years later
+that you never took kindness to address at the time.

I know your kind, you keep squeezing and squeezing
until one small drop, one dollop of tubed apology tops your
dessert that has nearly melted with the waiting.

+And I know your kind, the kind that will not bend, a knife in the wind,
+and will only make my second and third attempt to turn your head around
+more reason to suspect I never lived up to your
+unblinking standards.

Standards are standards, and you broke them.
You want my grace but you hate to give to others.
So you push me and push me (why would I admit
wrongdoing when I only did what I thought was right)
despite whatever pain you say it caused
my hands are clean; you’re the lawless one.

+I’ve admitted, bowed, taken the blows,
+each misstep I admitted, scraped and cowed; you know
+all this. And, to try my grace: apologize.
+I have no hidden agendas, no moral alibis,
+but would mouth a simple “Thanks”, though late,
+the unabated, ‘sorry the wounds bled more for actions”
+would receive grace and more than was sent to me.

No More Feather Pillow

No More Feather Pillow

(“Watch out for people will take you to court and have you beaten in their meeting places.” Matthew 10:17)

No more feather pillow, just a rock for my head;
no more easy money, only the rich get fed;
no more pleasant parades, new words we cried and prayed;
no more banners restreamed, only criminal scenes.

The secrets lie behind the curtains of arrest and handcuffed lips,
the mystery a fragrant scent that wafts above the burial pits,
the wonder a joy that sits beneath the gloom,
a glad day that waves off paper doom.

The child who leads them, the little in the laps
of the imprisoned of this world can tell us more
than the edicts of frightened senators and kings
overdoing their rice skin years of fame.

My salary is only today, just a month from forgotten;
my compositions decay, my shirt’s organic cotton,
my guitars crack in low humidity,
my dollars lack any liquidity
but my eyes can see beyond the sun.

Hearts still race at the angry words that would steal
time from lives a few paragraphs longs;
Hands grow cold when lisps of accusation bring
heavy machinery to trap a life between parentheses.

But above and beyond, I’ll drive my car straight up
for an hour until all atmosphere is gone. From there
I’ll see the funny courtroom scenes that try to
capture the redeemed,
domesticate the wild
and incarcerate the people now set
free.

Here and Now

“So the chief of the butlers told Joseph his dream…Joseph told him, ‘This is its interpretation.’” Genesis 40:9, 12a

Many very sincere Christians get frustrated because they want to do something significant for God, but feel their circumstances prevent it. Some may think their lack of schooling keeps them from being taken seriously when they talk about Christ, or maybe others imagined hosting Bible studies that grew into the hundreds, only to have just two or three friends gathering around their kitchen table.

Happy and Stong

“Nehemiah told the people, ‘Enjoy your good food and wine and share some with those who didn’t have anything to bring. Don’t be sad! This is a special day for the Lord, and he will make you happy and strong.’” Nehemiah 8:10

Sadness is not the end product in repentance. There is no purpose in prolonged anguish or grief in response to our failings before God. There is a sorrow that is altogether appropriate when we are returning, coming back to renewed fellowship; but it is not meant to be the primary result of our return.

The Storm of Love

The Storm of Love

(“The crowd was awestruck, amazed and pleased that God had authorized Jesus to work among them this way.” Matthew 9:8 [The Message]”

Quit looking over your shoulder, frowning at life words launched
like water balloons in summer. Color after color, as close as bread
is to butter, the words with truth, the works with touch,
the walking once wounded roll up their begging sacks
and go home the long way, just to see the sights;
walk home the crooked way, just to stretch their legs.

The love that longs to heal is held back by the smallest fingers,
the tsunami of solace is stopped by the smallest “no” from our lips.

But the storm of love keeps rolling, keeps swelling, keeps curling
along the coast, waiting for the smallest opening to discharge its cargo
through one ill-timed inhalation of “yes” without knowing.

So wide the storm front, countries cannot bind its force,
so high its anvil toward the sky, there is no escape here-under,
though some try to run, or dive beneath the furniture,
the tempest is inevitable, and we will lie horizontal,
prone in the path it took to lay us down.
Because

The storm of love keeps rolling, keeps swelling, keeps curling
from least to most. Looking for the minute twinkling, the reflection from eyes
that invited the lightning and said “yes” barely knowing.

I know you were drenched last time you ventured in the rain.
I know the power shook the sod beneath your feet, the lights went
out near 3 in the afternoon and all became dark and the storm seemed
to bite the world whole. I know you saw three branches fallen on their sides,
empty where life had been shortly strung. I know you held hope that
this afternoon-come-midnight might be the end of damp feet and
makeup always running.

We’ve all been afraid of the dark before, lightning makes us jump
higher than our cats, thunder bowls us underground for safety,
hearing reports of floods growling our direction.

What power that makes us turn away and run afraid.
What power, may we quietly say, with gritted teeth hope,
is simply the announcement of

The Love we believed possible
when we picked snapdragons on the way to school.

Hug Like CornBread

Hugs Like CornBread

Waiting before the coffee spits on,
lying on the blue with the pillow tucked in,
holding to some hope of enjoying the dawn,
inching up from fluttered sleep, barely happy,
halfway living.

I will wait, I will still, for the strength to gain the days
I’ve missed locked inside the pain. I’m a limper, squinter,
with capacity depleted,
common joy deleted.

I’m offered one remedy after the next,
friendly gestures, but wheelbarrow loads of mortar
sealing my smile shut (I must stay silent the next
prescription given by well-meaning non-physicians).

“Why aren’t our prayers answered”, other good-hearts ask me,
(at least these aren’t the ones more concerned about their
spiritual batting average than the object of their petition)
Don’t fix me: you can’t. Just love me: hug the moment
and my pain, learn the holy, the adult refrain that
lets the thoughts of the lonely walk away whistling
for another half day.

Leave me feeling like cornbread and honey,
don’t advise me or give or give me your physician’s name;
Pray me like caramel sweet,
lift my pain-weighted body of its feet for a hour,
take me away to the beach and say we’ll stay only a second
or the rest of the day. Ask me, give me, offer me,
you with suggestions or recommendations.

When your days of pain come round like
hot tar and smothered gasping, I promise to
be the first to bring your favorite dessert
and leave it on your doorstep
or
stay all afternoon.

And if you look on your doorknob, there will not be the latest
article clipped from my search of

Your disease.

Mark, Who?

“Many will say to Me on that Day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in Thy name and in Thy name cast out demons and in Thy name do many wonderful works?’ Then I will frankly say to them, ‘I never knew you! Get away from Me, you mischief workers!’” Matthew 7:22, 23

I admit it, names sometimes escape me. I’m not talking about the second cousin of a passing acquaintance who I met once leaving the coffee shop. The names I forget are people I connect with week to week. I’ll be talking to my wife and saying, “I really like the way…” Blank! No kidding; in place of the name in my memory there is a big black hole. Hopefully I can remember the last name, or the spouse’s name. Like, “Barrett…oh yeah, Jim and Joanne Barrett.” “Honey, I really like the way Jim Barrett sings. It reminds me a lot of…uhm…oops”. That’s right; I have to conjure up another forgotten name.

It really is quite embarrassing, especially when the time it takes to access the person’s name in my brain is a telltale sign I’ve forgotten them. Sometimes I can give myself a little more slack in the rope by adding modifiers and phrases to the sentence. “I really like the way, the beautiful way; he sings those parts in the choir that are lower than the other men’s parts. His singing is like a well-tuned foghorn. (whirr, zzzzip, ccrackle…the gears in my mind finally access the name) Don’t you like Jim’s singing too?” Honestly, I don’t think I fool anyone.

What will be more embarrassing, though, is to have Jesus say, “I never knew you.” Jesus never forgets a name, or a face; so what is this all about? The problem is all the tactics we think we have to use to get Him to take notice. Yes, Jesus plans to be forgetful, but not about our names! Doesn’t God tell us that He will “be merciful to their iniquities and remember their sins no more”? (Hebrews 8:12)

But still we show off, “prophesying in His name” and then looking around to make sure someone noticed how spiritual we are. We see demons behind everything from the common cold to hurricanes and tsunamis, and hope people hear how much authority we take casting out said demons. We claim miracles, but want the credit. All the while Jesus wants something entirely different from us.

As a matter of fact, He calls these people “mischief makers”. People who are so focused on grandstanding can easily miss the simple requirements Jesus makes. We want to cast out demons, He says “Love your neighbor”. We want to miraculously cure the sick, Jesus says, “If someone demands you walk a mile with them, go two.” We want the focus on us while we make great spiritual pronouncements when Jesus said, “When you pray, go into your room privately, and you will be rewarded by Your Father who sees in private.”

On the other hand, there are a whole class of those who call on Jesus’ name that want to simply tack His name on to whatever current lifestyle they live. Jesus doesn’t make a difference, He makes them comfortable. Jesus doesn’t challenge them, He is supposed to coddle them. Jesus doesn’t demand transformation, He doesn’t tell the rich young ruler to give all His money to the poor and follow Him. He doesn’t tell the woman at the well He knows about her five previous husbands and the one she is living with now. He doesn’t insist the thief quit stealing, the adulterer quit being unfaithful.

For these people, Jesus makes them feel good, and they talk about feeling “blessed”, but hardly every talk about obedience. None of us ever will live up to the perfection of God’s holiness. That is why we needed God’s grace through Christ. But, Jesus calls us to changed lives, not excuses. He calls us to be holy, different, a light in the midst of darkness. Instead, many sit in the same darkness and just are glad that “Jesus is here with me.”

Either way, showing off for Jesus, or sloughing off, Jesus may very well say, “Who are you?” And it won’t be because of a lapsed memory. It will be because we never thought about what was really important to Him. We remained unchanged. Oh yes, our language changed. We talked about being blessed, and about miracles, and about demons and such, but our core remained focused on self. We either wanted to continue living our old life and just talk about Jesus “being with me”, or we did ok with the moral side, but still wanted the same attention we craved before we came to Christ.

And what about Jesus, what does He want? Maybe it’s time to stop trying to impress Him and simply read the gospels to discover what He truly wants from those who follow Him. Maybe it’s time to stop justifying behavior we know is disobedient to Him, and act as if we truly trust Him. Jesus couldn’t have said it clearer when He said, “If you love me, you will keep My commands.”

I want Him to know my name. I want, at the end of the age, to be able to hear, “Well done, good and faithful servant”. I want to stop playacting Christianity. I want to bring everything; thoughts, emotions and actions into obedience to Christ. No, we will not be perfect this side of heaven, but we must at least be moving forward in maturity and obedience until He returns.

Forgiveness and Ache

Forgiveness and Ache

(“For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will forgive you, too.” Matthew 6:14)

Forget the attempts to hold hostage the
outcomes by subterfuge (only slight lies and
trivial misdirection) and talk like you understand
no one deserves your heaven,
no one deserves your hell
and grace, mercy, forgiveness,
are treasures received,
stories we retell.

But you were a roper, and set the lasso over
every neck you expected unbending. I hoped to speak
with you unmounted
without the posse writing down each misgiving
you made me expound.

I must say I’ve dropped all my rocks
in a Canadian lake years ago. They nearly wore a
hole in my pocket,
bruised my thumb where
I knocked it
every time I reached in for a quarter or dime.

Your name (and the posse) was on each stone
launched alone early summer. I knew, though you used deception,
my intention was a fresh start. I knew mine had begun,
I hoped you received one too!

The rocks are there, the verdicts are clear,
as they left my hands they were meant to leave my heart,
but a scar does remain (I ruined my fame, it was my failure
we focused upon). So, though I am not white, I am not black
though I was left alone like basement mold in someone’s condemned
home with weeds.

No one deserves your hell, men,
no one your heaven,
and there are no ladders nor rungs
we’ve climbed skyward upon.
Put me to the test, apologize for the rest,
test me and see how quickly, how openly
I speak the words that reach across the anxieties
to truthfully confess I would rather see you free
than tied up by your stubbornness.

As Far Right as West Is

As Far Right as West Is

(“I’m telling you to love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer.” Matthew 5:44 [The Message])

Let’s pick teams like we did in grade school,
the greens with the greens, the cool with the cool.
Let’s fight it out after the last bell,
prove the scholar versus fool
on the steps
behind the gym
underneath the seats
making shadow lengths
of aluminum.

Make sure the crowd gathers circle,
let it begin with verbal (words find their mark
but leave no bruises)
and end with mortal (me against you
settled with black eyes and blue).

Let’s not parade our antique brawls,
or masquerade our sophomore squalls.
We are walled as well as bully in the halls
with better decorum and etiquette.

Propriety quotes unknown sources,
and throws them in the faces of false quotations
smearing names with a righteous incantation
that smells like an electrical fire, like a model
railroad locomotive run too many times past the station.

Grow up new-birthed, wear the wardrobe gladly of
rain disdaining our fences,
sunshine disregarding faces
and washing away the lines drawn in the sand.

How could your Father create
words you rearrange to dictate
costumed hatred (sounds like scripture
the way it is stated).

Grow up new-winged reflections, like the shine from
your Father’s house, the doorbell answered,
the family gathered from as far right as west is,
and east as left is; mud and rain and sun.

Stew Are You?

Isaac asked him, “Who are you?” He said, “I am Esau, your son, your first-born.” Then Isaac was so shocked, he trembled. Genesis 27:32,33

Take this family, Isaac and Rebekah, with their twin sons Jacob and Esau, out of the Bible and put them on television and they would be a top-notch daytime soap opera. Or, if they were a family in contemporary society, they might even have had the Department of Children’s Services pay them a visit.

Cleaning my Eyeglasses

“You’re blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.” Matthew 5:8 [(he Message)

I have worn glasses since eighth grade. The first thing I discovered is the difficulty of keeping rain off the lenses. I’ve always joked that there should be windshield wipers for glasses, just like for automobiles. I’m sure there are some tiny novelty wipers out there, but I’d end up looking like a buffoon wearing them. I guess I’ll put up with rain-stained spectacles.

Straight Home

Straight Home

(“Rebekah ran straight home and told her family everything.” Genesis 24:28)

Now I’d rather play than grouse all day about
far too many holes in the fabric, and how I never
knew the holes were there when I grew up
anyway.

Yes, I’d rather run and split the one meadow
in half today and more tomorrow, and never be
late to strategize the best use for
waterguns.

Low, I’d rather look up-sky than hook my hopes
in half today; simply, sincerely out of fear
I would fall more slippery than all I
undertook.

Pool, the waterfall steepens sharp; crawling fails
the anticipation that waits atop greasy rock
granite, the peak graffiti I had
hoped to scrawl.

This, seriously play than dream I pray about
all the unsewn holes in the old words, and how I always
wished the talk matched the fun of (timeless)
past bouquets.

Winter Clothing

Winter Clothing

(“He is the one mentioned by the prophet Isaiah, ‘The voice of one, shouting in the desert, Make ready the way of the Lord; straighten His paths!’” Matthew 3:3)

I put my gray sweats on into the heavy morning,
air a slight drip, breath a damp hello on
toward the breakfast-view of the river
from the backside of the one block downtown
restaurant.

It may have been too early, I may have been too slow,
words were like the careful boats who heard the foghorn
repeating the same warning before the island split the channel;
deep north and sandbar south.

We may be hard of hearing, we may be easy talkers,
we may want to say it clearly but the waters drown
the spoken ink we fell asleep knowing.

My coat is cow’s leather, not camel brush;
my breakfast Belgian waffles, never locusts
(but I do eat honey)
and I’d like the road ready, the single block I walk
downtown sometimes early, prepared and ready
for better hearing and quicker feet
to follow, fog or not (and trade my learning for
love’s experiment, a t-shirt and sneakers on the ground.)

I put my gray sweats on, my winter clothing
while the adolescent boy I met was short sleeve
white and jeans. One sentence was a door open from the inside

And the rest of our talk (other men and our inventions)
we tried to open with good intentions. Our words are
stuck, our love perhaps not, but we need practice
to cure the bends from spirit to sound, heart to hello
before we goodbye next time we meet.

Another Road

“Later they were warned in a dream not to return to Herod, and they went back home by another road.” Matthew 2:12

Thirty-nine years ago, the summer between my junior and senior year in high school, my family took a camping vacation. This wasn’t unusual, we usually camped. Dad was a pastor, we had four kids, and we rarely stayed in motel rooms. Fortunately, living in Southern California, Disneyland, Hollywood and the beach were all day trips. We didn’t lose much by not sleeping at the most convenient C’mon Inn.

Bowling in the Dark

Bowling in the Dark

“Jesus replied, ‘Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Anyone who walks in daylight doesn’t stumble because there’s plenty of light from the sun.’” John 11:9 [The Message]

There was once a bowling league that consistently scored the lowest in the land. They were friends who had bowled together for years, loved hanging out on bowling night, and knew the game well. None of them rented shoes; they each owned the best pair they could find. They had studied the rules well and practiced relentlessly, sending their 16 pound balls rolling down the oiled lane toward the ten pins.

Memory Deceves

Memory Deceives

(“Everything seemed to go his way. But then the strength and success went to his head. Arrogant and proud, he fell.” 2 Chronicles 26:16a [The Message])

Deep within fascinating sleep between
interruptions of volcanic dreams there are footsteps
that like to scheme slight radicals for the slumberer’s benefit.

Taking night as if they owned it between their arms,
directing the stars as if they were marionette strings,
the rearrange the joy the single soul found
and turn it around into grief over laughing.

One sleep and the singing is gone,
one week and severance is complete,
a month and memory deceives every
reasonable smile.

Deep within well-meaning the waters have neither
sun nor manifest reflection, only muscled redemption
rock slimy.

Taking the morning as countless as always,
hoping it will speak without devices but plainly
like sun on the sand or rain throughout the forest,
joy may have been stolen by

Someone stalking the night possessed of intentions to
turn the town, squeeze the heart, scrub the sin
and win it all with a parade naming

The new Great Awakening. The label
written in the dark, now illegible to the sleeper
who only hoped to keep the joy just one
song longer.