Shallow Thoughts on Suffering

“One of the criminals who were hanged railed at him, saying, ‘Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!’” Luke 23:39

It is easy to see this criminal on the cross as a blundering fool spouting the venom that was simply part of his unlawful lifestyle. Even though Jesus was innocent and unjustly crucified, most who received that sentence were the worst of the worst. So, it is no surprise that we are quick to deride this fellow’s sarcasm that ugly day.

Taken by Surprise

Taken by Surprise

(“You, my brothers, were called to be free. But do not take that to mean that you can do as you please. But work for each other because you love each other.” Galatians 5:13)

I was taken by surprise at the wild night and the demise
of floodlights pointing the way to the boarding house location.
I knew dozens who danced in abandon, waved at random faces
appearing in the crowd. They shout so loud that one man’s prayer
is swallowed by vocal improvisations, out of tune, out of time,
discarding rhyme, stepping over the swooned on the concrete floor.
Freedom was a dancer who mollified mentors while untying the knots
that taught apprentices the steps.

Turn up the volume, vibrate the walls,
let God pick up one end of the earth, if it please, and whip it like a
locker-room towel until the seas reach peaks and mountains flow
low beneath the feet of unreachable depths. God is not hindered
by social norms or costume codes on the walls of institutions of
higher learning.

So we, free as He, vacate every convention, except our personal inventions;
the cures that medicate loneliness every time we turn down the lights
and leave the dance abandoned on the floor, concrete cold once every
body has left alone, home, rays extending from a fixed center,
and the farther we fly, the farther our neighbor.

I was taken by surprise at the handful who, though free as God Himself,
wandered the after-streets, checked the littered corners, sleep in their
eyes, cramps in their calf and thighs. They were sad and smile complete,
these few of freedom’s elite who knew when the carnival shuts down
there must be a few around to be just one degree freer.

I was taken by surprise by the looks in the eyes of those whose freedom
let them linger, renewing the wounded and enjoying the gravity that
pushed them closer to liberty’s labors of love.

Inquire of the Lord

“When the Philistines heard that David had been anointed king over Israel, they went up in full force to search for him, but David heard about it and went down to the stronghold…so David inquired of the Lord.” 2 Samuel 5:17, 19

David actually been anointed king years before by the prophet Samuel when he was much younger. After years of being chased down by King Saul, David is finally anointed by Israel itself. Saul has committed suicide and the people are ready for a godly leader to take his place.

You Welcomed Me

You Welcomed Me

(“Though my sickness was a trouble for you, you did not hate me or make me leave. But you welcomed me as an angel from God, as if I were Jesus Christ himself!” Galatians 4:14)

I saw question marks hovering around your head like
gnat attacks that park in the sunny spots between forest shade.
You had an uncle whose head never quit hurting, a neighbor
who swallowed bourbon for the pain by prescription,
a doctor who healed you niece, a dozen tales of men
and females whose migraines counted against their earning potential.

Though straining at the leash like my dog who smells a cat
in the same place, under the same bush, every single walk past
the same house, and won’t give up until the cat scurries away,
claws her nose, or most of the time, simply has unoccupied the space
days before our arrival.

With more discretion than my dog, I’ve seen your eyes as the question marks
insist verbal assault and you hold back, silent and love, sad and hope
unable to offer a single method or medication to squeeze open my head
and let the pain escape like air from a punctured balloon.

Your sad eyes bright, say more than the mighty words of the unknowing
who keep showing pictures of the last person they know who was healed from
who knows what, (I know not when), and say, as I walk slowly away, “I thought
God answered prayer.”

You would limp for me, I know. You would transplant my pain, if not far
out to the ocean, into your own body and emotion without fear. You ignore
the question mark pests, refusing to pour out a keg of queries I’ve answered
over and over.

You know, though never asking, the simple cool touch of your fingers
along my forehead, a cloth cooled by evening breezes, soothes the clench,
moves the cracks in my head that feather down my neck and back, and
for moderation, 5 or maybe 10 minutes, I can breathe, smile, see today
worthwhile for a little longer.

I see the questions you have, so opposed to the massive droves of gnat-like
babble. The question on your lips is clearer in your eyes, softening with
half-tears; held back for my depression, expressed for my impression that
you would rather stay as long as I need, and go as soon as even one best-love
has been overwhelmed by the uninvited pain again.

But your question remains, and I rarely answer until I know there is no other place to go.
You ask: “Tell, me, how can I help. If there is anything (or nothing at all),
please, let me know.”

"If You Are Willing"

“Father, if you are willing, please don’t make me drink from this cup. But do what you want, not what I want.” Luke 22:42

It is nearly impossible to come up with a personal example of what it felt for Jesus the night He faced the looming cross. He knew, as everyone else in his time, the torturous methods used by Rome in exterminating offenders. He was fully aware of the horrors that could possibly play out before even the first nail was shoved through his hands. He faced His skin being stripped from His back, blow after blow, from the metal and bone tied into the whip known as the “cat of nine tails”.

Get Things Ready

Get Things Ready

(Jesus said: “He will take you upstairs and show you a large furnished room. Get things ready there.” Luke 22:12)

Send me somewhere, and I will go,
outlying villages where the streams run slow,
to find the banquet hall reserved for the few,
one hundred or less, and with a view
of the pacing river off the redwood balcony.

Let me return with happy news,
the room is perfect; blue jazz or summer blues,
and now to flood it intimate late night mood,
savory and candles, talk and food
while watching the river off the redwood balcony.

We would gather, shoes set aside,
hesitation and invention, step inside,
and now the mood crowds our own expectations;
inspecting our invitations
while we watch the river off the redwood balcony.

Hold that thought, repeat that phrase,
banquets are laughter and jump-the-gun applause.
Why this supper before suffering;
this meal and announcement of Your intention
to die before we have barely digested

Your words at all?

Send me somewhere, and I will go,
baffling villages where streams once flowed,
to find the leftovers, many or a few,
and invite them all, alive and new
to watch for the river off the redwood balcony.

The Master Potter

“House of Israel, can’t I deal with you like this potter, declares the Lord? Like clay in the potter’s hand, so are you in mine, house of Israel!” Jeremiah 18:6

I am not skilled at all when it comes to art made with hands. I cannot paint, and any work in clay ends up resembling the science fiction creature known as “The Blob”. But I have watched at potter at the wheel, and it is amazing to see a simple lump of brownish-gray clay slowly take shape into a useful vessel in his hands.

If I Had My Way

If I Had My Way

If I had my way I’d see everything you say
handwritten so I could not mistake the script;
and then I would wait.

Having words that hurt I’ve dropped so many whys in the air
it is a wonder I do not suffocate on my echoes. But the “what’ I’ve
held, heartbeating in my hand, instructs me better than then answers
I never hear from why.

If I had my way I’d ask everyone repeat
the last thing they said to me, complete with
tone and gesture. It is just that I am locally unsure
how well memory suits me.

Having letters of recommendation, I’ve inquired,
sending those citations with the query. It would have
been better to ask you, face to tears, why the signature
meant nothing when I read it so clearly.

If I had my way I’d repeat that conversation,
with courage, along with a friend taking dictation,
so, both words recorded, I would not fear the hoarded
phone numbers no one shared with me.

Having headaches daily, the kind that grind when
workdays grind like black asphalt until the backroad dead end,
I’m half the help, slow the think, eyes that hurt when hearing buzzes,
and want to lock my door, or find again, someone’s couch where
my faith can be human.

If I had my way, I’d have you read the letters,
sent in hopes of catching the last line drive that
whizzed past my head. And I would turn up the volume,
mute the background noise, so all you hear is the intonation
of sadness that wants to be seen as at least
half a human.

Having headaches nightly, most tears are hidden,
the future vacant. I do not wish to moan or
gasp, I’m on my last legs (it feels each meal)
and I hide so deep, I’ve never known so deep,
in the cave of my Savior where dark is hope and
silence my companion; pain’s best words spoken
without deception or hesitation.

All I Need

But the Lord said, “My grace is all you need. Only when you are weak can everything be done completely by my power.” So I will gladly boast about my weaknesses. Then Christ’s power can stay in me. 2 Corinthians 12:9

The beauty of Christ is seen no better than when set against the darkness of His followers’ struggles and weakness. Just as stars shine more brightly against a dark, rural sky, so those who trust Jesus in the midst of personal pain or hardship stand out more brilliantly than when all is well.

My Misdemeanor

My Misdemeanor

(“David said…to Jonathan, ‘What have I done? What is my sin? What have I done wrong to your father, that he wants to kill me?’” 1 Samuel 20:1)

What is my misdemeanor and why do you indict me?
You should have been my friend across the foaming ocean,
but you cross-examined my intentions, took my words and
set them up like a canvas tent in other people’s mouths.

Lord, I am not a felon, or ever pulled a tongue-like-knife
upon the unsuspecting. Yet my back is riddled with
stabs and unhealed scabs from half a dozen righteous
who tried their best to shine.

I ate in your home and rooted for the Niners,
I visited you at work and saw you cry over lost love,
I voted for your sorrow, I laughed at your gags and puns
while you wrote secret notes and handed them out like candy.

Lord, I am not a criminal, but I’m a sinner, plain as can be;
Lord I’ve never stolen someone’s name or tried to replace their reputation;
I’ve sent sympathy cards, apology notes, and repentance letters
hand-signed and dated.

But with whispers, winks, and subtle nods that amounted to
hiring hit men, they knew the true, spanned grand jury decisions
but skipped the trial and sent their prey to detention straightaway.

Lord, I am not worthy, I am tar and feathers, ashes and sackcloth,
tears from the deception, and lonely from the inception of the plans
that left me homeless. My misdemeanor was not worth the
anger or the meaner side of justice. I laid down my musket
years ago

And will not take it up again.

Opening Words

Opening Words

(“Then one day as he was teaching the people in the Temple, and preaching the Gospel to them, the chief priests, the scribes and elders confronted him…” Luke 20:1, 2a)

Shout darkness at the sun, bay at the dawn and call it doom,
your discount words will not render rainbows black. Alarmed
by blinders, the swords and jagged ripsaws of invention
hold no power over the Northern Lights when they visit
the silent boy sitting late night on a rock outside the cave
wondering why his ears ache from the weight of attempted
eclipses of glory.

Write the perfect opening words; let the novel snake its way
through mistrust and doubt, leading protagonists in and out of
canvas walls set up only for opening night. The readers will believe
based on authorship alone, with original sources gathering dust
behind bowling balls and unused ski gloves until trust
has faded like a word from King James obscure.

Open the French windows, push them out into rain or wind,
sun or still, and let the light play on the wall as it will. Reverse
the bay window
with cardinals and jays nearly entering the room,
sip your coffee, break croissants with your neighbor
and watch for another word to drop like dew upon conversation.

Pour another cup and butter the broken bread,
death and life circulate despite our best intentions,
and let the touch, the fingertip of a single hand awake
the cistern of deep unfilled too long. Glory shines,
light reminds that death is, if we have desired,
the transfer without baggage, the day we had hoped
each day would be when we awoke each morning.
It is the final invocation; the location of all in one
without the weight of what’s done is done.

To Tell the Truth

“Moreover, the Eternal One of Israel will not lie or change his mind, because he isn’t a mere human being subject to changing his mind.” 1 Samuel 15:29

Truth; perhaps the most foreign concept to most of us. We like to think we are honest and we want to come off as truthful people, but we usually spend more energy maintaining an image than allowing our true selves to be found out. That is why so many relationships lack much intimacy or satisfaction at all. We never are sure whether others are being “who they are”, and we spend the same amount of time buffing up what we hope people will think about us.

Interested in the Impossible

Interested in the Impossible

(“Jesus answered, ‘What is humanly impossible is possible for God.’” Luke 18:27)

I want to dive in, encourage every single reader, and tell you, “Everything is possible with God. You are going to be ok. You will get that job. Your husband won’t lose his. Your wife will have that child you are waiting for. You will pass geometry.” (Well, ok, maybe not so much the last one.)