The Liberal Air

The Liberal Air

("So they were seeking to arrest him, but no one laid a hand on him, because his hour had not yet come." John 7:30)

The liberal air filled the lungs and enriched the red cells
of those who would capture the Righteous and arrest the progress
of the miraculous. The liberal air filled the lungs of
the Son of God as well.

Oh, front-liners, protectors of truth and keepers of the rules,
the same mud that made you, made them, made us; the
same air that enwraps the world in its invisible giftwrap
seeps between the cracks, mazes its way around leaves unfallen,
fastens itself to molecules we’ve observed for the world’s tiniest
percentage. Oh, storm-leaders, pressing the crowds backwards
to possess the real estate you’ve planted your hopes upon,
your conclusions are forgone, not because you wished for better;
you deduction is simply wrong.

I like the air that lets us fly while bystanders scratch their heads
and wonder why they cannot get their feet off the ground. Lower the
pressure
over my wings and let the time sweep the crackling folks whose
throats are sore from accusing left to right and back, into silence.
And give them a plaque unworded, a silly mirror of reminder.

The liberal air cooled the brow, stirred by angels, but mostly friends
happy to be so illiterate they never heard the indictment. The day ended
as it began, the peace of breezes winding through the evening. And time,
which never stands still, slowed the imperceptible passing of seconds
until the façade-squad and all gone home.

The few who loved the way air felt filling their lungs, enriching
the coursing blood and clearing their head of opinions unfounded,
rounded another corner with the Master, putting the matter to bed
until the next story He told wiped away one more conclusion about
why the air was so available and never taxable.

Techniques? or Relationships?

“Act wisely toward outsiders, making the most of the opportunity.” Colossians 4:5

I am currently reading a book title “UNchristian”. It is based on years of thorough and thoughtful research into the image that people from their teens to late 30s have of Christianity. I don’t plan to rewrite the book in this small essay, but it is confirming a number of things I already was fairly certain about.

Autumn to Spring

“The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing. The words I have spoken to you are spirit and they are life.” John 6:53

I love Autumn. For some reason it inspires me even more than Spring. I’ve always been “earthy” in my favorite colors, ask my kids. Yes, it’s sure as anything, Dad will be wearing brown or green, maybe blue occasionally. It doesn’t hurt that I grew up during the hippie era which probably spoiled my fashion sense for the rest of my life.

A Bread Narrative

"A Bread Narrative"

(“Jesus replied: ‘I am the bread that gives life! No one who comes to me will ever be hungry. No one who has faith in me will ever be thirsty.’” John 6:35)

I spread the white cream cheese, one side at a time,
onto each half of my blueberry bagel. That is my breakfast,
two, three, or four times a week. That is my breakfast except
for the two times a week I pour almond crunch cereal into a bowl with milk,
and the one or two times a week I smear the same cream cheese
onto two slices of cinnamon toast.

But yesterday I spread the cream cheese on a bagel and walked out the door.

It was Sunday morning, the first day of Fall, and the half block to the church
was mostly grass, gold and brown after late summer’s dehydration, though
soft from the fog inching up from the river a quarter mile away; half eaten
I brought the second half, unthinking and rote, to my mouth as I strode across
the lawn. And half of that half, with an unhappy crease, fell upon the ground,
upside down, a sandwich of earth, cream cheese and bagel.

I thought about picking it up, not to eat, I knew there were cookies with the
coffee soon to appear as people began to populate the morning worship.
I thought about picking it up, just so no children, closer to the ground than I,
might like a bit of my breakfast as well.

I thought about picking it up, but left it there instead.

We prayed and we laughed inside our simple building. We rejoiced that
God allowed a young girl to keep her cat, it’s true. Last week the evil cat
was attacking all three other kittens in the home, and would have to live alone,
unless it learned to behave. We prayed. Now the cats get along, and one young girl
thinks God is pretty cool to do that.

After all had left, and standing for an hour long conversation with a constituent
who had no idea that my head pain increases the more I just stand and talk
and talk and stand. Inside I nearly toppled onto a pew, grabbing my temples and crying,
“Let me go home.” Instead I listened; and it was good.

I strode across the lawn, going home, and noticed my quarter-bagel was gone. I
am sure a
blue jay enjoyed a feast, a fortuitous find, and I suffered little at the loss
of just a bit of Sunday breakfast on my way
walking to church.

Into The Quiet

Into the Quiet

(“When Jesus saw that they were ready to force him to be their king, he slipped away into the hills by himself.” John 6:15)

I have seen men on cable tv with atrocious haircuts (and women too)
speaking for God the Creator of All, the Potentate and Holy One,
Invisible, Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Who speaketh unto us
in antique English like Shakespeare. There is a reason students shudder
at both Titus Andronicus and the KJV of Lamentations.

Could I understand κοινή Greek commonly, I could dispense
with tv translations altogether. But that is another poem which
must wait until I learn to translate my own stubborn phrases into
a language dead enough that none could critique my work.

I have seen graves with green unsettled. Half a dozen, an hour before dark,
and a day after the cancer won the struggle for the man’s last breath, the grass
hugging the sod with the shine from too many shoes shuffling a certain prayer
they were told would bring the widower’s husband back.

I have seen tv men swear to resurrection, prayer that brought the hands
disrupting the dirt piled above. The man climbed out, without stepstool
or directions, to find the world the same as it was the day his respirations
ceased.

I have seen tv men (and women too), or those with no access to air time who
snatch their lucky anointing because they lived long enough to finally receive the
votes they needed to give them the freedom to tell the unheeding
how God’s creeds are meant to be obeyed. Shame for the backward glances
and unanswered mail when a voter needs an answer.

Oh, but You, Son of Man and of God, eschew hairdos and personal assistants,
but find Your time alone on hillside fog and morning with Father to hear
how Your kingdom comes
without popular vote or golden thrones. And though its sorrow must
waft like incense through every fiber of Your humanity, the cross is
Your throne and our misdeeds Your crown.

I heard that you told those closest to you, “I am sending you in the same way
the Father sent me,” and I always took it to mean less self-seeking and more
quiet mountain retreating. But I have seen tv men (this is poetry, so I admit
my license usage) who love themselves and the stage, and I could be one.

Lest I forget, the sins that crowned Your crumpled brow, I will quietly
hope to follow well, and, not before the crowds, but before my King,
I will
bow.

Great Strength

“I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

When Jesus calls us, He does not offer a sample platter of Kingdom offerings. He grants His grace without measure to everyone who answers His call. It is important to remember, though, that He also asks us for everything. Grace is God’s free gift to those who know how bankrupt they truly are.

Satisfied With What I Have

“And I am not saying this because I feel neglected, for I have learned to be satisfied with what I have.” Philippians 4:11

I wish I could throw four or five rose bushes in the ground, nicely rowed in front of my house, and they would produce a rainbow of delight to the senses: the petals, soft to the touch, awakening to the morning sun, the aroma wafting through the first breeze of the day into my open windows, and the blooms ranging from the first buds barely revealing the colorful treasure within to the mature blossom heavy from overnight dew.

Who Sees the Movement?

Who Sees the Movement?

(“When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, ‘Do you want to get well?’” John 5:6)

Wait for the water, watch for the springs that
bubble angel’s breath to break the surface tension
of plural years immobile, of secluded days centered
in the circling crowd.

Watch for the ripples swept by angel’s wings
that begin adjacent and end detached. For all
the years of waiting,
a stronger paralysis, a force of fiction,
impels the inaction. Each added anticipation
lowers the hope that once brightened the
first morning on the bank.

A pool of confection, glass candy to cool the
perception that the wait is myth, the storied cures
are legend. And, though walking is out of the question,
a staff new as the old days in the sun, awaits the moment
the first query and longing is answered.

With a quiet descending so slowly that only the discerning notice,
once the final bird has sung, the breeze brightens, the water
glistens
with diamond reflections of wind and sun. Unseen,
the wings freshen the mediations of those placed
and left there to revive or die.

What does a paralytic do when the waters of healing beckon?
What movement will take the immobile improbable?
Who left a man who could never move an inch closer
than the place they propped him, dropped him like
a rock float to the other shore.

Who sees the movement within the motionless?
Who lifts the staff unused? Who asks the inevitable
with intention to answer? Who brings the waiting water
further upshore to the flood tide meandering wider
than it ever had before?

Let Me Stay Home This Month, This Year

Let Me Stay Home This Month, This Year

Did you hear the alarm voice half an hour after
you were awake? Waiting to wake, the morning creeps
in, peering through seams in the curtain, ambient like
shadowless illumination. Those days I pray the rain
will force me to stay inside where I have every reason to
hide
with my head buried beneath the pain.

Four years, the chart begins, but the horizon fades
as if the sun will never set upon this season
of missed hours simply holding my own. And
most of my friends fear
their prayers go unanswered.

This pain is the pen now that has scraped away the last
upgrade to my face. The lines are bare, bone and woodgrain,
etched without my knowledge. Like siding weathered
on the old beach house, the storms have blown unrelenting,
pelting the old boards exposed to the shore.

I do not fear the flood, nor rain; the sun forces my lids
shut like slits between the curtains. I do not fear the
silence, nor alone; the conversation and rattles of
pots and pans
are the interruptions my pain cannot stand;
I am sorry for the startled gaze, the mumbled grimace.

I fear my prayers go unanswered, I pretend we are closer,
You and me;
I lean upon the only image I have,
place it between my ears, between my eyes,
and resolve I will not falter, I will not retreat;

There is no resting place for the invisible,
no convalescence for pain without a name
(at least a favorite; migraine or tumor).


They call it NDPH, I call it a spear that impales
what used to be my best intentions. Now I cannot wait
until everyone is gone; though my affections
have only grown for the love of those
who refuse to let me suffer this invisible foe
alone.

The Honor of Suffering

“He allowed you to believe in Christ. But that is not all. He has also given you the honor of suffering for Christ. Both of these bring glory to Christ.” Philippians 1:29

No one enjoys suffering. I just came from a visit with a friend who spent the last eight weeks in hospitals and convalescent care. In his 80s, he broke his leg over two months ago and had a nasty infection invade where the break occurred. He has been home three weeks and finds it extremely painful to walk. Even though he had the attention of doctors, nurses and therapists while away, he willingly gave all that up to be at home alone. Any of us would feel the same way.

Changed by Love

Changed by Love

“For God loved the world in this way: He gave His One and Only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life.” John 3:16

There is a reason we do not use our best china for every meal. In our house it was because we had just one set, it was an heirloom, and Mom knew that eventually we would chip or break nearly every piece of that set. (I know, I asked her several times as a kid while stabbing green beans off a melmac plate.) Alright, for those born after 1975, “Melmac” was molded dinnerware that looked like hard plastic. (It had nothing to do with “Alf’s” home planet).

Blessed be My Rock

Blessed be My Rock

(“The Lord lives, and blessed be my rock, and exalted be my God, the rock of my salvation.” 2 Samuel 22:47)

The earth sings like children hogging the microphone,
Christmas Pageants with four year old Elvises, don’t know,
don’t care, don’t understand why they can’t share alone what
they’ve practiced for months to get right.
The earth sings like joy, perched between planets
parading ‘round the sun, it cannot keep quiet the victory; the
ceremony gladly gets out of hand. Nature sings, angels ring
the chorus with wings furiously scattering light across the vast
tapestry; choirs in harmony like prisms unveiling spectrums
seen and felt.

The skies defy the rainy logic of summer thunder reaching
higher than perception; direction (not up, down, in, out;
about a compass that will not stop whirling) fades and
center stage,
sheer joy rains unhindered from cloudless expanse.
The sky laughs at the mere suggestion that the seen
is all there is to observe. Absorbed, each eye sees a
different sky, each eye is in on the joke, laughing
at the right time, at a time when time runs ungrounded.

Astounded, trees clap their hands, rivers rejoice aloud,
winds dance desert wild, then turn and spin like a barefoot child
through the forests unspilled and leaping. Every living creature
smiles at the sound of the

Rock prefinished and unbegun. The solid ground of invisible delight,
the foundation upon which the universe rests, the location
of

Every trust and every treasure. It is
the eternal conversation of
divine and created which is the echo of In the Beginning
and the epilogue of
So Be It.

Those who see the unseen joy
sing for all the same reasons,
creation began when it was good
and increased its volume when
the cross of wood, nails of iron,
gave way to the invisible power
that raised the rock, dead and cold,
Manifest and Fully, Creation’s Lord and
King.

Please Respond

Please Respond

(“For once you were full of darkness, but now you have light from the Lord. So live as people of light!” Ephesians 5:8)

Did I say something wrong, did I stay too long;
Were my words too pointed, or too blunt. Disappointed,
I text and message and check the results; the electrons which
carry your response are sadly inactive. As I understand it, only two reasons
would cause such a thing: Either we are now buried in the next great ice age,
freezing electronics in their circuits. Or more likely, it is only your shoulder has grown cold,
over something I said wrong or pointed, blunt or (I hesitate to suggest it) but,

Anointed.

My words have stumbled like sandals in the darkness, stubbing table legs and
leaving me with a yelp that woke the dog, then woke my wife, then the children,
then the neighbor’s dogs, then their children, until I was afraid the neighborhood
sounded like the entire fire engine company racing to squelch a fire no one had reported.

My words, mumbled quickly, and impatient to scrutinize your understanding, have
caused fires that consumed nothing, and left others wondering what I meant (the best
of many bent responses), or interpreting my gurgled stubbing, report to your
immediate friends that I am not nearly the gentleman you assume me to be.

The anointing is no longer inspected.

May I suggest something, without appearing innocent and faultless, (well,
I know what I appear like from the glances of the handful who have tickled their ears
or turned away when I wasn’t exactly what they expected); so, far being correct,
or even desiring to correct you, I do want you to

Hear my words, at the very least, without thinking I am…Well, you see, that right there
is the problem. I have no idea what you are thinking because you haven’t done the
second thing I desire.

Hear my words, at the very least, and respond, can we say, within the time it takes
for you to read them twice? “I got your note, and I’ll get back to you” is human and
makes me think the shoulder is not so cold after all. But when I know, you’ve read
my note, and weeks plod across the river and back twice or more, with no electron
lettering on my oh-so intelligent phone’s text display, I am put off, and try to write
another day. Only with weeks between my first and second and next hopeful text,
zeros after zeros are the only reply.

You and I were both in the darkness. We once could say words like daggers.
But, if I’m right, we’re both in the light, and words are medicine that heals us,
and food that transcends our death-clutch on the desire to be right. No, the light
dispenses with taking sides and showing might.

Let me know, won’t you, if I’ve said something wrong, stayed too long,
assumed too much, forgot to bring lunch, shook your hand too soft, hugged your wife
too much, or ignored your dog while it stalked me like its next romantic encounter.

I am worth the failures, but I am better than the false assumptions. Words are our
healers that fill in the damp and ugly places that the darkness fills with silence.

Of Coffee and God's Kingdom

“For of this you can be sure: No immoral, impure or greedy person—such a person is an idolater—has any inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and of God.” Ephesians 5:5

When we spend all of our time trying to decide who is “in” and who is “out” of heaven, we run a giant risk of interpreting everything in Scripture in that way. So, we turn this passage into a dividing line between who is “saved” and who is not. What if there is the “kingdom of God” means something different than a guaranteed ticket to heaven?

Completely Clean

“The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, ‘Look! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!’” John 1:29

Some of the television commercials that caught my eye as a child were those amazing detergent ads. They still follow much the same pattern. You see a pair of white pants smeared with green and brown stains; the kind every kid has after a hard day at play outside. Of course, it never occurred to me back then, “Why did Mom and Dad allow their kid to wear his nice white pants to romp around outside in?” Nonetheless, we see the before; messy, and stained, and then the after; nicely laundered without a trace of the previous stain.

A Slow Road

A Slow Road

(“Thus Shimei said when he cursed, ‘Get out, get out, you man of bloodshed, and worthless fellow!’” 2 Samuel 16:3)

Watch the sorrow that steps so slowly up the hill,
the Mount called Olive, as he leaves a kingdom behind him,
the sun hiding nearly the entire way behind groves of gnarled
ghosts he passed on the way to banishment. Popularity
once was king; shouts of glory once would ring each time
he returned from battle, every day below his window,
and he wore the crown with a straight back, ruddy complexion
and constant attention to questions he knew he never was tall
enough to answer.

It was family that did him in; the guilt, the anger, the choke that fills
sons and fathers with sin when the words fall short of their target. One son
gone, alive; one son gone and buried. The father-king could not utter a word
without stuttering twice over indecision and pride. “You may return, my son,
my rebellious one. But do not visit me, not at home, not on the throne, it is
enough I still call you by name, my Absalom, my rebellious one.”

With father and without him, rebel sons do what kings should expect.
Now father slumps nearly naked to the peak of the small grove where
he had learned to worship in David’s City; Zion’s hill. He cannot bear
the taunts that throw hell and accusation between each pace, within
the space in his head where, hoping for hope, he hears stumble instead.

Shimei, you speak only what the guilty father knows himself,
his scratching sandals write the sentence with each step, that
his Absalom, his rebellious son, deserves the kingdom he
ruled like no other. Yet his sons were at war, and father
could not change history, could not even the score, and
now walks in the woods where the future King

Will pray forward for the family of rebels who know war
too well. The Mount the call Olive will hear the tears
of the Son, the Beloved Son, weeping over the rebels
we all have become. And, for His Father’s sake (and ours)
lays his life down for His friends, not simply hearing the curse
of a rude subject,
but became the curse Himself, even the curse we cast
at Him we thought banished; and was heaven’s King
instead.

Bringing Us Back

“We each must die and disappear like water poured out on the ground. But God doesn’t take our lives. Instead, he figures out ways of bringing us back when we run away.” 2 Samuel 4:14

I had a wonderful conversation with a fellow minister this week, and we found ourselves asking some of the same questions. Though between us I suppose we have over 50 years of evangelical history, we both have discovered a bit of freedom to admit we don’t understand everything about God, including some primary doctrines.

Little I Know

"Little I Know"

(“Just then the men were allowed to recognize him. But when they saw who he was, he disappeared.” Luke 24:31)

How little I know of the smallness,
how narrow my view of the focus
which circles, a bright patch on creation’s dark fabric,
how little I know, and how can I speak
of larger denouements toward at corners of the map
not yet surveyed.

I am like a child unweaned, with a taste for only what I know.
I am a lapchild and know Abba’s face well when held close enough
to see His features, smile and scarred brow; callous and wounded hands.
Most times I know Him well and His voice makes me grin, makes me weep,
makes me remember the sweet in the middle of creation’s sometime
bitter brew.

How little I know of Him complete,
how far His silhouette of profile in the mists,
how little I know of His silence,
how quietly He invites while carnival barkers and
whirligigs drown my hearing.

I am a child who hears with ears accustomed to
timbre and tones named well by others who have offered their opinions.

Let me low and high discover the unwritten that words
are not hidden, that come unbidden before I’ve become
well-tempered tuned.