Still Rumored

Still Rumored

(“Some of them began to spit on him. They covered his face and hit him with their fists. They said to him, 'Prophesy!' Even the guards took him and slapped him.” Mark 14:65)

It is still rumored across the prevailing winds that
my sins
were included when they put that sack over Your face;
your nose scratched by the pinny burlap, your mouth closed by
the tight squeeze around Your head. One fist, then two, another,
then three, four or five, seven or ten, we lose count when the blows
come, one and then again, one after the other; knuckles below the nose
and palms straight up the cheekbones.

I do not remember that shadowy place, lit only by oily torches
leaving soot shadows in the air; ghosts crawling on the palace walls.

But the wind still whistles that I lack an alibi. There was no where else
such as I to be. (Though I had often discussed Messianic possibilities,
setting seniors upon their heels with my well-rounded arguments.) I
knew none of that mattered
now. For I did not recognize the very face I had theorized
God might have if He were to visit, satisfied to portion His
grace to the rightly studied few. I knew I stood head of my class.

I have an inkling I attended the mock court and its proceedings,
though I would swear I never meant to be there when God was
knocked down in the preliminary rounds. As the fists flew fewer,
You were left in the middle, a dizzied man pummeled by courageous
bragarts with a blindfold just in case the odds were not even. Turning
like a tree ready to topple, we screamed at your circling room,
“Tell Us! Speak Up! Tell Us, mighty son of god. Prophesy! Speak up!
Prophesy, who hit you, You Wretch of a Blasphemer and Pretender
to the Throne. Tell Us! Speak up! Prophecy! Tell Us! and we will leave you
alone.

But the breeze broke about the darkness of midnight; the whistles of wind
and the prevailing opinions were stopped when the prisoner did not speak,
did not moan, did not mumble, did not accuse. He stood, bloody; his
skin raked like a garden ready for seed. His face was shredded, flesh
torn between lips and cheekbones. His knees were buckled, though he
refused to kneel; and He swayed like the most majestic of trees
when the storms do their best to topple the wooden wonders with
roots spread over acres, and live among us still. He swayed,

But He stood. And for a moment brief as lightning I knew,
though my mind retreated to darkness quickly again:
though beaten and torn, bruised and aching,
before me stood, more than I'd seen stand before
was, no doubt, the Creator, the King.

Family Business

Family Business

(“Men made it very hard for Him and caused Him to suffer, yet He did not open His mouth. He was taken like a lamb to be put to death. A sheep does not make a sound while its wool is cut and He did not open His mouth.” Isaiah 53:7)

You who call for the end of all things,
nuclear conflagrations and conspiratorial
elections,
how smart you have become in your invested opinions,
claiming blue jays are hawks without reservation,
decrying marriage as just another contract with paper and ink.

How great our brains have grown to act as if what we know now
we have already known and leave God out of the question,
or question whether knowing Him is part of the question at all.

And you who call for Christ to return,
as if your aches and pains are the scheme behind all things,
though we all sympathize, (who wouldn't want a home where
eyes never go bad, the paper is on the porch, and health insurance
is affordable). But my limp falls far short of filling up the lack

in Christ's sufferings, if there is any lack at all.

And you who ache for the first wake of the final seven years
that the book series insisted would Leave Behind mostly the left
because they don't go to church, or when they do, the inhabit those
demonic denominations
who sometimes actually find an open mouth to feed. Do you want
the end
simply because your favorites are out of power?

I do not exaggerate, look not for hyperbole, I shudder when I
sense the Silent Lamb so mistreated, the Unblushing Love of
all
leaving word and protest on the floor like the greasy cleanup
of a short-order store. I weep that I do not see it well enough.
I shiver at stone churches, big screen projections, tight harmonies,
bright fantasies that stir up dust but stare at the the ones who
traipsed the mud into their house with their unfashionable boots.
Is it too late for anyone to remember?
Are we too far, too american, too rich, too accepted,
so high and holy that no one can see the vague resemblance
we once had to our Elder Quiet Brother?

Don't say He was harsh with the fakeries, unless you,
fakery of His family, agree you need His words strictly
for your own unfinished family business.

Noise and Hammers

Noise and Hammers

(“Who among you fears the Lord? Who obeys his servant? Whoever walks in deep darkness, without light, should trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God.” Isaiah 50:10)

Late the sounds we've held in memory careen
on waves like storm fronts in battle array. A song
we danced to and background conversation meet
in the middle above the microwave beeps and beneath
the four year old screams; no one seems to notice,
staring at the shared-screen movie with sub-titles on.

But one hears, each noise echo off wall and floor at
the same level, the volume building as each source is
added; punctuated by pain above the temples which has
eaten through the filter. All is loud, all is equal,
all is surround, each voice a crowd, every whisper
a personal intrusion into the life that once
played in sound like

a child in a bathtub with water running.

He goes downstairs before his crinkled brow betrays him,
staying as long as he can with each noise that families never
live without. It is the mix of yelps and lapping, the puppies
clicking their nails on the hardwood floor. It is the
“Dr. Who” gladly, the granddaughter proudly, the son returned
from Guatemala, peaking his Peace Corps stay upon the highest
volcano. It is the oldest son with wife, the youngest daughter
wrestling for the place on the sofa with both boys she tells
the entire universe about. Every vibration is celebration;
a family as comfortable as Christmas.

But for the one whose head has become anvil for the hammer,
he hopes no one thinks he loves the noise any less
than former days when he shouted the loudest at guessing
the winning answer late into the night.

Waters Run Free

Waters Run Free

(“Behold, I do a new thing: now shall it come forth: shall you not know it? I will even make a way in the desert, and floods in the wilderness.” Isaiah 43:19)

The open space and arid desert land
like fish scales, shale and sand, once
were shallow and wet with ocean;
the fossils in stone testify.

Why not now, I wait and watch and
still find naked fragments of yesterday’s masterpiece;
I watch and wonder why
the same etching in pencil that began the
glorious oil on canvas is now dirt,
rust, oxidation and corrosion.

It was shiny once, it was perfect then,
the pieces fit, the shades were hints
of what the naked eye never sees.

Now I try the same, and must be to blame
for the colors that touch neither fantasy or
reality.

The open space, the empty, the arid air
robs the moisture and leaves it bare. My heart
is just the same, dangling where I left it.

My prayer: and I’ve said it before. My ache:
and I beg it all the more. Winced and lonely
with the air knocked out of me. My plea:
Renew these salty tears and let me laugh again.
My cry: I cry more than I should, and would trade
each whimper for something simpler. My day: Your
friendship and a way to see the

The waters run free from the mountains,
across the desert, to the ocean and over me.

Bursting

Bursting

(“God began to do a good work in you. And I am sure that he will keep on doing it until he has finished it. He will keep on until the day Jesus Christ comes again.” Philippians 1:6)

I.

While your expectations may be bursting,
pain a hammer and your soul its anvil,
the landscape is still flush with living springs,
the quiet stream sings the lullaby your may have forgotten.

While you search for momentary cover, a reminder
of safety, a friendship or another sign that the designs
you imagined are still within sight,
the plight with its vise-grip deadens the colors
you used to plant, presidential roses in a row.

While the numbers decrease, the failures constrict
the fancies you snagged with your singing imagination.

The days snap at you hearing, the morning is a bully
and evening is a tease with its offer of ease until
the day takes it all away again.

What can we say to the invisible agony?
What gain is there in repeating the couplets
out of time
when no one hears them the second, third
fifth or 10^th time the title is announced:
“There is no cure for the atrophied brain”.

So says the pain that strangles the flow
from thought to light, light to dream,
dream to vision, and vision to…

And that, dear concerned friend, is all I remember.

II.

I’ve heard there is a work within me
and I pray it is so. The exterior is flaking,
the colors are fading, the frame is limping
with skeletal burrs.

I’ve heard it will continue, the will and the do,
and I suppose it is true.
But what once was easy, what once was free,
the words that set fire, the crowd that came to see;
these
are memories of days I played the music of the skies
and the came with cousins from hills and plains
to learn the dance and teach it to others.

Today the tune is confusing, my dance steps are ragged,
and a few watch for a day or two
(some, I’m sure who like the tune).
I am not a solo artist.

The tunes which spread town to town
now are only sounds of puzzling origin,
yet, I believe it honest,
the Author is true while I wriggle the same
as I did without the pain. 

Undying Love

“Grace be with all who have an undying love for our Lord Jesus Christ.” Ephesians 6:24

These are the final words of one of the loftiest writings in the New Testament. With phrases packed full of worship, the Apostle Paul has painted a radiant panorama of the heights and depths of God’s love for us in Christ. I am told that the first chapter, and even more, read as one run-on sentence. It as if Paul can’t get the words down on the papyrus quick enough. One phrase after another describe God’s plan: “heavenly places”, “chosen”, “adoption”, “redemption”, “lavished”, “riches”, “wisdom”, “fullness”. And, the one word full of blessing: “grace”.

Outside the Comfort Zone

“Finally, grow strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power.” Ephesians 6:10

As humans we grow naturally in the direction of our own comfort. That is why we are often inspired by people who take risks and overcome great obstacles. Though we may not be given super-strength to perform amazing feats as Christians, we are enabled to move through pain and even into areas of discomfort. It is those occasions where we learn the true power God provides.

Certain for the Chaos

Certain for the Chaos

(“For the Lord is our Judge, the Lord is our lawgiver, the Lord is our King. He will save us." Isaiah 33:22)

God does not lean upon your faith tiny one,
nor does your doubt violate the decorations
in space and time
that He has imagined for your early questions
or your late day why’s.

He is rain for the forest, for deer and fox,
coyote and rabbit; He is rain for the forest
and needs no consent for the showers
He drenches upon warm and open,
cold and crowded. Unasked,
the fair mist and drizzles dress
the limbs that wait for their next greening.

He is certain for the chaos, for the flood undammed,
the thieves of innocent understanding. He is certain for the chaos
and calls it circle and gravity, names it wave and particle,
writes it love and honesty; and the galaxies obey
Him
better than the reasoning animal who observes
their turning.

He is Light where stars are shadow,
He is Music where molecules are absent,
He is Best though we settle for better,
He is Beauty who began the extra-spectral pigments
from introspective rings of joy. He is in
and over, out and under, before and behind,
after and leading all from the first noise
no one heard to the last
chorus of happy justice! The universe
applauds
whether we believe it or not.

In my most withered moments when
pen is dry and hope is drought,
He still wakes the sun,
speaks the warm,
loves the oblique
just the same.

Blonde-Wood Hi Fi

Blonde-Wood Hi Fi

(“The Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, says, ‘If you come back to me you will be saved. Only by remaining calm and trusting in me can you be strong.’” …but you don’t want to do that.” Isaiah 30:15)

It is rarely the loud that drowns the good,
nor the quiet that overcomes the whispers.
Arpeggios can fence us in as quickly as power chords
cranked to eleven.
The silence of solitary can stir the uncertain

in mirrors of our own expectations.

It is the quiet lights of home we long for,
the way Papa’s music played on the blonde-wood hi-fi.
It is the front porch speaker with Peter, Paul and Mary
and The Kinston Trio. It is the comedy lp of the
Smothers Brothers and Bill Cosby. They always
sounded the same at home.

It was the 45s I borrowed from my best friend’s sister,
“Hello Goodbye” with “I am The Walrus” on the other side.

It became the Celtic flutes and bluegrass I loved,
and then Count Basie with Dave Brubeck expanding
the cuisine first birthed orbiting a spindle with the
magical needle reproducing the air’s vibration to
a circle of spinning vinyl.

It is my Father’s house where music took my hand,
falling asleep with the earplug from the handmade crystal radio
and I first heard,
“Stop in the Name of Love.” The hooks hooked me, the
mystery fascinated me and the music found nicks and crannies
within I never knew existed.

It is my Father’s love that keeps me coming home,
though the record collection is gone forever. When I stop

And let the music in, like a afternoon swim in the river,
within me, without me, the love of melody and rhythm
settle my anxious questions, and sometimes I still laugh
at which brother mother loved best.

Bold Humility

“Through him (Christ) and through faith in him we can approach God. We can come to him freely. We can come without fear.” Ephesians 3:12

It is only the humble who can be bold with God. Jesus told the story about two men who were praying in the temple. The narrator says that Jesus told it to people who were certain that they were alright with God. They also looked down on everyone else.

One was a Pharisee. They were the religious elite of the day. They studied Scripture regularly, prayed long and loud, and were scrupulous about religious rules. The other man was a tax collector. No one likes the tax man, even today. Imagine coming home to a voice-mail that began, “This is Roger from the IRS…”

Tax collectors during Jesus’ time were doubly hated. Israel was under Roman rule, so taxes were collected for Caesar. A Jewish man could make a fairly good living as a tax collector. They were charged with turning in the government’s assessment and could keep any extra for themselves. The less scrupulous would pile hefty surcharges on the taxes levied by Rome. Their fellow Jews saw this as robbery, and with good cause.

Jesus begins his story by simply saying these two men, a Pharisee and a tax collector, went up to the temple to pray. It would be like saying a well-known mega-church pastor and a member of the mafia walked into a prayer meeting. We know who God is going to hear; or so we think.

The Pharisee prays, and he sounds like he knows how to pray. He is thankful: “God, I thank you that I am not like other people.”

He is moral: “I am not like robbers or those who do other evil things. I am not like those who commit adultery. I am not even like this tax collector.”

He is dedicated: “I fast twice a week.”

He is generous: “I give a tenth of all I get.”

Can you hear the hum of the “amens” scatter across the prayer meeting?

The tax collector prayed. Oh, it didn’t sound like prayer. It sounded like a desperate plea from somebody who was on his last legs. He used no religious language, didn’t refer to any devotion he had for God at all. He was loud and probably interrupted the flow and atmosphere of the prayer meeting. Unlike the pastor, who looked up to heaven, this tax collector buried his head in his arms.

He beat his chest and said, “God, have mercy on me. I am a sinner.” That was it. No amen. No repeating it again for good effect. It was all rather uncomely; this “prayer” blabbered by the intrusive tax collector.

Jesus sees it otherwise. “I tell you, the tax collector went home accepted by God.” He goes on to tell us the Pharisee was not accepted because everyone who lifts themselves up will be brought down. But, anyone who is brought down will be lifted up. I truly wonder, when it is there in black and white, how we get so mixed up about Jesus’ values!

Who had the right to come freely and without fear? The very one who thought he had everything to fear! But, through Christ, and trusting Him, we can come freely to God. We do not have to fear. The cross showed us that our sins were no longer a roadblock to the Father. Through His death Jesus tore down every barrier between God and us. That is why only the humble come boldly.

Imagine I prayed, “God, I’ve been a pastor for years. Look at how many people I’ve influenced for You. I pray daily. I give regularly. And I sing really loud during worship services. My radio is always set to Contemporary Christian music and all my kids were home-schooled  Now, please hear me.” God would reply, “What? Who are you?”

But, based on Jesus’ story and Paul’s teaching, when I humbly acknowledge I need His mercy I have full and immediate access to all of God. What do we think God needs that we could ever give Him? How arrogant are we to think He would be bowled over by our puny efforts at impressing Him?

When we understand that our greatest need is mercy and God’s greatest pleasure is forgiveness, our prayer will be transformed. We won’t try to bribe God with our deeds. We won’t try to impress Him with our devotion. We will simply acknowledge that apart from Him we are nothing. Boldly, as children who have nothing but their Father, rely upon their Father alone because of Christ’s work of forgiveness.

Try the tax collector’s prayer. You may discover that humility and boldness are a pleasant mixture when it comes to meeting with God.

Reconciled!

Reconciled!

“But now you have been united with Christ Jesus. Once you were far away from God, but now you have been brought near to him through the blood of Christ.” Ephesians 2:13

There is perhaps only one thing sweeter than a long-term friendship that has weathered time and its varied stills and storms; that is the restoration of a friendship broken so deeply there seemed little hope of enjoying it again. Long-term friendships are comfortable and a refuge from life’s uncertainties. But to have the pain, doubt and even anger healed by the reuniting of friends is a joy that is hard to express.

Would You Remember?

Would You Remember?

I would like to write you a letter,
though my friends will tell you the theme
has become my common refrain;
I would like to tell you our childhood days
are where I spend the most of my lonely time.

Do you remember nights rolling down
the Story Park hill or the raw egg fights
armed with dozens and dozens, a free for all,
no enemies or allies?

I mention these because they are what I miss,
I’m a pain-a-day decade afraid I’ll never
wake up smiling again. Remember my
darkened thinking, my tears nearly every day
just because my mind drew a blank and could not see
light everyone else felt without trying? A few pills cut
them back
to once or twice a week; the secret tears
I wish I could share with someone who knew
exactly the color of blue I was singing.

But, doubled now, the pain became
the poor-man’s cul-de-sac,
the dead end with a corrugated sign of steel
stopping my thoughts from plunging into the irrigation ditch.
We called it the Los Angeles River. Some-
times
crawdads lived there.

I bet you wondered where I ended up. Or
do you remember me at all? You were the
girl in Eighth grade English with silky brown hair,
cut straight across the back.
You were the Seventh grade buddy who had
a tree house as large as a lake cabin; we ate
deer jerky after your dad went hunting, and
slept between the branches of the giant tree.

Do you remember me?

See, I’m writing you because back then we knew,
friendships should never be broken.
But now I’ve roamed so far, at least two habitats
for each decade’s passing, I have friends scattered
like bird crumbs from Oklahoma to North Dakota,
from Los Angeles through Oakland and barely
north of Portland. Farmers and technicians,
models and mothers, bike riders and Porsche drivers;
all are points on a spectrum, except

I am not part of the separated light splashed across the world;
I sit outside and observe every circle I enjoyed;
drama students, a passing stab at modern dance,
a band or two, a coffee-shop in Oakland reading poetry
freestyle on Friday nights. And, the brightest and best,
there is no guessing, the small gathering of budding
young followers of Jesus; we loved well and knew little.

I’d like to address this from my heart, rather than my home,
I’m so afraid, with the way each decade has passed, you may
not find me at my current address.

I am sad. The dreams had nearly drifted, but still within my grasp,
until failure chased them further from my reach, and pain,
--I swear I hate this constant refrain--

Has left me listless upon the ocean’s final ebb. Friend,
I hope this finds you,
happy and bright, and fully filled, within/without,
of seen/unseen spectrum’s light.

The Carry Upheaves

The Carry Upheaves

(“So let us not grow tired of doing what is right, for in due time we will reap, if we do not give up.” Galatians 6:9)

Looking for ways that are easier,
hoping for a quicker destination,
wondering where the yes is
while every no inserts its certainty.

The steep is higher, the length is final,
the heavy increases and the carry upheaves;
what began in luscious morning now
treads the dusty sweat. I pack my life
on my back
and between
my fingers
while greased perspiration nearly empties
the discovered from my hands.

On the final trail marked “summit”
I thought to arrive before day’s end,
but found every switchback a dizzy portal
that drops me within inches of my begin again.

I hold my head hoping no one notices,
breathe deeply to prevent the next aching gasp.Conversation vibrates my skull, a million tiny

cracks
glancing off the pain’s habitation.

I would join you on the climb,
or for simple dinner banter,
a movie, a play, a cup of coffee
and afternoon laughter;
if you don’t mind my absence
10 minutes after arrival.

I still climb, and nap;
hope, then gasp;
seek, then sleep;
commune and speak
the most love I can
between ungrateful snaps
and apologies under my breath.