Compression

"Compression"

(“Through him, then, let us continually offer a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that confess his name.” Hebrews 13:15)

His life once expanded, people traveled to ask his advice,
to watch his mannerisms and copy his reflexes. He was only
half of what they saw,
though the hidden half frightened him from daylight into
nightmares.

They etched his name on plaques and bylines,
brought babies with coughs for him to cradle,
sat him down around hardwood tables with
state committees. The governor’s wife presented
the award paired with a guitar-man statue on his
haphazard office wall. Musicians applauded,
and the sharp arc of his trajectory was combined with
just the right velocity to land him
happy once the hard work was done.

But his sad half never smiled,
dark side cold, stubbornly deflecting
the weak force attempt to turn it toward the sun.

Blind side hardly smiled,
cold side stark, visionless and pallid
though colors swirled around it,
the hidden half never upgraded,
afraid it would be discovered in its
perpetual monochrome.

His life once expanded, now the diameter of a dime;
pain limits his excursions,
fear authors the versions of every story he remembers.
He is few.

But he cries. He turns the music loud. He keeps the
doctor long to have someone to talk to. He loves
and does not know how to. He faces himself and
wonders how this all will end, with tears and pain
his dinner and desert.

But he cries. He turns to You. He keeps on
asking so he will not have to regret. Tomorrow
still frightens him, with so little room to maneuver.

But he cries…to You. And he knows You,
though all is puzzle and spiral, and thanks You
for hope that seems wickedly illogical. Hold him
now, he lays his lonely assumptions in the strongest
Hands he knows.

Where I Would Like to Live

“Therefore, we must be thankful that we have a kingdom that cannot be shaken. Because we are thankful, we must serve God with fear and awe in a way that pleases him.” Hebrews 12:28

Our daughter Sarah told me recently that she wants to live in Minneapolis. “That just seems like the city for me,” she said. She was raised in North Dakota before moving with us to the Northwest just before high school. So, the familiarity of the territory combined with the fact her only niece lives there makes Minneapolis the obvious choice.

She asked me what city I would most want to live in. I hemmed and hawed a bit, partly because I have enjoyed almost everywhere I have lived based upon the friendships we made along the way. But finally I told her, “Berkeley, California.” I have loved the free-spirited nature of “Berzerkeley” from my high-school days. Our family would often make the 30 mile trip from Concord to hang out there on Saturdays.

I attended the grand opening of the amazing Berkeley Art Museum in 1970 and heard poet Richard Brautigan read. I haunted the shops up and down Telegraph Avenue, wandering up and down the aisles of basement stores. I got lost in the bins of used records and sheet music. It was there I first discovered the riveting and muscular music of Leadbelly. I had never heard guitar work like it, nor voice and lyrics that wouldn’t let go. I also discovered Tom Rush, a pioneer of the new folk music and incredible singer-songwriter.

It was at the Bishops, a coffee shop in Oakland, not far from Berkeley, that I got my start reading original poetry. It had open mike on Friday nights and I would wait my turn with a manila folder holding a dozen or so handwritten pages. It was scary business, but it helped me hone my skills. And it makes for beautiful memories over 40 years later.

But the Bishops is no more. I worked in Oakland in the early 80s and wanted to take some friends to see the old stage where I once sat. I was greatly saddened that it no longer existed. And the stores where I set up camp for long Saturday afternoons now house some other wares, who knows. At least the beautiful Art Museum remains. Today’s city is not the one I grew up with, even if many still think of it as “The People’s Republic of Berkeley”.

Things change. Coffee shops shut down. Stores are sold and become store front churches or furniture warehouses. Some of the buildings themselves have been razed and parking lots put in their place. It is true, if we put our heart in things of this world, we will find our heart broken.

God’s kingdom, though, cannot be shaken. More than a place we go, His kingdom is the way we live out our lives no matter our geographical location. King Jesus presides over the kingdoms of this world and will forever. Berkeley has changed. Nations have come and gone. Poets keep writing, artists keep drawing outside the lines, but even the best will someday be forgotten. I am deeply thankful that God’s kingdom, which He has prepared for those who love Him, is safe from the ravages of time and cultural change.

When I realize that God established His kingdom for the good of humankind, I am overtaken with awe. God didn’t need worship; He is secure in His “ego”. He doesn’t need to conquer nations, He already rules the universe. He does not need masses of followers to affirm greatness; He is already completely great within Himself.

No, His kingdom is for our benefit! He loves us. He created this entire world for us to populate and nurture. He made a world keenly established to keep us alive and offer every sort of pleasure and joy. Had sin not crept in, the universe would have been perfection. Even then, Father God chose to annihilate the infection of sin we caused, and allow us to enjoy all His kingdom’s benefits again.

As we trust in the forgiveness Christ offers through His death on the cross, we place ourselves at the very heart of God’s kingdom. It is about far more than becoming religious folks who no longer sleep in on Sunday and who offer pamphlets full of new rules to follow. We are people set free to live like members of the holy, pleasurable, love-filled and joyful kingdom of God. And that kingdom will never, ever be shaken!

Yes indeed, I stand in fear and awe that God has done such a thing for us who are so insignificant. Time to send Father God a few thank you notes, and dash off a handful to other members of His kingdom as well!

Fixing Potholes

And make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be dislocated but healed instead.” Hebrews 12:13

I don’t think God is against tranquil meandering walks. There is a deep need to slow down, especially in our culture trying to wring one last chore out of the next hour of the day. But, God does desire for us to stay on track, keeping the goal of our lives in focus.

Smallgrove

Smallgrove

(“I will plant it, and it will send out branches and bear fruit. It will grow into a mighty cedar. Birds of every kind will nest in it and find shelter in the shade of its boughs.” Ezekiel 17:23b)

We wished the ground would be more forgiving,
having planted eight fruit trees 4 years ago or five;
the peaches are stretching and dropped their fuzzy
orbs juicy on the sparsely seafoam hill. The apples
are slower, the plums more miserly with a handful
of purple sugar the sun and leaves conspired to create.
Two trees of unknown fruit point grey and tan branches
like upraised hands admitting they wish they had been
ready this spring. The deer are hoping,
and the pie and crumble the kitchen dispenses,
while we wait the next turning of Giant Blue
and listen to the blue jays announce

They have possessed a few branches
as their own.

The Smallest Timbre

The Smallest Timbre

(“And without faith it is impossible to please God, for whoever would approach him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.” Hebrews 11:6)

I spot the impossible in memories and mind,
but miss it on the sod I’ve planted my feet upon.
The clouds increase my resistance,
my willingness lumbers under pretentious imagination
precisely where I left it time ago and
time again.

I have not done with seeking, it is finding that frustrates me,
and I wish the next bush would hold a bird or two with
a welcome song from the home where I know the view
has washed all the grey hues away. The music,
the lyric,
the lilt of fiddle tunes that echo from smokey mountains
to splintered front porches. The work is hard but the
play is better.

I love every word Jesus spoke, and need no others.
But I would like them front and centered,
above the late night memories and happy home rooms
I’ve entered so long ago they’ve come around and
masquerade as my future.

Let the morning carry the words I adore through
the cracks in the shutters, into the spirals that utter
dark expectations about the smallest timbre
and attach meanings to the absence I feel
of every love I’ve made or imagined. I
do not want to feel loved to rid my stomach
of its shivers
nor
my eyes of their tears.

I am nearing the end, and no longer needing proof,
I simply want to hear an answer to help me seek
just a little bit longer.

Knocking Down Hurdles

“You must be willing to wait without giving up. After you have done what God wants you to do, God will give you what He promised you.” Hebrews 10:36

I had one significant misunderstanding about track and field until late into my teens; I thought that a runner had to jump the hurdles without touching even one. Imagine my surprise to see runners actually kick a hurdle or two over, yet continue in the race. I thought there must be some sort of penalty. But no, you could kick every hurdle down as long as you went over them all. Of course, it slowed your whole race down quite a bit, so it made sense to leap across without touching them.

The Weight is Gone

“The Weight is Gone”

“Christ, having been offered once to bear the sins of many, will appear a second time, not to deal with sin but to save those who are eagerly waiting for him.” Hebrews 9:28

I was a paperboy. If you have a mental picture of the archetype 12 year-old boy carefully balancing two bags of newspapers on his ten year-old bicycle, your imagination would come close to my youth from sixth grade through the first half of high school. I delivered the Oakland Herald Examiner for three years and the Contra Costa Times through a good part of high school.

Face the Silence

Face the Silence

(“Only one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen what is best, and it will not be taken away from her.” Luke 10:42)

I want to face the silence,
embrace the quiet alone where
my tears are understood,
and Jesus untangles the thoughts that
have short-circuited where the fabric is worn
and the bare wires touch; memory affecting future,
misfiring every emotion, stalling every venture
I might have begun if I had won the battle,
slain the monsters of the abyss who insist
the kinks are all impossible to unknot.

Tell me, in my silence, once I am able to hear,
teach me in my place seated at your feet
what I need to hear, why I still tear up after
ages of knowing there is no need for exploding prayers
that leave the atmosphere bitter with gunpowder’s tang.

Let the waters flow deep, seeping through the handful
off burrows I’ve left open following the tilt of the shale
to the heart’s well waiting its fill.

I am quick off my knees, hard to please, and sensitive to
these
thoughts that loop endlessly. I am ill at ease after
five minutes of silently; and seek my books to
capture my mind, disguise my inclined plane that
leads from stillness to the uneasy patter of doing nothing
with all my neurons firing. Busy, I accomplish little.

Quiet, I sit and twiddle my thumbs.

And yet I still long for the best part that comes
while I sit, even fidgety, at your feet.

County Fair

County Fair

You caught me when I wasn’t looking,
spilling grease all over may favorite blue jeans,
working back of the house again,
emptying the grease pan again,
and remembering when I used to do it as a living.

But county fairs are different, with concessions
and confections
sold by county commissioners and the little
church uptown.

Across from the main food booth where
two teen girls, a shiny ginger and a braided brown,
wait on the ageless same ones who sit on the benches
year after year; across the asphalt are two
black and white calves that could pass for
overgrown kittens. Most think they are cute,
although one freshman says she hates cows.

French fries and apple pie, milk shakes and blue ribbon cakes,
the County Fair Queen, dressed in silver, sells raffle tickets
for a dollar. I think she is happy to be there, but would
prefer another wardrobe, rather than wearing the only prom dress
on the midway.

We don’t call it the midway, though, at this tiny fair,
there is one way, up and down, front and back,
and you only have to mention you work at the food booth;
the ticket takers nod and smile, you work your shift and
spend a half hour at exhibits. No one showed pigs this year.

I go for food and music. There is always music. Yesterday,
a single man with a blond ukulele sat onstage singing children’s
tunes,
and did not run out for most of the afternoon.
Today it was blues by a quartet, with great lead licks
behind, ahead, and between each lyric. And I sat
on four or five different benches chatting while
I chewed pancakes for lunch, with more people than
I have talked to in a month of days.

It was cloudy today, the last day, and no one needed
to shade their eyes. We met face to face and smiled
the weekend when we invite the world over
to our county’s little home.

UnDivisions

“’Do not stop him,’ Jesus said. ‘Anyone who is not against you is for you.’” Luke 9:50

“Can you be a Christian if…” I don’t know how many different ways I have heard that sentence completed. Some of them are sincere, some are trying to find a way to justify personal habits and others want to exclude someone from the Christian club. A mom tells a youth pastor to keep her daughter away from the black boy who is attending the church. October 31 is called the Devil’s Day. Women wear dresses, men wear what they want. True believers vote Republican and liberal is an synonym for atheist.

The Art of Patience

“And so, after waiting patiently, Abraham obtained the promise.” Hebrews 6:15

I am not one of those who gripe about how terrible “this generation” is. You will rarely hear me grouse about today’s society and pine for the good old days. I am not unaware of the deep ungodliness of our own times, but, any student of history will be quick to acknowledge that all eras have had their atrocities.

Knocking Again

Knocking Again

(“Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” Hebrews 4:16)

I’m knocking again, knuckles glancing off
the hardwood door. I was never a fan of doorbells,
never knew if they worked our not. I could push the button,
sometimes glowing, and listen closely without knowing
who heard what didn’t ring.

I’m knocking again, three strong raps. My knuckles
know the tempo, the rhythm that explains someone is waiting.
Not four or more, as if I owned the door and you were a servant
called to duty by impatient pounding, the rap of a gavel restoring
order.

But neither one or two; pets bark at those background taps
while we turn the volume up to drown their announcement.Humans hate to rise without knowing visitor, phone call

or just a stalled car started up the hill.

I’m knocking again, three strong raps. I will not repeat
the pattern. I do not fear you will not hear; I wait prepared
to meet the strongest acquaintance who never hurries,
forth or back, fro or to; but strides like time is an
invention; the intersection of elementary and divine.

I’m knocking again, not counting slowness at all,
(though I used to measure the seconds, and measured,
they were endless improvisations, impatience grew
at each repetition).

Now not counting slowness, my mind famished
and concave,
I repeat the music (a collaborative playlist)
and time no longer passes or flashes;
its pace is the easy stride of hand-delivered grace.

I am knocking again…three strong raps.

Stretched like Fog

Stretched like Fog

When the inches are stretched beyond their means,
the wavelengths a flat-line,
the sound waves staccato notes without echo,
we strain to find the definitions,
look up words we have heard over and over
but now, perhaps accented by new meter or
high Britain,
muddle like fog our what we once apprehended.

The syllable remain the same number,
vowels and consonants all the right order,
strung along, nouns and verbs, heard from
birth until this moment,
but now sound foreign because the

World has changed.

I used to be a pain in the neck when
I whined too often for money or records
or new shoes or another teen magazine
(my mom seemed to take more aspirin
the same day she pointed her laughing finger).
I knew what she meant, she knew what I wanted,
she knew I knew the migraine came from somewhere

Far beyond the family.

Pain is a needle word, a squeeze between the eyes,
a diesel truck growling up the highway grade.
Pain is a dying word that will not die,
a shield raised, a wall erected between your
simple request
and my final syllable of the day.

See it this way:
Pain is now my quartermaster, doling out
the ration of words my brain is allowed to hide
away. One day 5,000, another thirty-five-hundred,
but once the rations are depleted, the words you say,
even repeated,
are hollow sounds until my allotted supply can
be repleted.

"He Knows Me"

“He had to become like his brothers and sisters in every respect, so that he might be a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people.” Hebrews 2:17

I had an interesting discussion with my therapist yesterday. (Oh no, there I went and said it. Yes, I happen to see a therapist. Actually, I believe it’s a necessity for pastors, or any in the people-helping professions…back to my story.) He was new. I have seen the same person for the last five years and I have developed a trust in her, and she knows my background very well. But, because of a traffic accident, she is out of commission for a while.

No Secrets

“But in these final days he has spoken to us by his Son, whom he appointed the heir of all things, through whom he also created the material universe.” Hebrews 1:2

It is said that we all remember where we were when President Kennedy was shot. For the generation that followed his assassination, perhaps the same can be said about the day the New York Twin Towers fell, perhaps always to be known as “9/11”. I was in second grade when the news hit the country that the President had been shot in Dallas while riding in now infamous black Cadillac convertible. Strangely enough, what I remember most is that school was canceled for at least one day, maybe two, and I spent much of that day off coloring.

Streaks Across

Streaks Across

(“Then turning towards the woman (Jesus) said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair.” Luke 7:44)

What have you heard, from friend or electrons sent
along the insulated wires that ride the same rhythm
as rails across the open plains?

What have you observed, from informed or insinuations
pinging off one closed mind to the other?

Where do we ignore, and what do we redeem;
what brings daylight or smiles, delights or miles
of memory that can wind from the windy peaks above
the bay upriver before morning opens for the day.

Who do we notice; the eyes that have seen more
sadness than the oceans rushing in the backdoor porch?

What can we watch; the wave of hair uncut catching
sun like rain, as it cascades across the cheeks of
the hopeful, streaks across the feet of the forgiver
that turns tears to joyful.

What can we say; the judgments that began that day,
or the tolerance that breathes the perfume of love given

By one who, unloved, had more to give, unbidden,
than all the basins filled with the scent of water
that has remained unmoved for far too long.

May the perfume spiral around our conspiracy theories,
soak and cleanse our acrid memories,
remind of us the exact moment we perceived

The fragrance which forgiveness filled each and every
sense.

Should We Wait for Another?

Should We Wait for Another?

(“Go tell John what you have seen and heard. Blind people see. The lame people walk. People with leprosy are healed. People who could not hear can hear. Dead people are alive again. Poor people hear the good news.” Luke 7:22)

I have had my doubts, my u-turn possibilities;
I have wondered why the sky will not rain when
I am parched and need relief from my recent disabilities.
I wondered about each promise, just like you,
I have sought His solace, questioned his silence too.

Wondering why, at 3 am, someone won’t help me sleep,
or turn these dreams from lame and slipping to strong feet
and mental grip upon the faith I nodded aloud to follow.

I am no prophet, but a quiet shepherd, content to sit upon the hillocks,
the green and yellow moguls of spring or summer. I watch the sheep,
give them water, tend their weak, romp with the strong, and feed the
best fodder before night falls quietly and we gather in the fold.
I would be content to read my book, play pastoral on my mandolin,
and protect the loves, ewes and rams and lambs, upon the spreading
shadows of dawn.

I nodded yes to the Power I knew had every right to my existence,
and yet,
when I needed Authority to rid me of a certain incarceration, subsistence
was my ration.

I have asked the questions, the wonder about inability;
I have pulled God’s hair and turned His head around to see me,
to face me,
to embrace me,
and occasionally be startled by what I saw.

But the sheep have sometimes wondered where the lines were born
that were buried in my brow and cracked beside my eyes. And more
than twice a pair of eyes,
have met me from beneath uncombed wool that, sad before,
a half-dozen years or more,
brightly played like a happy lamb again; and I occasionally
was startled by what I saw.

Oops, Sorry I Said That

“Likewise urge the younger men to control themselves. Show yourself in all respects a model of good deeds, and in your teaching show integrity, gravity, and sound speech that cannot be censured, so that an opponent may be put to shame, having nothing evil to say of us.” Titus 2:6-8

It has always been a source of humor and some puzzlement to me when, in the middle of conversation, someone uses an off-color word, looks at me, and says, “Sorry.” I have been in the ministry for many years, but worked in the secular world off and on as well. When I was a sales manager, no one apologized for colorful language, unless they knew I was a Christian.

Don't Judge

Don’t judge others, and you will not be judged. Don’t accuse others of being guilty, and you will not be accused of being guilty. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” Luke 6:37

I have heard preachers quote this verse more than once as the “favorite Bible verse of this generation”, implying they use it as a cloak to keep people from pointing out their sinful behavior. Of course, the sermon continues with a long list of “contemporary sins”, condemning each one along the way.