Prepare the Way

“You will go on before the Lord to prepare the way for him, to give his people the knowledge of salvation through the forgiveness of their sins.” Luke 1:76b-77

Even before he was born, John the Baptist’s role was prophesied by his father Zacharias. I suppose many fathers have expectations of their sons. I have a picture I took of my oldest son sitting in my favorite chair with a Christian-themed book open on his lap. Oh, and he was 10 months old at the time. It was all meant in fun, but I’m certain another dad might have his son pose with a football, or a hammer, or a computer mouse. Yes, we fathers have high hopes for our sons. And every parent expects great things from each of their children.

Every Year or Two

Every Year or Two

(“Christ ended the law so that everyone who believes in him may be right with God.” Romans 10:4)

Obsolete. Stuck in a snow globe with tinted glass,
all I’ve seen for a quarter century past are the gray arcs
of a home without corners to stash new thoughts. Left
with no filing system and trusting the handlers who shake
my occupation, I trust the simulations of winter.

Guarded: Within my residence I keep my thoughts to myself,
(heaven knows spokes are heard around the block and back)
and search every angle for another misdemeanor
in hopes my doctrine will not go missing.

(for the astute reader who is about to point out that my metaphor began with a globe and now describes searching every angle, you are to be saluted)

Incomplete. A closed system with nothing new to think,
nothing novel to drink, and memories of shrinking back
if a theory insisted freedom beyond my well-ordered turn.
Well-orbed living means, no matter which route I choose,
I will arrive. The paths are infinite, the destination prefabricated.

Artifacts. If you find my several parts under glass at the museum,
you may construct, with reasonable certainty, the square meter of space
I occupied. One pristine piece, briefly used and sadly set aside;
the Though Generator has been replaced by a turbine which keeps
every word in line, at its proper time, spaced apart to appear,
new

Every year or two.

Transformed. The lovely art I thought had freed me, deceived me;
the walls curved inward reflecting brief light back into a man-sized
follow spot upon a tiny stage. Centered, I was handcuffed by certainty.
Until the infinite touched my single-set theory and burst the walls
from the crystal ball I inhabited.

(for the previous travelers who have arrived here before me,
I will remember I may reside, even yet, in
a larger version of the globe from which I have been redeemed.)

Unchanging

“The Rock: His works are perfect, and the way he works is fair and just; a God you can depend upon, no exceptions, a straight-arrow God.” Deuteronomy 32:4 (The Message)

Relationships can become very frustrating when it is impossible to depend on someone. I’m sure we have all been the victim of someone’s changeability along the way. We are lead to believe the person is trustworthy, true to their word, and we base our relationship upon that. And then, sometimes completely by surprise, we find we are not able to rely upon that person at all. They may have promised to help with a project and not show up. Perhaps they offered emotional support, but could not be found in the moment of crisis.

Foot Replacement

Foot Replacement

(“Now at last the Lord has helped me,” she said. “He has taken away my public disgrace!” Luke 1:25 )

I am sorry my writing sounds like moaning,
the ache from morning until groaning for the moments
I slumber only to recall in dreams the burst words upon my brow,
the worst guards against any reoccurrence against the rules.

My momentary agony is the glacial ice of a decade of abuse,
accused from the left and left by the right, and stumbling on my
own two feet the clumsy dance I’ve known since childhood. I would
have submitted to experimental foot replacement to cure my excursions
off the path.

So the cries you hear (when you would rather see roses and robins)
are the contest between the testing of the gods and the arrogance of men.
Midst it all, the sorrow, the heartbreak, the bait that hides the hook;
I have drunk their smog into my lungs and nearly drowned upon the
streets I hoped to live.

Like Zechariah, I’ve questioned God, and God has kept me quiet
more than once, more than twice. Are my sights so short that
He cannot find me in well-timed chastening to undress my disgrace?

I have waited for the waters to recede, the tears to disperse,
I’ve rehearsed every good thing I will say when He turns my dreams
of captivity to joy one day. Yet even He, I do not understand, offers
(through serendipity) the happiest career. Offered to me years ago,
it is once more a special on the buffet. When I turn the table,
ready to take the smile upon my plate, the course is taken;
I am shaken to the core.

Once more, another god-fellow lowers the boom, so full
of himself he cannot see past the fumes of his own hot words,
and severs a tie of 33 years in one angry stroke.

I once spoke fearlessly, now want to sleep and ignore the
knocks on the door, the rings of the phone

And breathe and eat and write alone.

Disrobe this ugly costume of disgrace.

Speak

Speak

(“Speak out for those who cannot speak, for the rights of all the destitute.”  Proverbs 28:31)

The silent store their aches and stains while
the babble hoards gold and shallow paintings
of their pretense of justice; write books, sign books,
speak at banquets, repeat themselves and are talked about

In every self-respecting conversation in and out of tradition foyers
and emerging porches.

The silent hide their bruises, the mute (abused for each question)
mark the days with passive phrases they have forgotten to repeat;
but know by heart the threats like a three-chord hook on the radio.
Stab them and they barely sigh.

The few words they finally say; with fever rising from throat to
cheeks to eyes to brow, are not to sway, somehow, the powerful.
The short sentences, unpretentious, are the flumes of steam from
a pressure cooker’s only solution for survival.

The righteous machine, maintained and oiled, digs for reasons
in the stomach of the hurting who have died already inside.
In holy metronome the go through the motions, assign
daily prayer potions and leave, two by two, for downtown
and brunch

To talk about themselves and why the silent
never ask to join them for lunch.

Five-Year Plan

Five-Year Plan

(“Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.” Proverbs 28:13)

It was meant to be merely a stroll,
a half hour wandering from shade to sun,
tree to tree,
to let the dust settle. I wrote it down
five years ago: “Take a walk and
sort out your options.”

I stopped.

Or should I say the pain knocked me to my knees,
freezing me in time. I’m
the one who has to fight the hardest
just to keep my darkest deeds at bay;
the weeds that grow from the muddy mind
so certain, yet so unwound. I’ve renounced

My sins

As often as a gardener squeezes the constant roots
from the old-growth hedgerow that hides the flower bed

From view.

It was meant to be a meaningful stroll,
a half hour worshiping in shade and sun,
sturdily
letting the dust settle. I engraved “grace”
in the morning mud: “Watch the sky and
wait for rain’s erase.”

I sighed.

Do You Know Him?

(“Immediately a rooster crowed a second time. Then Peter remembered what Jesus had said to him: ‘Before a rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.’ And he broke down and wept.” Mark 14:72)

It is far too easy to read of Peter’s three denials of even knowing Jesus and assume we would not be so easily swayed. After all, haven’t we already faced the scowl of fellow workers when we do not follow their excesses out of reverence for Christ? Haven’t we felt our tongue grow thick when asked about our faith, and though we stumble through our answer, we would take no thought of actually saying, “Jesus? Never heard of him!”

Holy Week

Holy Week
(this month's newsletter article for our local church)

(“He [Jesus] is the head of his body, the church.” Colossian 1:18a)

A friend of mine recently tagged me in a Facebook post called “Why I Hate Religion, but Love Jesus.” If I had the space I would quote the entire spoken word recording for you. Suffice it to say, there are more and more people who are discouraged with church, who may even have been harmed by religion, but still deeply love Jesus. I am not talking about the type who simply add Jesus to a long list of happy philosophers, hand picked and place on a shelf along with other favorites of literature, movies and music. The people I hope read this are those who truly do love Jesus Himself, but are very weary of an institution called “The Church” which seems to represent Him so poorly.

The Wine Warmed

The Wine Warmed

(“Then he said, ‘This wine is my blood, which will be poured out for many to begin the new agreement from God to his people.’” Mark 14:24)

Your life, man of all People, touched our lips and
sealed our fate as You offered wine-called-blood
and ended the meal with a hymn and a walk
and a prayer in a garden. We were chilled,
(the room was warm with body heat and anxious sweat)
the path was old
(did David plant the olive stands; did Joshua see the hill?)
the walk was common as You told, again,
the plan to unchain our petty machinery to hear
the Father’s cosmic poetry

In the Son, the Only One, tonight You spoke it
as if it were done. And we took our rest like
Jacob, heads upon the stones while You wept
and plead alone.

Your death, image of all Divine, touched our lips and
peeled the curtains from our eyes; You gave thanks mere
hours
before You suffered. The wine warmed in Your hands,
the seed created in and through and by the Son, planted
by an honest gardener, filled with earth’s dark loam,
sky’s bright glow, and crushed beneath anonymous feet
to brighten the eyes of the hopeful.

In Your hands You knew the spill would not be swept,
but run red carving its own path past analogies, old realities,
and creating space for waiting; 2 days waiting;

For the Son, the Only One, who broke with morning
and it was done. And we take our rest like
conscious creatures who know the secret behind
every celebration and every yarn ever spun that

Hinted there was more, much more, under the sun.

Outdoor Venues

Outdoor Venues

(“And you shall rejoice before the Lord your God in all that you undertake.” Deuteronomy 12:18b)

Well beyond the place where the vibrations fade,
having exerted all their energy from quivering guitar strings,
having placed each note prettily along the sunny concert day;
far beyond the posters and placards that announced the next
Concert in the Park
the melody had found the range of its existence and settled like
the last mist; a carpet rolled out for afternoon.

There, beyond, like old AM radios in the midnight desert,
the primary movement was children’s laughter forte,
mothers’ chatting mezzo piano with a staccato blue jay
taking the stage away with its percussion.

But, between changes on  slide, or lines for the swing,
the faraway concert, behind time, fell out of breath upon
the little park just long enough to catch the phrase,
while the title elusive flutters and fades into oblivion at the next
“Push me higher” from baby sister to
favorite auntie. Both would return home with
one of three measure of a pop tune stuck like

Sonoral super glue, only magnified by sleep. 

What the Lord Requires

“Now, Israel, what does the Lord your God require of you except to revere him, to obey all his commandments, to love him, to serve him with all your mind and being.” Deuteronomy 10:12

Once you assume there is a personal God who oversees all existence, it follows that our own personal meaning must flow out His heart for creation. We are not separate, self-fulfilling agents outside of God’s universe. We are as much a part of all nature as each tree, orchid, ant or elephant. We may be the height of His handiwork, but we are in no way separate from it at all.

Chosen

“The Lord your God has chosen you…to be His own. The Lord did not give you His love and choose you because you were more people than any of the nations. For the number of your people was less than all nations.” Deuteronomy 7:6,7

We have such a difficult time understanding grace because there are so few examples of it in everyday life. Nearly everything we enjoy has a price tag attached. We are chosen for the team because we have particular talents that match the squad’s needs. We get the lead in the community theater because someone liked our reading better than all others. Even things that seem “free” have qualifications. Because of a trust set aside before she was even born, a graduate may have their entire college tuition paid. She may not have deserved it, but she received it because she was part of a particular family.

The Pain Took Over

The Pain took Over

(“The path of the godly leads to life. So why fear death?” Proverbs 12:28)

There are days for sitting outside the tent,
leaves and needles scattered, pinecones the squirrels have
rattled, and the wisps of last night’s fire are faint smoke
in the midmorning warm. No one offered, before I turned 20,
that days like these might cease, that age would counter the
delight of waking in the woods.

There are days for waking before the children,
vacation opens the door, the chivalry of open-ended mornings.
Those days, having found a grassy patch, mom and dad
have the grey cabin tent to themselves. Two young boys giggle
in their two-man dome tent next door. Dad was always gone
before they awoke,
and returned by the time coffee was on. He had discovered
his anonymous café. No one suggested, before I turned 50,
that I would rarely wake before 10.

When the pain took over, it was a downhill coast across weeks,
(allergy, infection, spinal fluid, immune reaction), and had to end
at the bottom of the hill bouncing with only an annoying start.

When the pain too over, it was a nonstop careen down the months,
(rare disease, unknown cause, no cure, relief a mirage), pinball
crashing from specialist to specialist; each appointment a
half-hour dissertation of the physicians’ reputation and an empty
jug of answers: $150 per hour please.

When the pain took over, it was monotonous train clacking down the years,
(same song, same verse, more drugs, no cures), pinball machines
attack my pain like a steam-engine demolishing meditative retreat.

No one told me, an hour, two at the most, is all, before I’m 60,
I can focus; read, paint, write or sing. Set up camp: out of the question.
Run down a forehand: leave my head on the baseline. Take
my darling to dinner: lay my head upon the table.

Cry and hope, question and sling the quiet out the window;
I’ve heard the answers, the air, the acquaintance, the songs,
the patience I am told inspires the bold.

If I could choose one afternoon, it would be, soon please,
to live from then till dusk without a single grimace at all. 

Baseball was Cancelled

Baseball was Cancelled

(“Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” Mark 11:24)

Baseball was cancelled today and the breathing grass
had a rest.
It takes nine, they say, and two is simply not enough.
Yet the two did more with their day excused
than the others did at home alone, unused.

I believed longer than I could hold my breath
that my team would grow and run and sweep the
season like Mays or Drysdale. Let me pitch,
an inning, maybe two; right field is lonely,
my glove is new, used only a day or two.

I believed larger than I could vision, revising
data to meet me at the intersection of hope’s
certainty and childish imagination. My speed
and curve, knuckle and slider; were four names
for one pitch inches outside and high.

I read the comics and knew I could become
a caped and super human dressed in primary colors,
seeing behind the lead, taking the lead and knowing
no one teases a kid in bright spandex who

Can also fly.

I heard the radio, watched the black and white,
and my Dodgers rarely let me down. I believed
higher, somewhere over the outfield wall my hits
would land well beyond sightseers cars, on the ground,
found rolling on the sand underneath the slide while I
made the rounds from base one to two, two to three
and home.

I believed it all so well and found I struck out mostly,
pitched silliness costly, and was never picked up for
summer league.

My Lord! Is it possible that, when two show up and
the game is cancelled, my prayers are answered, and
new friends are made sharing bubble gum and baseball cards
in the shade?

The Touch of Healing

“As it happened, Publius’s father was ill with fever and dysentery. Paul went in and prayed for him, and laying his hands on him, he healed him.” Acts 28:8

Paul and his sailing companions had been forced to seek shelter from a terrible storm on the island of Malta. Although the people were kind, it was a bit of a scary start. Cold and rainy, the men built a fire and a poisonous snake, driven out by the heat, bit Paul on the hand.