What Will it Take?

“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also love one another.” John 13:34

I know it is quite fashionable for Christian writers to point out the failings of the modern “First World” church. The failings are not easy to miss. We are easily attracted to big buildings, flashy productions of worship, political rhetoric and self-indulgent prayer. We measure success by numbers. We attract the world with Broadway-style flash. We stack our literature tables with booklets telling exactly who is “in” and who is “out” in every election.

Uninvented

Uninvented

(“For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all people.” Titus 2:11)

The skin is good, the seeds are fine, the pulp delicious,
the juice refreshing, the crunch awakening. The first bite
is elegant, luxury for less than a dime. The last bite a solid
goodbye,
an expectation of the next fresh taste of the sweetest flavor
uninvented by the hands of man.

So why do you take the most exquisite of creation,
the imago dei, the crown and the glory, the decadence of God
wrapped corruptible human skin; why do you divide,
red and blue, dull and wise, your personal preference
for round and open eyes? Why would you insult at all

The greatest antecedent artwork which exists at all,
skin and bone, by the breath of God alone;

And whose every ideation is a gift, thought and wonder,
from the God of grace, the Lord of thunder.

Why would you divide such sacred fruit and art?

Pesky

Pesky

Listen to the squeak of the windmill,
the small one, the wrought iron black blades
turning with the wind vane’s direction.
Let it become the rhythm in your brain,
the top layer of thought and ideation.

Do you follow its whining to discover the source;
Search nearby roofs and fences, abandon your chores?

(For, we have all hated that moment, like a foul fly
we could kill with the slightest pressure, who still buzzes
about our faces unfazed; a miniaturized bully. Its
distraction becomes our obsession. Nothing well be
complete
until rid the room of the bug. The pest becomes
pestilence in a mere moment.)

Compelled by the nagging squeal, the squeaky wheel
begs my full attention. With so much to do, so many
neurons to fill with messages to my feet to walk,
my arms to bend, my fingers to tap the end of my shovel
I’ve carried the whole way searching for this siren.
How, while the synapses fire the words for my writing,
can I be so uninvited the list of five primary tasks that
I chase the fan-like hum of some propeller clasped by
the roofline of an attic.

Shall I say, at the end of the day, that nothing was accomplished,
and what I began at the beginning still waited in my office
at midmorning with coffee
by the time the wind stopped at evening; the evidence
retreated, the source of the squeak silent as pre-storm,
save for the whirring that stayed in my head.

The Life Oozed

The Life Oozed

(“Then Jesus shouted, ‘Lazarus, come out!’” John 11:43)

For ten minutes the life oozed between the molecules
of a well-ripened apple. Tasting like honey and
summer hay,
headaches (always invisible), ceased their
unwelcome battering upon my door.

(Do you know the sort of caller,
usually a friend, who climbs your front porch
and pounds the door like a boxer working the bag?
“I needed to ask you a question,” as if I was in the
back quarters of a mansion giving last minute instructions
to the servants about the banquet’s menu later in the day.
Then you watch them drive away, wishing they had known
you were in the front room of your bungalow with the
television turned low.)

For ten minutes life tasted like rain and thunder,
dog’s breath and wonder, all ready to go to waste
unless enjoyed before the bruises on the apple
remind you of the cycle
of the seed’s death and the fruit’s life,
of the fruit’s death and the seed’s burial,
inedible until the season circles again.

For half a week the tomb gobbled God’s own
possession,
dead and stiff, wrapped tighter than a cocoon,
a cadaver too soon. Yet, just like the
tiny pellets the size of hatpins, packed full
of all the life necessary to raise a tree to the sky,
lading its branches with fruit dangling so low
the children reach the sweet orbs of joy,
and springing new buds for decade upon
decade; like that tiny inkling, an ugly
kernel that seems a harlequin of death;

The body of Lazarus waits on the word
that calls life from the haphazard meeting of
husks and grain, mud and water, sunshine and
wind to paint the fields with wildflowers
and fruit trees without the help of a single
human finger.

The body of Lazarus, the body of us all,
depends upon the shout, the call to rise,
and rise it must

For it is the Creator who calls.

Sunsets and Fawns

“Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.” John 11:25

I meet each Wednesday afternoon with a group of teenagers. Any middle school or high school student is welcome to join me at “Pop with Pastor”. I spring for drink for all who show up and we usually just have conversation for 45 minutes or so. We will talk about everything from our favorite milkshake flavor to the latest “drama” happening on campus. Occasionally we even get to mumble a bit about spiritual things. More than a “teaching” time, it is simply a way to make myself accessible; and just rounding the bend to 60, I need their input as well!

Great Gain!

“But godliness with contentment is a great gain.” 1 Timothy 6:6

Several years ago we pastored a church within five miles of a gambling casino. An occasional attendee once said to me, “Pastor, I hope I win a million dollars at the casino. Wouldn’t the tithe on that help our little church!” As far as I knew, she had not given a tithe of her normal income. Ironically, a few years later, she won a $50,000 payout and it was reported in the areas newspapers. The church never received a penny.

Now: One through 6

Now: One through 6

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” John 10:11

Overnight the heat gave way to cool and sweet break of day;
the sighs slowed, the groans lower than the pain they
displayed until waking faded away. Had I another choice,
another pasture to roam,
I would find freer green, warmer sod, a happy flock
without an axe to grind.

But I am now, I am here. I am the center with a radius
of a half hour in any direction. Most days the circle is split
at only 100 yards. Pain is the rusty nail that has secured my head
to the pillow on this bed. I cried day, before the pain invaded without
a word of invitation, or a note from its mother. I count them down
each November:

1 year, 2. 3 years, now 4. Five (no, not 5), and now six without
relief. The hammer hit the nail the moment my body was splayed
spread eagle and defenseless. Invisible wounds from nuclear weapons
chinking the aluminum foil armor, the only defense I had left.

I had men who called themselves shepherds. But they spoke abused
and drove us, berated us and drove us to the edge of town with
a gift certificate to Red Lobster and said “have a good life, God
bless your endeavors.” And, before we were seated for our last
Valentine lunch, these ranch-hands called the management to
convince them we were not worth the serving. Now how much
were that gift certificate and holy word worth?

I am bored, and 7 years angry, for shepherds who would wound
the sheep who only wanted a place to call home.

I would have walked away, I know You know that,
if it were not for a Shepherd so Good, that despite the artillery
whistling overhead, not only lead me, but surrounded me,
as I had been de-gunned at the border. Helpless, hopeless,
heartless and tears less valuable for their volume, I still
sing the pain in overwrought screeches.

And yet, for my protests, my anger, my betrayals,
my deft portrayal as more innocent than any knows,
You chose to lay it all down, to be thrust into the ground,
rusty nail-spiked into the wood, and the silly gold crosses we wear
should carry the blood of the only One who Cared more about
healing the nearly dead than investigating their sins and diagnosing
the cause of their pain.

The Near Side of Mercury

The Near Side of Mercury

(“This is what the Lord says: ‘Never be afraid of the words that you have heard…’” 2 Kings 19:6)

Shake the earth, turn it upside down until all the sand has fallen
in a long pine-cone shape toward the sun. Give it a vigorous quake,
pour out the oceans until they swirl like milk around the moon. Toss
it against the galactic walls until the edges are worn down and even;
string a line from Everest to the Sahara and discover they are finally level.
Are you finished? Have the mountains fallen, have the valleys filled with
new sludge?

Next, vacuum the atmosphere clean and dry. That’s right, let each molecule of
oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen and all the rest that join ions without our permission;
let them burn into oblivion before they reach the near side of Mercury.

Have you done all that? Have you reduced it all to less than
thoughts in your head? Are the Capitols gone, the Thrones smelted?
Has the sea run its final race and the desert its last hum?
Do you look at the sky, sans the sun and every other star,
and now wonder where they are?

Where are the conspirators now? You feared each president
and knocked every suggestion on the head.
You never agree with what you read.

Is this a place for you, where you can make up the news
before breakfast, before you get out of bed? Is this the place
you without opposition, where all agree with your perfect
analogies.

You never liked what you breathed. So fill your lungs
now that every element is split into its separate parts:
neutrons, electrons and protons; the hollow solid world
you thought you understood is now divided evenly across the
entire universe; smaller than the tiny impulses in your head.

And now, if I may take my leave, I believe I shall
enjoy a hike along the wonderful Columbia and shake my head
at worlds made empty by fear and dread.

Hid Away from the Enthusiasm

(image at http://brianzahnd.com/category/jesus/)

Hid Away from the Enthusiasm

(“Jesus therefore, perceiving that they were about to come and take him by force, to make him king, withdrew again to the mountain by himself.” John 6:15)

I.

Hand me the power, wrap it in brown newsprint,
if no one will be king, it might as well be me.
Find me the rulebook, set it on my desk,
if no one will read it, I will edit it for free.
Buy me a new suit, tailor it perfectly,
then I will wear it fiercely, a lion, a tiger,
an animal louder that hunts alone.
Bring me an arsenal, prepare me for bloodshed,
the first sword I brandish will not tarnish before
used by some opposite instead.
Lay out my best words, digital or scribed,
poached and borrowed, paint them broadly
on highway signs; be sure each traveler subscribes
to my etched denouements.

Map the best lake possible, preferably white and
windswept, and I will cross it, if I must, barefoot.

Next (what is the quantity and the order so far?)
be sure to bag it all slowly, in the express lane.
Let my name be clearly seen on my credit,
my license to drive, social security and
preacher’s club card. Run these errands
in the heat of the day, pass out the gospel
exactly as I’ve dictated. Find a way to
miraculously lock the door from behind and
let my name and my plans stand above each
revolving door. We will schedule the rally once
the funds are raised.

If no one will be king, it might as well be me.

II.

It was in this narrow valley, Jesus, between two miracles
(multiplied meals and a walk upon the waves)
they wanted a king, but You

Found the undisclosed cave near the mountain’s peak,
and waited
until the crowd’s crush had passed.

The Suggestion

The Suggestion

(“The world cannot hate you, but it hates me because I say that what everyone does is evil.” John 7:7)

We are a soup, stew at best, full of spice and
onion,
knifed flesh and potato. On the chilly days
of rain, the darkening moments when pain pulls
the feet from one graveled step to the next, our
aroma fills the senses and covers senseless stains
left on towels and carpet.

If death is in the pot we do not know by the tasting.
No one complains, the stew is plainly satisfying, though
no one noticed the green peels of potatoes left
on the kitchen floor.

Why dampen the home and comfort,
we are full of good eating, and famine is older
than the recipe we have used from grandmother’s
mother and twice over again.

We are stew barely potable; pottage with rich aroma.

We are the best thing on a rainy day, warming toes and bones
and heart and face. But the trace that swirls round
the stewed liquid runs through all our methods of
preparation. We know it so well that we know nothing
else at all.

Until we taste the bouillabaisse prepared, not by a chef,
but by fishermen at the end of a long day of cold air
and freezing hands. Manna, bread of heaven, you
must
understand.

We do not hate you, we barely know you. We
hate the suggestion we have not perfected
our recipes
by now. We compete with contaminated hands,
while you stand by and watch,
but,
just before we would poison it all you salt the stew
with Your own death; tasting it once for everyone.
We barely know you. But there is now life in the stew
where you drank our diseased preparation.

Excuse me, someone is at the door, and, if I am right,
it is the knocking of One who, upon my hearing,
will take the time to sup with us tonight.

"I Promised"

“I Promised”
(for Bob and Virginia)

Look how long he carries her, see how drawn
his face is.
She does not eat, she will not sip the water
coagulated so it will not slip down her throat
left helpless by the massive stroke.

Look how he longs for her, see how far
the words fly.
He cannot speak, he will not give in to the
mocking swarms of angry words that slip dribbling
not from his heart but from his throat.

“I promised God I would care for her,
I promised Him in sickness and health.
I promised God, I know He heard me,
I promised Him, where is His promised help?”

Catching the late afternoon shadows that leave
sharp silhouettes against the pale green siding,
he pushes her wheelchair (it is no burden;
she is a tiny bird in a nest). He pushes her wheelchair
to the deck facing south; their favorite place
forever. Over half their lives, nearly half a century,
they have watched the highway from gravel to asphalt.

He pushes her to the second pew from the back,
her chair fits neatly in the aisle; and they hold hands
from announcements to benediction. She is greeted so
sweetly by the circle of hands that touch hers, touch his;
their tears wet the fingers of each laying on of hands.

Look how long He carries them; see how He watches
their rising and sitting. Do you notice how He slows
His own pace to meet their shuffling gait?

No one pens their ending or beginning,
no one chooses the timing either way.
I am sure he would write
her and his final silence
at just the right time,
at just the same time, asleep
to awaken
hand-in-hand beyond the river
in the New Land neither rushed or lagging.

They hear the Voice they know kept them waiting,
and hear His “well-done” like a trumpet call of dawn.

Dust and Thirst

Dust and Thirst

(“Come down from your lofty place and sit in the dust.” Jeremiah 48:18a)

You sit in your dust and you laugh as if you drink all day from
a tap of crystal liquid; so cool your burning eyes assume all will be
healed under the flow of its spring.

You bivouacked  a place higher than your enemies,
you set up camp to display your long stature, your tall statues,
your walls which shine with whitewash sheen. In the desert you
can pretend all summer and nearly all autumn as well; the veneer is

smeared upon the stacked rubble walls. You stole the shimmer from
mica and polished bronze in angles to reflect the sun's long rays
for the fat portion of the day into the last few sightseers' approving view.

But the rains reveal you are austere; enough water to persuade your
pretty pebble to let loose of their sham of a veneer. You are done.

I stand in humanity's circle, showing off my latest braintrust just the same
as ancient Moab and Dibon, its royal city. Here's the thing, we who sing
our praises through the summer until the rains of revelation expose our
bling as nothing more than drug store trinkets, we will thirst in the dust
if we do it long enough.

Come down from your heights, you boaster of National rights;

Start the hike today, off the mountain; do not delay, your boast is only
brighter balloons filled with the same gas as the names you've claimed
are behind every conspiracy. You are the tyranny you decry.
Your hunger to be right is the heresy that prevents tomorrow's meal
from gracing a family so hungry their faces are smeared messy after
the feast.