Never Sleeps

While a pastor on the Fort Berthold Reservation I was honored with the Indian name, "NeverSleeps". It was primarily because I was often responding to particular needs in the middle of the night.

Even more relevant, the Lord Himself, Maker of all, "Never Sleeps".

Surely you know.
Surely you have heard.
The Lord is the God who lives forever,
who created all the world.
He does not become tired or need to rest.
No one can understand how great his wisdom is.

Isaiah 40:28

Welcome to every reader. I am a simple follower of Jesus. He is perfect, I often fall short.

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Welcome

Welcome

(“The person who says that he is in the light but hates his brother is still in the darkness.” 1 John 2:9)

Welcome to the party, come inside, find your place along the wall,
or in a chair, single or dual.

Did you ride well, or walk, did the rain drip
down your back, and were you able to find a plus 1,
is he parking the car, or she, or preceded you pulling some
pate de foie gras from the platter with pointy bread or salad.

Welcome to my home, wipe your feet, leave the mud outside,
never mind the dog’s nails, the cat’s hair, the cockatiel’s harsh songs,
oh my, they are all so talented.

You don’t like dog breath on your face, allergic to cats, don’t mind birds
but would I unplug the music that sounds so messy accompanying Debussy.
You agree about their talents, though, am I right, and have not mispronounced
your name or stumbled upon your toe; tell me.

Welcome to the patio, inhale the air, let the manicured carpet tickle your feet,
mosquitoes and horseflies are mostly gone now, electrically dismissed by
blue sparks, the marigolds and tea tree oil pick up the slack, you’ll
mostly be left alone, except of course,

For the dog and the cat.

Oh, this is your plus one, and your name, sir, and your occupation, and
what libation would you desire, you would rather drink water, though
not entirely unheard of, bottled or tap, and lastly, before I forget, you
were told, or read, or overhead at the latest meeting, that we are gathered tonight
to make our school safer for the little apples of our eyes.

These three are ours, and you have two, boy and girl, we must call the others
and begin our brief consultation, come, gather around, a circle will do, find your
place and we begin:

“Our Father in heaven, we have full hearts from Your outpouring of grace.
We depend upon Your mercy, and call upon Your wisdom. See how we,
singles and marrieds, widows and divorced, have come in Your love to
meet this wonderful night. Guide us, be with us, let Jesus’ name be above
every other name, Amen.”

Murmurs, and a few throats cleared, feet scuffed and shuffled on the concrete
patio floor.

Welcome to our meeting, and, uhm, we, well, we have a question, have you
been praying, we have a question, and a devilish problem. Have you heard,
and how will you answer, we have, in our own high school

A teacher, a lesbian,

And another, a witch.


Welcome to God’s mission: suggestions on how to rid our school of them.

Monday, September 14, 2015

False Projections

False Projections

(“And in their greed they will exploit you with deceptive words.” 2 Peter 2:3a)

You’ve made you words tools so slick
they mention “grace” and trick the ear to follow
your foolish ways that, discovered further and later,
alter the abundance called charis into a claustrophobic
closet of destruction.

You love so well, it would seem, that your words go
down sweetly, honey and cream,
and sell the love that smothers truth from young lungs
not yet learning to lie.

You give so well, it appears; charity of time and money,
cash and minutes…yet disappears at the first sign
the chosen few can see through your veiled morality.

Sometimes it takes years to dig deep enough to know
the truth you’ve been hearing
is no truth at all. And sometimes
it takes more light to come out of a cavern
than it did to be ushered within.

Be the beloved and leave the shovels of treasure seeking
behind the shed;
see the rain the waters the seed, that disturbs the earth,
moving clods aside to embrace the sun (along with
every other sprout planted with purpose or
scattered haphazard)

Share the coveted place inside the crowded spaces
where finally the light has broken the voices that
vanish like the morning fog near noon. They
held nothing and offered less; their smiles
were aliases for minds waiting to deploy their
final appeal. Padding their philosophy with
references to karma or “sowing and reaping”
they live in style until

The light dispels their false projection on old barn doors.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

Valley of Decision

Valley of Decision

(“There are many people in the Valley of Decision. The Lord’s day of judging is near in the Valley of Decision.” Joel 3:14)

Where did you wander that you could still speak the language so well,
and still seem such a foreigner?
Your textbook grammar puts me to shame,
but you have sharpened your commas like fishhooks,
your exclamation points are spears,
and your question marks are inquisitors white hot lamps;
desiring a cowered adversary shivering in the corner.

You have no use for definitions or rational new.

You still wear your hair the same, and announce your allegiances loudly,
but time has uncovered a naked sore. You unclothe carefully,
never answering the invitation to
read new books about the same love. Unless the
jots and tittles
are on the very same pages
you’ve memorized into stone,
you consider it anathema, a demon’s tool,
and wave goodbye to anyone who reads the beauty
meant to rise above the inked letters (oh the Spirit, the Spirit,
the Spirit of the law), and jerk their chain abruptly with offers to
pray. To pray for an “old friend” who now is Satan’s eye.

I have known more men than I thought possible
(who claim the most beautiful Name)
who pray against brothers
and prey upon others
who love the same Name of Jesus
and drive the blade deeply once you’ve judged them
No longer family, but a friend of the devil.


I no longer recognize you, though you speak the same language,
and the blood runs cold where the angry wound forces hot blood
and the face ashen. Where, O Father, and why, did the precious
Name
become a blade to rip tender lives in two?

Monday, September 7, 2015

From Overture to Refrain

From Overture to Refrain

(“He committed no sin, and no deceit was found in his mouth.” 1 Peter 2:2)

Build the fire slowly and let the blaze resound like
orchestral percussion from overture to refrain. Let the blaze
gather
in force until the night is swathed with light
and tiny eruptions pop from the center glow underneath
the crisscrossed logs.

Let every song find its tongue tonight, every hymn a new language
and joy;
let every mouth sing toward the starry score above and repeat the
chorus with fiery gusto; repeat the words in stripped human cries,
taking to the skies like symphonies plainly played.

Let the meaning never fade, the joy always reign at the remembrance
of such sweet words and such a Hopeful Name. Consume us, oh
Fire,
again and again, and leave us whole. Unscarred by the fiercest
Flame,
let us steal away into the day with a new hallelujah and an
unending amen. Let the fire speak for us, let the flame combine
with the Love which has branded us His own for now, for then,
for when, for beyond the visions we thought had been cast far enough
to reach the end of time.

Yet, like the fire that is never consumed; steadfast and erect, though storm
would threaten its heavenly flare, it remains the Name etched within
every heart
claimed by the Fire Itself; which burns and is not fed, consumes, yet
uses no fuel.


Burn in us, so our words, exit to entrance, are sparked with love that
needs words only to explain the Name that
began the conflagration.