When Tapestries are Torn

When Tapestries are Torn

“I know that my Savior lives, and at the end he will stand on this earth.” Job 19:25

What happens when your assumptions about life are disrupted? We all have a certain vision for how we expect life to play out. Shaped by our family and upbringing, moved along by our temperament and gifts, we may have assumed our future would unfold with all the colors of this tapestry intact.

The problem is, we have no idea the barriers, setbacks or struggles we will confront along the way. I have a lifelong friend from High School. She is a comic genius. Her ability to inhabit a character and bring comedic idiosyncrasies to a performance always amazed me. She usually had me in stiches during rehearsals. What was worse, she also could, with a single sound or scrunched up face, make me giggle right before it was my cue to take the stage.

Jeannie and I lost touch after High School. But then came social media and around 2005 I re-met my witty friend. Her sense of humor was just as real. Her posts were sharp and funny, though in recent times have turned to political jabs. As she and I corresponded, she shared her story, and I realized her tapestry had become tattered and unwoven in places.

She has lived in New York City for several years and a little over a decade ago she was assaulted, robbed and beaten. Besides the horror of the attack itself, she lives with its trauma etched upon her memory and a brain injury that will never heal. Jeannie did not plan on living with Traumatic Brain Injury.

Those with TBI often suffer with immediate or delayed symptoms including confusion, blurry vision and difficulty concentrating. They may also experience blackout, dizziness and fatigue. Mood can be affected, ranging from anger and anxiety to apathy or depression. With a lifetime of effects, a “normal” life is often out of the question. My friend Jeannie has not only had to give up her dream of comic theater, but struggles to hold down any job. She lives paycheck to paycheck, while still having to spend precious income on medical bills.

Jeannie rarely complains, but her life hurts. I know it hurts. And, if you knew nothing about her, you might think, “What did she do to get herself into such dire circumstances?” I wonder how often it occurs to us that the homeless person we pass once had a tapestry in mind for their life. Do we consider the caravan of immigrants approaching our border as real-life men and women who wanted to raise families and live in peace, but now are fleeing oppression and violence? They are looking for some way to complete their own tapestries.

In the Bible Job had a masterpiece life. God called him “blameless”. He had a huge ranch, a loving wife, along with sons and daughters who actually remembered his birthday (Job 1:4). But, in a moment all of his livestock are destroyed, his buildings ruined, and his children die as a strong wind wrecks the home where they are all gathered.

Subsequently Job is also struck with terrible sores from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He takes a piece of broken pottery to scratch the painful wounds.

Along come three friends who sit with him in silence for several days. They do well to show up, and they show restraint in not speaking too quickly. The suffering do not need our words, our advice, or even our wisdom: they need “us”.

But eventually they can’t take the silence anymore and decide they must find the mysterious reason behind Job’s suffering. They pontificate about everything, accusing Job of greed, lust, blasphemy, a lack of faith, and just, well, generally being sinful. Silly boys, if they had read the first chapter of the book, they would have known none of that is true.

Job, for his part, decries the day of his birth. Most of his speech is filled with agony as he calls on God to either show Himself or to leave him alone. But, in the tarpit of his pain, occasionally a bubble of hope rises to the top. He says, “I know that my Savior lives, and at the end he will stand on this earth.” (Job 19:25) He longs for God. He longs to present himself and say, “God, Why?”

But, he also simply longs for God. He says, “Yes, I will see him for myself, and I long for that moment.” (Job 19:27). If your tapestry is ragged, if the edges are frayed, if the color is faded or threads are unstrung, let the bubbles of hope rise to the surface. God will not judge you for your doubts during your pain.  He does not condemn His suffering children. Indeed, He comes. Christ came to “stand on this earth.” He became a person of dust just as you and I are dust.

Cry out to Him in your suffering. And, when you see a lump of thread on the side of the road, remember: that once was someone else’s tapestry. Be kind.

The First Thing I Noticed

The First Thing I Noticed

(“For this is the gospel message that you have heard from the beginning: that we should love one another.” 1 John 3:11)

I thought it was love when I tried to
twist your eyes around to see mine.
I thought it might be too late or too long
or never happen at all
if I waited until sunshine
lit the path open between shadows.

I insisted too often, covered up too much,
misheard the lyrics and assumed the world
was just like I imagined in my luster and my lusts.

If I started over I would love like water
and wade simply along the banks. I would
see you like air and not mirrors. I would
listen like a novel and not essays.
If I started over I would be loved by water
and let it seek its own level. I would
float upon its crystal waves and never flail.
I would
befriend like dolphins and drink the rain.

I think it is love when every banquet
is smiles and eyes or tears and salt.

 I think it is love when it finds you early
and you find it late.
I think it is love when “forgiven”
is the word that stops the shivering and
ends the infinite loop where fiery fear
refuses to surrender to peace.

The first thing I noticed was how the ocean embraces
the wrinkles and inches we thought everyone saw.
And the sun splays its quiet orange across the each
silent evening’s wave.

No Power But Surrender

No Power but Surrender

("So you, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus." 2 Timothy 2:1)

Once the pain encircles my day all advice sinks beneath the waves
while the crowds shout from the shore how nice the water is today.
I would float on the crystal Caribbean,
soak in August's alpine lakes
just to view the light from my old point of view.

There are huddles so small that electrons cannot pass through,
moments so long the birds and deer leave only their scent behind;
eyes have focused on silence overridden by bass notes never in the score.
The phone rings; another robocall selling me ways to pay for
an attorney. I would answer, but I've memorized his spiel.
Nights are too short, though syncopated with ghosts who
know everything.

Some of the specters are soothing and drink tea or enjoy my
abstract jazz; my bluegrass grooves.
While others are buckets of words, hot soup on a sweltering day,
undoing the therapy poured out in every lyric.

There are expanses so vast, though I have 2,000 friends,
I cannot see a soul or tree or the horizon where the day should end.
The sun sweats. A high growl lassos the sky and declaims the regrets
that time relentlessly reminds each pulse of my brain.

I would sleep in the shade on a day like this in an East Bay meadow
found only by weaving past the eucalyptus, descending to the stream
and crossing the fallen log waxed with frogs and water and time.

But yesterday no longer exists, though each stab of pain urges
the better days when friends had no answers; only hugs and
chowder and
grilled cheese.

There is no power but surrender left. And surrender may be the
most dangerous power that exists. All this brain can do with its
body of bones is fall back in the ocean, the lake, the meadow;
fall back to a time when, eternity past, all is reassigned. 

Talisman

Talisman

(“When the Lord made a promise to Israel, he commanded, ‘Never worship other gods, bow down to them, serve them, or sacrifice to them.’” 2 Kings 17:35)

I’ve got a stone in my pocket and a coin in my shoe;
I’ve carried the tune, I’ve scratched the surface.
My knuckles are white from hanging on tight to
ever belief I thought would fill in the holes
I dug with lyrics and melodies borrowed from time.

Sleight of hand is no trick in my world;
a handkerchief here, the ace of spades up my sleeve.
I’m holding on tight to all I believe,
though all I believe is coffee and mud.

I’ve fallen flat, I’ve paved the road;
I’ve shouted at demons, I’ve dreamed of angels.
I’m as at fault as the asphalt on August afternoons.

I’ve taken notes on everything she wrote;
jotted down my thoughts when the mighty spoke,
and still my journals are crammed with scrawls.
Was it Adam or Eve? Who made us fall?

I’ve crawled when the waterfalls called,
I’ve knelt all night on New Year’s eve,
baptized thrice (I took first prize),
and I’ve sung every verse to Amazing Grace
twice upon the primary pew.

In my hand I hold every toy truck, every guitar string I’ve plucked,
every glissando, every falsetto, and the earnest failures
like feathers and tar.

I was certain each episode. I bowed deeply and
believed the stories the ancients foretold. I
am
not
a post-modern
poet or critic,

I’ve just walked too far to be taken in again by
manufacturers’ warranties.

So I’ve emptied my pockets, taken off my shoes,
rolled up my sleeves, exposed the blues I was not
supposed to sing.

I still sing the songs and play in the sand, but my idols are
banished. Certainty vanished the moment

The clouds gave way and Love Divine was all my
Hope and Sway.

My Silent Chair

My Silent Chair

(“Peace be with you, dear brothers and sisters, and may God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ give you love with faithfulness. “ Ephesians 6:23)

I wait for the next tick of the clock hoping ease
will find my silent chair.
I've always wanted to be more than I am,
better than I appear,
and I alone know the secret places I've stashed
the inky past.
I cannot rely upon my myriad attempts at regeneration;
the cushions have taken my form. I leave my chair but
my dense impressions remain.

How many times have I begged for peace when yesterday's creases
keep stalking me down?
How many loves have I preached only to envy another fleeting and
manufactured fragrance?
How slowly my faith has weathered, the silt below me all parts
of my beginning?

So they ask me how miserable I am. They ask in love, they ask in concern.
But there is no cure and no end to the pain. More than the decade of arrows
to my brain,
the spears to my soul have gouged me far past my prime.
And I have turned towards and away, inward and awry, passion and pedantic;
only to find the same heart beating, the same blood pulsing, and I wonder where
the new creation begins after far too many endings for my taste.

I will cheer for you. Yes, I know the hunger after the crisis,
the ennui after the knife is removed when all believe the healing has begun.

I've started more times than you realize. I've stopped even more. And I can
only depend on what I hope is the love-of-Christ and
the interests of a
few-dear-friends.

I Will Sing of the Freedom

I Will Sing of the Freedom

(“Always give thanks for all things to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” Ephesians 5:20)

It was sometimes the precise language that bothered me,

like indigestion after too many doughnuts. I cannot seriously
thank God
for detention camps and quarantined families.

And to offer gratitude in the name of the authorities who put them there;

who do not see the dark-haired mothers scorched upon the road of escape,
who refuse to hear the broken candles of prayers cut off before the answer

who defy the cries of wrinkled notes with grandparent's phone numbers scribble inside.

You tell me to give thanks, and I will, for families with such life that dare our borders
for refuge and asylum from the eardrum-splitting violence of their own homes,
their kindred villages, to seek a hand to help them across the border
to air with less smoke and more invitations to join the
purple majesties and and golden grains. No one told them

half-way through their journey

that families no longer matter in the land they heard was free.

I will give thanks for mother and fathers, for older brothers and sisters,
for baby girls and boys. I will utter praise for the progeny of the Father
who come to our borders and scale the wall if the must, to find just a speck
of justice on
the other side of the fences.

I will sing of the freedom seekers, I will write the songs that urge them on.
I will thank the Father who loves them forward, the Son, the refugee whose long
and ancient Days are full of families who sought a better home, a greater city,
a place where a woman could decide, right or wrong; and where a man could choose,
up or down; until the seeds took root or the boss cut the check

or until the new land of their sojourn
joined the song and thanked the Father of Life
for the spice, the dance, the song, and perchance,
the greater nation that opens its heart to families
like our families
that once upon a time

placed uncertain feet upon the shores of an experimental nation
that hard-pressed, learned the love of freedom as slowly as a toddler
following its mother home.

There is More

There is More

(“Then Abishai said to David, ‘Today God has handed your enemy over to you. Let me thrust the spear through him into the ground just once. I won’t have to strike him twice!’” 1 Samuel 26:8)

It is true, the belly lies exposed.
His head still as night while the late fire glows.
There is more trauma than you know,
more caves that hide my innocent soul.
You have seen the spear pierce the doorway twice
within inches of my breathless life.
But I will not press my advantage here
before the sorry face that reflects only
stars and flames
here at rest before my feet.

How long does the piercing take before the
sainthood begins?
How long the weary suppression of every
song I love to write?

It is true, my judgments lie exposed.
My words shake like dice thrown for someone’s clothes.
There is more madness than we know,
more kings that chase some innocent soul.
We have seen beyond the inflated price
stuck upon the heads of breathless life.
But if I did press my advantage here
before the hoping eyes that borrow only
stars and sky;
won the day, night the defeat.

How deep does the weeping dig before the
morning is joy?
How far the pebbles in my shoe on every
shore I yearn to see?

And into another afternoon of waiting for
a voice still too far away to identify. Surely You
know
I wait only because
You promised to arrive before my
pain has taken its toll.

Of Freckles and Favor

Of Freckles and Favor

"There is no one holy like the Lord. There is no one but you, O Lord. There is no Rock like our God.” 1 Samuel 2:2

Can you imagine being harassed over something you had no control over? And, worse than that, can you imagine living in a world that viewed you as cursed by God for the same reasons? What if the world saw freckles as a sign of God’s disfavor? You were born with DNA that handed out those speckles that dot your face, and you had no say in the matter. (Just for the record, I sort of like freckles.)

And it wasn’t just a fringe religious group that thought freckles were a curse, it was your entire culture. You never knew a moment in your life where a freckled friend was held up as an example for others. Even worse, your spotted friends were the subject of torment and harass ment without consequence.

That is the place Hannah found herself in the story of the Bible. She was one Elkanah’s two wives. Hannah had borne no children while Penninah, the other wife, had children. To Elkanah’s credit, he treated Hannah well because he loved her. When he offered sacrifices, he gave portions of meat to Penninah and to each of her sons and daughters. This left Hannah only receiving a single portion. Most likely her husband doubled that, and yet, she would still receive less. Her place in the home and society was threatened because she had no children.

To add to the social ostracism she experienced, Penninah constantly taunted her because “the Lord had kept Hannah from conceiving.” (1 Samuel 1:6). Penninah taunted her this way every year at during the annual sacrifice causing Hannah so much anxiety she would weep and be unable to eat.

Deeply hurt, Hannah goes to the tabernacle and prays to the Lord, weeping as the tears fall in a continual stream from her eyes. She begs God to see her affliction and give her a son. As she continues to cry out to God her speech become unintelligible. Her grief is so great that “though her lips were moving, her voice could not be heard.” (1:13). Eli, the priest, thought she was drunk!

Eli encourages her to go in peace and says, “May the God of Israel grant your petition.” Before she even knows how God will respond to her grief, she went home, “ate and no longer looked despondent.” Eventually she does bear a child, Samuel, who she offers to the Lord’s service.

Hopefully we no longer tell people they are cursed or blessed based upon their pregnancy rate! But I know there are many other issues that can make us think we are either God’s chosen or His rejected. Financial status, race, gender, intelligence, immigrant or citizen; these have all been used to rank people’s worth. And, just like Hannah, the targets of this sort of judgment can also feel tormented and harassed.

Those who follow Christ must learn that in Him there is “there is no Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28). As His people, we have come out of the “worldly” classifications and become simply the beloved of God! It is this beloved state we learn to heal and be healers of those who have been judged by society.

In fact, I would rather hang out with followers of Jesus who admit to sometimes feeling lost, than ones who never acknowledge any doubts. He is perfect...we are not. I personally gain more reassurance hearing the stories of fellow travelers who, though smitten to the heart by Christ, know the ebb and flow between certainty and question-marks. With Hannah, we take our questions to the One like no other.

Our fragile hearts are no indication of the strength of our love for Him, nor the perfection of His for us. That is why "fellowship" is so deeply important. But "fellowship" means real sharing, transparent honesty--not propping ourselves up as mighty warriors of faith. I am more at ease with a Christian who says, "I doubt sometimes" than one that says, "Never had a doubt."

There is a place where you can take the deepest doubts or wounds and pour them without fear of reproach. Father God allowed His own Son to become a curse for us that we should never, ever be called cursed again! Find fellowship with those whose deepest desire is reveal their true self before the Healer of hearts, and where each person is the Beloved of the Lord. There is no Rock like Him!

Forced Me

Forced Me

(“So I thought, ‘The Philistines are going to attack me here in Gilgal, and I have not tried to win the Lord's favor.’ So I felt I had to offer a sacrifice.” 1 Samuel 13:12)

You have forced me to this.
My veins pop from my skin as I
arm-wrestle God for His favor.
My brow pulses after waiting so long.
Surely He knew my obeisance was uwaxed.
My anxiety drove me to this. I do not offer
a tariff or a tax…I am certain He knows my acts
and my heart are one.

And yet at every impulsive devotion I feel my
thoughts mocking the next in a number of deals
I thought I could strike
with the King who heals the stop-motion method
of my appeals.

Twenty words written; half are unbidden while the rest
grip the hardpack of my mind, refusing (unkindly) to
form cogent portraits of what I cannot see.

The ravens cackle twenty feet from my window,
the seals bark a quarter-mile away,
and I still wish there were better ways to play.

Three deer bounded across my lawn last night as my
dog, with fading sight, caught their movement like
beach balls wedged in the breeze. She barked as well,
and would have given chase if not for the knees that
addled with time.

You have forced me to this.
For all the tiny vibrations of joy I still feel
I must grapple to find my place, my home.
My temples ache. Surely, though I cannot shake
the ennui, You know I aspirate prayers like cracks.
My anxiety guided me here. I no more offer
a deal behind Your back…I am certain You know my acts
and my heart are dung. Buried and done.
Alive in the nothing and the whole I have become.

Out of Mud

Out of Mud

(“You will indeed go out with joy and be peacefully guided; the mountains and the hills will break into singing before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.” Isaiah 55:12)

Spirit move me like gloved trees, leaves reaching upward
toward every shaft and molecule of life. Make the forest wave
with hands and feet, with saplings casting skinny branches
in amplitudes of praise.

Spirit split me like creviced peaks, crests returned eastward
toward every ray and upheaval of change. Make the glaciers pine
with cracks and ice, with alpine lilacs framing the lakes
in lavender worship.

Spirit soak me like muddy hills, paths left by the hooves
of goats and lambs circling coat verdant coat. Make the grassy slope
with earth and dark, with happy comfort a soft blanket
in choruses of song.

Spirit, I am not clothed with foliage.
Spirit, I am full of fractures and caves.
Spirit, I am not soaked, but dry and would
rely upon Your hidden springs

For a new day when silence simply means
I’m drawing a new breath to sing to You again.

I do not mean to be impatient, nor pedestrian.
I only mean I have mostly run out of mud to run in,
sprinklers to jump in,
hills to nap upon and
words that once flowed free and fresh as

An alpine lake with necklaces of lilac.

I Reach For

I Reach For

(“I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand and say to you, ‘Don’t be afraid; I will help you.’” Isaiah 41:13)

Before melodies reach the boundaries where snow and
summer meet
I reach beyond the arid breath for someone’s forgotten smile.

The heat of uncertainty and the chill of maxims

leave me shoeless to cross the expanse of cracked earth
riverbeds. The petrified trees no longer wave in the breeze,
while gray lizards examine the painted desert as if they had
imagined every stroke of the brush.

I have loved more and seen less,
have ached deeper and floated so shallow my legs
dragged the bottom of flooded ponds. It all depends
on the weather this year, or next. Or the invitations
to dine on a wraparound porch (which I would likely accept)

Except

By the time we arrive my pain beckons me back home inside.

But the melodies will not cease, though they are harder to hear.
The monotony increases the white noise, the silence creases my
affections in perforated sections torn by the distant vistas unvisited.

Shall I stay quiet and go along for the ride? And yet the Mojave and
its wildness
invites me to find the others who wander out of time. I might have
been inclined to join them, or climb the butte, or descend the canyon

before the criminal pain that squeezes me dry became my calendar
and clockwork.

How shall I appease the voracious cry for more than sitting inside?
How shall I embrace a dearest friend when I have only a few minutes to lend?
How shall I explore, discover, seek and find what I started as a mission
and now is stuck dry?

How shall I know that the hand I reach for has already reached for
and taken mine?

When Silence Speaks (a meditation on Holy Week and the "March for our Lives")

"When Silence Speaks"

“The Son of Man will be handed over to people, and they will kill him. After three days, he will rise from the dead.” Mark 9:31

Emma Gonzalez stood on the stage before 80,000 people last Saturday on the Washington Mall. A Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School student, she has become one of the most prominent voices in the #NeverAgain movement. The day was electric. But, not for the words, nor the rhetoric, but for a stunning silence of nearly four minutes as she stood grieving behind the microphones.

“Six minutes and about 20 seconds," she said. "In a little over 6 minutes, 17 of our friends were taken from us, 15 were injured and everyone in the Douglas community was forever altered."

"Everyone who was there understands. Everyone who has been touched by the cold grip of gun violence understands. For us, long, tearful, chaotic hours in the scorching afternoon sun were spent not knowing. No one understood the extent of what had happened."

She repeated the names of the 17 students and faculty that had died and the things they would never do again. Then, she stood silent. Tears rolled down her cheeks while the crowd broke out in isolated chants. But, mostly there was silence.

The “moment of silence” we often call for to respect the fallen usually lasts no more than 30 seconds. But there, among a crowd that had come together to march for their lives, the silence hovered like a cloud for over four minutes. The chants faded. The murmuring of casual movement ceased. All that was left was the air between the sea of humans and an 18-year-old girl bravely honoring her friends and crying to be heard; a silence that must be heard.

After 4 minutes and 25 seconds, a timer went off. "Since the time that I came out here," she said, "it has been 6 minutes and 20 seconds. The shooter has ceased shooting and will soon abandon his rifle, blend in with the students as they escape and walk free for an hour before arrest."

On a Friday afternoon outside Jerusalem another crowd had gathered. The man people called the Messiah was being crucified. Strangely, he had stayed mostly silent during the mock trial performed by the state and religious leaders. Jesus knew what was coming and had made it clear to His disciples on more than one occasion.

“The Son of Man will be handed over to the people, and they will kill him. After three days, he will rise from the dead.” Then, silence. His followers had no idea what Jesus meant and were afraid to ask him.

And I wonder if we struggle with what He meant as well. We call this week “Holy”. We attend church on Easter, wear new clothes, enjoy brunches and happily celebrate the Risen King. But we cannot understand the resurrection of Christ apart from the agony of Friday and the silence of the tomb.

Ms. Gonzalez and her student friends have experienced the cycle of death and violence and now want something to be done. What if Jesus’ death was an invitation for us to give up that same cycle of violence and choose real life? What if these students are echoing what Jesus did on the cross as they “March for our Lives”?

Pastor and writer Brian Zahnd has said, "The cross is not where God inflicts violence on Jesus in order to vent his wrath; the cross is where God in Christ endures human inflicted violence and forgives it all." We who follow Jesus do well to remember how He “triumphed”. We cannot celebrate Resurrection without understanding the violence He willingly endured from humanity.

The cross with its seeming humiliation and defeat was actually God’s way of overcoming our nasty addiction to harm and violence. No warrior ever triumphed by being executed; but Jesus did. The tomb with its seeming silence and death was actually God’s statement that a new way was coming, and indeed, had already arrived.

When Jesus rose from the dead He invited us to lay down our arms, to say “no” to harmful words and actions, and to say “yes” to our lives, our new lives connected to Him. God refused to drop the “Mother of all Bombs” on the human race. Instead He sent His Beloved Son into enemy territory to absorb the hatred, violence and sin of us all, and return it fully forgiven.

That is enough to shut my own mouth for four minutes and consider: How shall I follow my Master’s way?

Well Seasoned

Well Seasoned

(“Jesus said to him, ‘If you are able!—All things can be done for the one who believes.’” Mark 9:23)

I had hoped to be well-seasoned by now,
a cast-iron skillet passed down from each generation.
Instead I watch the robins arrive and notice them for the
second time
out my back window days before Spring.
They know nothing of my, nor describe my fashions.
But they, attired in their puffy red shirts, skip across the
hill behind my house…as they have done each Spring despite
absent eyes full of seeing.

They did not ask my permission, nor was it required. They
are not an intrusion, they are not a new obsession; but I started
looking for them this year
before they arrived.

I had hoped to be well-reasoned by now,
a vast basin of academia attested by my decorations.
Instead I muddle; my arguments are more subtle,
and my conclusions less sharp than last I was tested.
My interest in prooftexts has abated.

I’ll take that second glass of wine now.

No, I do not have a boy thrown into the water and the fire;
no demons, no foaming, no froth and no briar,
my anxieties lie much deeper and higher.

I am pregnant with something that will not be born,
my chest heaves with leaden air and my mind reboots the
assumptions I placed each bet upon.
The gestation is decades and will not be stillborn but
my fear is
it will not be born at all.

I do not have a boy thrown into water or fire,
but the robins return and I ask where I fit
after their nests are built, the blue eggs crack
and I sit on the same couch from which
I watched them arrive.

I had hoped to be well-pleasing by now,
a scholar in my field, a golden apple from the tree.
Tomorrow may tell; tonight the daffodils
will push through the clods like butter and I

Will wonder how to love You better since the
seasons are shortening and my longings are unborn.

See-Through Walls

See-Through Walls

(“Whoever despises his neighbor sins, but whoever is gracious to the needy is blessed.” Proverbs 14:21)

When your only solution is see-through walls

to keep out the undesirables,
they’ll see you with your big black boots
kicking the water jugs away from their reach.

When the beaches are scattered with tanners who have
plans for the evening but not for the night,
the rafts arrive silently on the slow red tide.

The imperfect walk among us,
the last are heading the list,
the assault upon our senses needs
new thoughts and amendments,
the first are refusing to list.

Slant away from your stakes in the ground,
lean toward the limps and the moths,
leave your foundation, forsake the partition
that divides the planet in pieces. How is peace
conditional upon common dialects when your
own words are swallowed beneath the crosses
you’ve burned.

The wind has shifted again, the immigrants sing.
The wind is blowing again, the refugees flee
for open shores, a hope and reports of grace beyond
purple mountains sea-to-sea. The song
is sung again
and only those who listen will

Find the powerful embrace of losing it all
for goodness’ sake.

Attractive

Attractive

“And everywhere he went the people brought the sick to the marketplaces. They begged him to let them touch just the edge of his coat, and all who touched it were healed.” Mark 6:56

I hope I never lose the wonder of the attractiveness of Jesus. He was always available, always approachable. And, those who were attracted to Him were often those on the “outside” of the acceptable society. Wherever He went people brought others to Him, laying their sick friends at His feet, knowing they would not be rejected.

It’s not that Jesus enjoyed crowds themselves. In fact, Jesus seems to avoid them most of the time, and never brags about them in the least. The gospel writers mentioned that Jesus fed several thousand with only a few fish and loaves of bread, but this was only to emphasize the greatness of the miracle. Jesus was always looking at people, not masses.

More than once, after healing someone, He would command them to keep quiet and tell no one about what He had done. That is a strange strategy if you want to be a famous religious leader, right? Jesus didn’t care about being “famous”, He cared about His Father’s mission. If people came crowding to because they thought He was going to take down Rome, they would be sorely disappointed. Or, they would be disappointed in His methods, to be sure.

Jesus did not whip crowds into a frenzy of excitement. He did not use the crowds to assess His own success. The crowds came to Him. He was the attraction, the lodestone that drew people with every sort of need to Him.

My favorite minister, J.R. Cissna, built a church of over 1,000 people in Tulsa, Okla and served there over 26 until the mid-1970s. But, when I knew him, he was the happy and content pastor of a congregation of under 200. He had been the target of a church “coup” when an assistant pastor, encouraged by a few folks, took over the Tulsa church. Cissna told me the story during the three years I served as his assistant in the smaller church. But he never blamed the young man and never longed for the “larger” congregation. All he ever did was love the people God gave to him; and I was one of them.

We kept up a phone relationship until he died in 2004. One of the last times we talked He said to me, “Mark, you’ll never guess where I am ministering now.” His voice was always full of laughter. “Sulphur, Oklahoma. The church has dwindled to eight people. But we’re working on it!” He was 86 years old and breathing life into a once thriving small-town church. And he did it the same way he always had: he loved the people God gave to him.

I think J.R. knew something about the attractiveness of Jesus. You see, when Jesus healed people, He didn’t give them a lecture, He didn’t ask if they deserved it, He didn’t ask if they were Roman or Jewish, poor or rich. Always, Jesus simply saw the need.

I hope the American Church can rediscover the attractiveness of Jesus. When we hear of thousands of high school kids walking out of their classes in response to the Parkland, Fla school shooting, will we give them a listening ear? Will we be like Jesus and allow them to bring their hurt to us, His church, who represent His healing, love and protection?

When men and women march because they feel their concerns about racism, equal pay, domestic violence, poverty or sexual harassment are not being heard, how will we, as representatives of Jesus respond? Will we learn to hear their stories? Will we learn to be just as attractive as Jesus to those who have been hurt?

People ran all over the countryside to find Jesus wherever He was. They did not hold back. They knew that they could even touch His garment, that they could literally beg for His attention and not be rejected.

Let us make our homes places where people are welcomed. Let our speech be seasoned with grace at all times. Let us find friends among the loneliest, the least likely, the ones who are begging to be heard. Let us be attractive. And, once people know they can be heard, we will probably see many also healed.