Unadorned

Unadorned

(“God’s love will come together with his faithful people. Goodness and peace will greet them with a kiss.” Psalm 85:10)

Nature is not afraid to be unadorned.
I took a photo of two trees three days ago
and labeled it beautiful.
The leaves bled red and the
twigs held loosely the pumpkin orange
sticky notes as long as they could.

But walking by again after two nights of wind,
two nights of November,
the trees were bare, save the hangers-on,
gray crepe leaves turning in the breeze.

It is the parallax of beauty, viewed from the vantage
of weeks and months, that sticky green turns to crunchy beige,
while rain and ice take center stage.
It is the puzzle of perception that
stark arms hiding nothing can elicit wonder
as surely as a spring tree flooded with mockingbirds.

I have become raveled with all that is around me.
I am plaited and braided around god and the good earth.
I have my preferences, I like the sun,
I hear something so proud and ordinary it
makes me stop and wonder as much as a butterfly
lunching on a rose.

The rain can be good as the sun at sewing broken hearts
together. The dark can enter the jagged edges where
flesh was cut from flesh, where bruises ooze from barbed
wire trust or speeding through the night without rest.

That God would not fear to be unadorned,
to make dirt his crown, forest roots his footstool,
a sweaty body his home and encrusted feet his transportation.

That, on a bare tree we see his beauty bled red,
and then crepe grey as breath and heartbeat ebbed away.
That God would appear so tragic, frightening, dreadful

And so, absolutely, definitely and without a doubt…

Dead.

That, unlike spring, he did not lie dormant, but…

Died.

And, like spring, he pushed through the crammed earth
to meet us again, still wounded, but more alive than any
of us have ever been.

It is a wonder that God does not fear appearing unadorned.

No Mere Acquaintances

No Mere Acquaintances

(“[The angel addressed] me: ‘Cornelius, your prayer has been heard, and your kindness to the poor has been noticed by God.’” Acts 10:31)

There are times I wish no one would notice me at all;
when I trip on the pavement, when the pieces do not fit,
when my face turns red in ordinary conversation,
when I’m practicing my scales, when tears leave behind
scaly dust in my eyes.

We notice the stranger, the things that make the adolescent shorter,
the teenager slower, the pimples, the black skin, the foreign accent,
the headdress, the thrift store clothes,
and the misbehavior that shows in the kids we did not raise.

There are times I wish I noticed every red leaf in November,
every ice crystal sharpening the air in December,
every barking dog that wants to play,
every school child who had to stay after class because mom
and dad
forgot to send her bus pass.

There are things I wish you noticed; like the mom who hides her bruises,
the preacher who labors in the night to work a second job in the day to
serve the tiny church enclosed by wheat fields or forest,
the mother who weeps twice a week, she had such dreams and is
a taxi driver for her kids,
the immigrant who risked his life (have you asked about his wounds)
for children, a wife, and a chance to dream; to dream the way you dream.

And when God notices your kindness, he does not forget;
he records your love like a Beach Boys song and plays it over
and over to hear the sweet harmonies.
And when God notices your patience, he does not forget;
he paints your hope like a still life and gazes at it from before dawn
until after dusk to see how the light plays on it.

And sometimes angels notice what God notices and wonder;
writing sonnets about strangers who were no mere acquaintances of
the divine.

For Pianos and Wine

For Pianos and Wine

(“People ate until they couldn’t eat any more. He gave them what they had wanted.” Psalm 78:29)

I would give anything for eight candles and a piano,
a light for each visitor in the room, a table of food,
and a tune we all knew by heart.

A draught of ale, bacon wrapped dates with an entrée of duck
or lamb,
or goat or ham,
and dessert imagined by witty minds or luckily stumbled upon
at a Mexican panadería.

I would go back in time if it helped,
to hug the finest friends (some still in arm’s reach,
some across the wireless space,
some closer than before but with back turned to late
comments and figures of speech.)
I am the same friend, only my brain has changed.
I have same love, only the scope is strange to their thinking.
I have the same calloused fingers from playing guitar alone.

I would give anything for two guitars, a flute and a horn.
An evening searching for baptism and listening to the call of
nightingales.

But I would not give up the expanse, the exploded boxes,
the labyrinth that takes me deeper, the hope that takes me sweeter,
the few new friends who think it a wonder that I share
a drink with them at all.

I would give anything to hear a voice on the line:
we heard you are hurting. We heard you’ve changed.
We heard you may be out of the tribe. We heard you’ve remained
the same. We saw your slow exit and your limping. We saw
your tears and the simple goodbye you waved when your heart
wanted to stay.

And we just wanted to say: We don’t care how your brain works today,
just join us again for bread, for candles, for pianos and wine.

Just a Pencil

Just a Pencil

(“But I will sing of your power and in the morning I will shout for joy about your gracious love. For you have been a fortress for me; and a refuge when I am distressed.” Psalm 59:16)

The Santa Monica pier is just a pencil
drawing dots and dashes before the swells sweep in.
The first time I saw the ocean I wondered where it would end,
how the graphite waves inked the beach like slate
and why the sand stayed attached just beyond the ribbons
of asphalt.

The planet Venus is just a candid song
mimicking madrigals and goddesses before the show begins.
The first time I saw the green star I wondered why it blinked,
how it hovered and caught my eye so far from my reach
and why it moved in winter skies from house to house
before it dove into the fields of snow.

The Whirlpool Galaxy is just an artist’s rendition
echoing the smaller circles and spirals spun by ballerinas.
The first time I saw the ageless coil I gasped at its audacity,
how toy-like, how yoyo, how hula-hoop it plays
and why it invites my eyes to see further than light
exists above the tiny steps of earth.

The wide mouth words are just bullets
that explode inside the soul of the drowsy.
The first time I heard, crash or whisper, I wondered where it would end,
how the expelled breath became gray arrows
and why they stuck so deep and so long before
the stingy world swung round the sun again.

And we are shot up, shot down, filed away and
underground
until
a voice sounds, rewound, wild arrays of
love unbound
by time or space,
pencils or bullets,
and gently pulls us deeper in
to the Center of song, the Tower of morning
and dance.

Learning Life's Rhythm

Learning Life’s Rhythm

“After forty years had passed, an angel appeared to Moses in the flames of a burning bush in the desert near Mount Sinai.” Acts 7:30

I revisited some high school memories with a classmate recently. Since I graduated in 1973, our memories were at least 46 years old. Charles would tell a story, then it would prompt a memory buried deep in my subconscious. Then I mentioned a fellow drama geek and he asked how she was doing. He and I haven’t even seen each other since we graduated but have reconnected over the last 10 years through social media. I now live in Texas and he lives in Israel. He studied law but has taken to technical writing as a career. My path took me into ministry with a few right and left turns along the way.

We both agreed that the four years of high school are probably the longest four years in a person’s life. So much happens in that short period. Friendships are made, interests are ignited, trajectories are planned. We can even develop a sort of nostalgia that wants to go back to those days. We explored the world, even if our field trips took us no further than a couple hundred miles from home. We explored relationships, literature, and theater, all while living in the comfort of our family homes. I think what most of us miss about that time is the ability to learn things about ourselves and the world without the stress of earning a living.

But then we eventually have to choose. Some of us feel a calling. I felt called to ministry. Another classmate, a genius in science, loved bowling. His parents promised to support him all the way through college, so he majored in Chemical Engineering, completing his degree at the top of his class. After graduation, he immediately took a full-time job as manager of a bowling alley. That was his love. I don’t know if he bowled when he should have been studying for his degree, but those years of college may have felt like a roadblock to doing what his heart desired.

I’m at a “pause” period in my life currently. Having taken early retirement due to medical reasons, I no longer am a pastor. Finances made it necessary for us to move in with family. We hope to have a home paid off within another year or so, and then can move back “home” and closer to our daughter.

How do you move through those times when your soul feels dormant? How do you handle the periods of life when the deepest desires, the things that brought you greatest joy, seem to no longer be available?

Moses, raised as a prince in Egypt with every privilege that offers, has been in hiding for 40 years. He had previously seen a fellow Hebrew being mistreated by an Egyptian. Coming to his help he took revenge on the Egyptian by killing him. He thought this would make his people understand that God was going to use him to set them free. He thought wrong.

In fact, the next day he saw two Hebrews fighting and he tried to make peace between them. The instigator of the fight pushed Moses aside and said, “Do you want to kill me, just as you killed that Egyptian yesterday?” (Yeah, God’s calling on his life was not working out exactly as he imagined.) So, Moses runs away to Midian where he marries and tends flocks for forty years.

The first forty years of his life were full of responsibility, privilege and meaningful accomplishments. You don’t get adopted as the king’s son without developing a keen sense of importance. And perhaps that was part of Moses’ problem. He felt entitled to make people behave. First, by killing the abusive Egyptian, then second by assuming the role of arbitrator in a scuffle between two fellow Hebrews.

So, the forty years of herding sheep, walking back and forth in the wilderness, day after day, must have felt quite empty to him at first. We have all had those empty times. It might have been a job that felt meaningless; minimum wage, low expectations, with no hope of a career. Or you may have been in a long-term relationship that no longer exists. Where there was once routine, now there are only ghosts. It may be a chronic illness that makes it no longer possible to do things that once filled your life with creativity and joy.

But there is something about emptiness that can open our soul if we let it. The routine of moving in a new way, new patterns, can help to whittle away parts of our life that we once thought were necessary. Moses is described as being “the most humble of men.” I wonder if his wilderness experience had a lot to do with that. Going from finely dressed prince to stinky shepherd can help create a bit of meekness I suppose.

But these “empty” times only work in us if we are attentive. Continuing in his regular routine, staying true to the life he now led in the desert, Moses is amazed at the appearance of a burning bush. The bush is on fire but not burned up, so he goes closer for a better look. That is when he hears God’s voice speaking directly to him.

Remember, this happens after 40 years of a daily pattern of watering, feeding and caring for sheep. He is probably as full of the rhythm of life as the sun rising and setting. He may have gone through frustration, anger at his dilemma, regret over his actions, shame, depression and so many other emotions we experience when life does not fit our plan. But, if we allow, though the circumstances do not change, our soul can begin to feel the rhythm of the life we now lead. We are living in the moment. And sometimes that is when we are surprised.

Moses trembles with fear as he hears God’s voice and looks away from the burning bush. The Lord then tells him to take off his sandals, “for the place where you are standing is holy ground.” God tells him that He has seen His people suffering and will send Moses to set them free.

Think about being barefoot in the presence of God. “Take off your shoes, Moses. This is holy ground. There is nothing here to hurt you.” That is my interpolation of the text. Moses has worn sandals in the desert for forty years, protecting his feet from razor rocks and searing sand. Now, in the presence of the awesome God, he needs no protection.

Every now and then, if we allow ourselves to live in the rhythm of life, we come across a burning bush or two. Perhaps it is a stunning walk in the country at just the right time. Perhaps it is a phone call out of the blue. Maybe it is a reconciliation that you have prayed about for a very long time. Maybe it’s as simple as a day with your grandchild, lunch with your spouse, or a line drawing of your family from your child. Yes, God can still come in the spectacular ways, as He did to Moses. But my experience in life is that He more often shows up in the moments when we are simply “being”.

In this case, God gave Moses a new job. I’m sure he put back on his sandals and did what he could to prepare himself for this new task. But sometimes, our burning bush moments are simply God’s loving reminder that He is with us and He knows exactly where we are, even if it is on the back side of the desert with smelly sheep.

Imperfection, Like Driftwood

Imperfection, Like Driftwood

(“Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty, God shines forth.” Psalm 50:2)

It rained all day yesterday,
was dog day sunny two days before,
and in-between, where bare thoughts meet
the covered skin of wrinkles and sag,
I found another imperfection, like driftwood from
a rotting logging cabin.

We knew that age would show up;
shrinking icebergs and sanded obsidian lie
upon the earth as
testament or
transgression

While I have the skin torn off my back,
an incision to excise
invasive cells I had never noticed;
like the dark side of the moon,
I had no idea what was living there.

My elbows are gritty from leaning on the linen,
my face and back are dotted with pigments from
the sun and from
the ancestors
who transferred nothing but their
DNA
to the thin shield of my skin.

But You (not the sun) shine on me in
perfection.
In my fading cells Your fascination with me
(all dying is resurrection)
aligns my soul to lie upon the water,
my face to the Bright,
let the wings of Your love
hum the song I’ve forgotten but
known all along.

As the scars will prove,
nothing here lasts forever;
not even the words I struggle to strap to the page.
This house I live is showing its age. But the
love of a thousand friends times ten thousand days
will stay
as my echoed song in frequencies of tranquil
days,
blazing worship and
uncovered praise.

Monks and Beautiful Gates

Monks and Beautiful Gates

So the lame man paid attention to them, expecting to receive something from them. Acts 3:5

Our dreams can often be a rich reservoir of insight into the needs of our soul and how to care for it. I am not talking about interpreting dreams and applying symbolism to everything within them. But there can be general themes that seep up while we sleep that we may be unaware of in our waking hours. Also, as we all know, some dreams are simply a result of too much pepperoni pizza the night before.

I recently had quite a complex dream that stayed with me for days. I want to share it here, then move to the story of the lame man who was healed at the temple.

I was on a tour bus, though it was designed more like one for mass transit. It had one seat near the front behind the driver that was perpendicular to the other seats. I rode in that seat alone with the rest of the passengers filling the seats on either side of the center aisle.

At first, I was not aware of our destination, but as we crossed a long narrow bridge, I became aware that we were entering the city of Munich in Germany. I have never been to Munich, or the European continent for that matter, but in the dream, I understood where we were going. The bus was filled with 60 to 70 passengers.

The bus pulled into a parking area about 1 pm. The itinerary included about six hours of exploring the city with our guide. Though it was early afternoon, there was very little light. The whole landscape was dusky and dark, muting the colors, washing the scene in grays and a dull green.

Within moments of exiting the tour bus the group walked to a downtown area of Munich. The buildings where old stone on narrow streets. Almost immediately I found myself separated from the group. I could not find them anywhere. I looked about anxiously. I feared I would miss the sites and my ride home. It did not occur to me in the dream that I knew where the bus was parked.

Then I thought I saw our group in a restaurant. I opened the door quickly to a barely lit establishment with dark brown paneled walls. Several 80s style video games were in an alcove to the right of the entrance; a small arcade. As I stepped into the restaurant proper, I saw only three or four tables and about as many people. They were putting away the chair and tables. I was deeply disappointed; I had not found my group and had missed a meal.

I wandered through the town looking for the others when I came upon a park with a small lake. I remember walking near the lake, in a hollow, ambling around its shore, still wondering at the darkness in the middle of the afternoon. At one point I turned away from the lake, looked up from the small basin, and saw a group of figures on a hill.

They were shadowy because it was dark, but I was certain they were my group. Perhaps 100 to 200 yards away, they appeared as silhouettes at the hill’s crest. Happy I had found them; I began to walk up the hill toward the group. But, as I walked, I got no nearer. It was as if I was either walking in place or they were fading backwards away from me. It was not as if their limbs were moving, I just never covered any distance. No matter how much effort I expended the distance between us stayed the same.

I don’t know if I ever got home, because that was the last scene in the dream. It really stayed with me throughout the next day. It was strange that I would dream about Munich, and the whole feeling of being lost and separated from others permeated every scene. I thought I would look up the derivation of the word “Munich”.

The name of the city is derived from the Old/Middle High German term Munichen, meaning “by the monks.” Monks of the Benedictine order ran a monastery that was later to become the Old Town of Munich.

Then the general theme of the dream began to show itself to me. I was on a trip to a place founded on Christian spiritual practice. It was literally “by the monks.” I was on a journey, perhaps a pilgrimage, to find a deeper place of devotion. But, upon arriving I was separated from my group. The whole atmosphere was dark and foreboding. And, every time I did find my group places were closing down, or I could not get close to them. The city of “professional” Christians would not have me. I felt isolated and alone in the very place I was searching for something to nourish my soul.

For me, that theme was not surprising. Most of my life, even after following Christ in 1972, I have felt like I did not quite belong to any group. Maybe I’m too independent. Maybe my soul is fed in different ways that some of the established religious expressions I’ve been associated with. Maybe the acceptance I’ve sought isn’t actually that important for the nourishment of my soul.

What does this have to do with Acts chapter 3 where a lame man is healed in the front of the temple? Let’s review quickly. Jesus was crucified, buried and rose from the grave several weeks before. The Holy Spirit and been poured out on the day of Pentecost, forty days after His resurrection and over 3,000 people were added to those who followed Christ.

Peter and John are on their way to afternoon prayer at the temple. A man who is lame from birth had been carried and placed at the “Beautiful Gate” at the temple to beg for money each day. This was accepted practice. Those who were unable to work often begged alms in populated areas. In some ways, it was considered their “occupation” since there were so few ways they could earn a living.

When Peter and John arrive at the temple, he asks them for money. Notice that man is not in the temple, he is outside of it. No matter how much this lame man desired to worship in the temple, he was prohibited. It was not simply the organization of priests at the time who kept him out, it was the recorded words of Holy Scripture! No one with a “defect” was allowed within the temple precincts.

(Do you begin to see the tie-in to my dream?) He stares at Peter and John. To him, they are just two Jewish worshipers coming for afternoon prayer. When he asks them for money Peter and John look directly at him and say, “Look at us!” He perked up, met their eyes and expected money.

Peter says, “I don’t have any silver or gold, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ the Nazarene, stand up and walk!” Peter takes him by the right hand, lifts him up and the man’s feet and ankles are made new again!

The man jumps and leaps. No money, but new legs! Now get ready for the next phrase in verse 8: “and he entered the temple courts with them” where he continued walking and leaping and praising God.

We must understand the reason for this story. Yes, a man is healed. But look a little closer. What did that man really want? He wanted to be accepted. He wanted access to God. He wanted to worship “with” not “alone”. But everything that Scripture seemed to say kept him on the outside. The religious professional were the enforcers of that Scripture. Everyone accepted that lame folks could not enter the temple. God said it, that was enough. Everything about the religious thought at the time put him outside of the inner circle of God’s love.

But Peter and John come along, who had no professional theologically training. Remember, just three years previous they had left a good fishing gig to follow a roaming teacher named Jesus. The lame man didn’t know anything about Peter and John. He knew the priests, Pharisees, Sadducees and scribes had the power to keep him out of the temple. But who had the power to make him no longer the “other”?

That is the point of this story. “Jesus Christ the Nazarene.” Paul expands on the idea by saying the dividing wall between Jew and Gentile were also torn down by Christ.

Do you understand, there are no longer “defects” that can keep you from God? Christ has destroyed every wall that divides. He has taken down the fences between “worthy” and “unworthy”. The first miracle after Pentecost is the great announcement that the Beautiful has come. We can come limping, wounded, bleeding, without a plea to our name; and we are no longer excluded. (My take on Scripture is that we were never excluded. Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross doesn’t change God’s mind, it reveals His nature from all eternity.)

God in Christ has announced that your soul has a home. Though you may feel out of step with some of the organized religious movements around you, you do not have to feel out of step with God. What my soul was searching for in Munich it found in Christ alone.

Peter and John gave the lame man what the professional religious leaders could not. They gave the lame man, not what he asked for (money), nor what was his perceived need (new legs) but met his real need: access and acceptance by God.

The Grief is Louder

The Grief is Louder

(“And when they had prayed, the place in which they were gathered together was shaken, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and continued to speak the word of God with boldness.” Acts 4:31)

Though the sun squints the eyes and blazes across wind-streaked skies,
there is sometimes not enough warmth to burn away the clouds of sadness
wrap around my heart like unshorn wool.

There is no mistaking its purpose;
we have turned toward the flaming chariot watching
like parade-goers lining each side of the avenue.
Though music turns with each passing,
though grass is softer, roses laugh fuller,
the grief I wear is louder than the amplified
big band tunes.

There are valleys where light seldom visits,
caverns filled with sludge for vision,
and souls once lit
now smoke
in pit and ash.

Let the time pass. Let the days go by,
two and three,
an hour on the phone,
a dollar for coffee,
and the warmth of a kiss upon the cheek.

Loneliness and grief,
heavier than accumulated joy,
are denser than the silly quotes and maxims
mouthed by friends and phantoms.

Yet the quantum particles pass through,
the Spirit She sings the elegy for me
and does not rebuke my tears, pain or
doubts. She sits and shakes with me
until the craggy mourning cracks and her
lightness touches
my latent heart in subconscious movement
toward the sun.

And, surrounded by love, God, friends and
everyone,
the smile is not wider now,
the smile is worn and weathered now,
but the smile rests in a long distance
and microscopic array of nurture
while the sun rounds the bend again.