I Do Not Want You to Know I Limp

I Do Not Want You to Know I Limp

(“Grass dies and flowers fall, but the word of our God lasts forever.” Isaiah 40:8)

I do not want you to know I limp, at least not
when you watch me walk.
I had a bone spur removed a decade ago
and now the joint of my big toe
grinds bone against bone.

I should have it looked at, I should have surgery,
but I walk my mile-and-a-half now, stride matching stride,
so you cannot see my pain.

I will talk to you about my toe, and complain,
but I do not want you to know I limp.

I do not want you to know my heart is darkness, at
least not when I’m alone in the night.
I had an old self removed nearly five decades ago
and the new one, still a seedling,
sprouts slow against slow.

I should have watered it, I should sit in the sun,
but I walk my life-and-a-half now, dusk versus dawn,
so you cannot call my bluff.

I will talk to you about my faith, earthy stuff,
but I do not want you to know my
heart is darkness.

It is late February and the daffodils have not bloomed,
the tulips should soon peek through their winter tombs.
The bulbs, all dirt and mud, have yawned across the winter
until long sun and vast days pull them toward the stars again.

All the world is waiting for the uncrumbling of nature
to reveal the limps we hid from fear,
and the hearts we coddled for ego’s sake,
when all that ever lasts forever is
the unseen Word, the Poetry, the Song,
the dance that limps with the hurt and
the heart that started the seedling,
the Alpha and Omega of everything.

Without Reservation

Without Reservation

(“And those the Lord has rescued will return. They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away.” Isaiah 35:10)

There was no parade today nor
a quiet place for candlelit contemplation.
There was no circus, no clowns and no elephant,
nor a canvas tent in the middle of the woods.

There were regrets (I am old now)
that I did not start things younger.
There was head pain (I am worn now)
that I did not ever ask for.

There were clouds; I didn’t see them.
There was blue sky; I didn’t breathe it.
(That does not mean I don’t believe it.)

This spoke in my eyes is not a temporary situation;
and promises of a painless heaven do not impress me much.
My faith is shaken, but not greatly stirred;
indeed it appears slurred to those who read me.
Many have endured longer,
many have endured more,
many have been happy just to
suffer for the Lord.

But me, I’d just like a phone call. Or a letter.
Maybe not. Maybe I’ll take a walk. But the circus

is not in town today, and the café is too far for my
feet to find. I’m always behind the curve.

I’m praying each breath is received in the way I mean it,
I’m hoping returning is in my future.
I’m not going to sell many books with this sort
of quarter-faith writing. Crying is the only act of faith
I practice today.

I have returned, and where are you?
You cancelled the bread and wine we had planned.
I keep turning, to see what you see.
But burning has consumed more than just the chaff in me.

I am demi, I am a fraction. There is no action left for
me to take.
I will not be fake; I will not pretend. If that means
I’ve lost my faith (at least to my friends)
then I’ll still wake up tomorrow with a spear in my eye,
a billion memories that wind themselves around me,
a skin that has thinned, a heart that has sinned
(without reservation)
and a hope that believes there is more to living
than just a life after resurrection.

Every Day Has Its Defects

Every Day Has Its Defects

(“Until the Spirit is poured out upon us from on high, and the wilderness becomes a fertile field, and the fertile field is considered as a forest.” Isaiah 32:15)

Every day has its defects,
some days more than others.
Every day has its spare hours,
some days I would rather
be anywhere than where I am.
Every day has its countdown.

Some earth is pink powder,
every seed does not ripen.
Some earth is black forest,
every seed is a hyphen
between the ache and where I am.
Every seed has its mountain.

Every dream has its bloodline,
some dreams leave you sleepless.
Every dream has its language,
some dreams leave you speechless
beneath the pain and where I am.
Every dream has its doubting.

Some trees have their arms out,
Every tree applauds and stands,
Some trees have offerings,
Every tree is lush and planned
within the desert where I am.
Every tree has its rebound.

Unlike Pie

Unlike Pie

(“Greet Andronicus and Junia, my fellow Jews who are in prison with me and are prominent among the apostles. They belonged to the Messiah before I did.” Romans 16:7)

I cannot fit me on this piece of paper,
I cannot fit me inside your head.
All you know are slices of me, no
matter how long our mutual road.
All you know are minutes and seconds,
and days occasionally,
but, unlike pie,
every slice of me is different. Every radii
leads to a different face of my circumference.

If I turned on my axis slightly
since the last time you saw my face,
would see the tears or my eyes shining brightly?
Would you remember, once you walked away,
when I told you the truth that was like a scab,
and unrolled my rind to show the scars within?

I cannot fit in the universe,

I cannot fit within your perimeter.
All you know is mixed with
all you think should be,
and you do not know the volume of me.
But the partial eclipse made you
turn away from me
before you knew the depth of me,

And before you revealed the hidden
pulp beneath your skin
you turned again
to offer the gleeful shell of one
who is certain of every spark in the universe,
every opinion offered in the dark.

But me, I am unbreakable, though I’ve been
harvested, winnowed and threshed.
I have not been broken, I am not a fraction,
I have been opened and refreshed while
others just examined my remains.

The Leather Hills

The Leather Hills

(“So then, we must each give an account of ourselves to God.” Romans 14:12)

Do you remember when we used to roam
the leather hills?
Green lace trees grew crooked from charcoal trunks
and we would sit in the shade occasionally.
Do  you remember when music floated above us
just close enough to grab the tune? Do you remember,
before we stopped listening?
Do you remember carefree summers, frozen root beer mugs
and using 7-up and crackers for communion?

Do you remember how certain I was, how studied and
discerning? Do you remember when we called Madeleine L’Engle
a heretic and waited in line for the
evangelist from India to push us over with a prayer or weariness
from standing?

Do you know it has been 20 years since we talked,
two decades since the plug was pulled? But,
the sentence came down from above, and without my consent,
an ally became neither friend nor enemy. Do you remember me
being nothing to you?

Do you know I never walked as well as I spoke;
that I tired easily on the hills? Do you know I wept when
I woke in the claustrophobic middle of the night,
that I prayed in the cold darkness to have the demons
leave once and for all? Do you know how I despaired,
and returned abed worse than I began?

Do you know my failures are public, well known among some,
hinted at among others? Do you remember the white blush
when the blood left my face as I confessed it all and begged?
Do you remember the three hour lunch, the tears you shed,
while you told me the story of your beloved, your wife (35)
who died as cancer removed her, and your brave faith.
And I remember how they stood on her grave and expected her
to meet you from under the sod.

Do you remember boxes, assumptions, bosses who made presumptions
that I was much worse than he knew? Do you remember poverty with
children who smelled like war? Do you remember the pocket-knife that
slashed the back pew in the hands of one of them? Do you remember
the never again pronounced so mightily?

Can you imagine, my account will be incomplete? I’ll delete the most
unworthy offenses. Can you imagine, so will you? Or, knowing nothing
more than we know here,
will we dismantle the fences and go walking again

On the leather hills where the spring of healing spills
the last thing we’ll ever remember?

Unexpected

Unexpected

(“Do not owe anyone anything, but love each other. Whoever loves his neighbor has done what the Law says to do.” Romans 13:8)

I had not expected to grow old,
at least not by this time in my life.
I wanted to hit my stride, glide into the final landing
gracefully.

There was a man in the ditch, by the side of the road,
a vagrant, a countryman (if that is what you insist on calling him)
and a megachurch minister walked by,
then a deacon with nothing to do but check the
ledgers for contributions walked by.
And they were so busy with their kingdoms
they hurried down the road to their ordained destinies.

I did not expect to return,
at least not by the same road I left.
I wanted to end the hike, strike the summit, banners ablaze
and waving.

The blood had crusted around his wounds, saliva slid down
his scrawny beard and chin. He lived a stone’s throw
from the citizens of town and proudly voted republican.
But bandits do not check your bona fides
before they take your money. There was a man walking by
on the same side, mowing the same ditch,
an illegal (if that is what you insist on calling him)
and, touching the split lip unlaced on the bleeding face,
washed the wounds, shared his wine,
broke his bread, and helped the victim
into his olive green truck. He sped through the turns
along the river until they reached the home he shared with
his cousins. The doors were royal blue. Who was
the citizen, and who the neighbor? Who was love,
and who was legal?

I did not expect to write this,
at least not at this time of the day.
I wanted to cry my tears, swear I did not deserve this last
upheaval.

The Master's Fragrance

The Master’s Fragrance

(“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is the good and acceptable and perfect will of God.” Romans 12:2)

I will not be a copy, with words etched in strict architecture.
I will not be a clone, with genes spliced into a stonework façade.
I will not be written upon by ink that dries,
or by toner that flies as it prints a thousand duplicates
a thousand at a time.

I am not on display, nor a twice-dimensional brochure thrown
away
before it is fully read.
I am not a twin, nor an exact match made by mold of sand
that pressures my contours and sets me on the shelf, a price tag,
the same tag, of the 100 others on exhibit.

I am the perfumer’s brew, an essence, a changeable compound of
citrus and earth, lavender and soot, musk and magnolia.
I am the master’s fragrance, and though part of the original batch,
the aroma is my own. Take me, compare me, spritz me in the air,
and then tell me I am just the same as the bottle you bought last year.

I am incense, I am prayer. I am the candles that melt until the wax
congeals
un-candlelike,
and the scent permeates the places between person and person,
each perceiving a reason to pray. Though none tastes the fragrance
the same way.

So, diffuse me, as I am made; disperse me, recreate me.

For my former self is still covered in sand, smeared with ink,
and cracked in all the places the craftsmen hurried their work.

But You perfect me, with me so unsuspecting of such favor.
Infuse me with essences of winter into spring,
pour me and melt me, like a candle reused on the chancel
month after month. I’ve had chances I’ve squandered,
so please let these moments be enough
to transform the paper and stone
into light and cologne
that incites songs both holy and sweet
that leave me alive and completely undone.

Words We Cannot Place

Words We Cannot Place

(“All who call on the Lord’s name will be saved.” Romans 10:13)

I wonder what colors a child would see in the grass
if she has never learned the word “green.” I wonder what
name he calls god who has never heard
the word “hell.”

I wonder how we carve such narrow paths
when navigation is wide upon the sea. I wonder
how we tattoo people we never knew with “alien” or
“illegal” when they have children who
wonder about grass and moons and stars and god
and unicorns and pinatas and cakes and candles
and freeze tag and ice cream too.

I wonder about those who receive lavish gifts
and simply pre-sign postcards for the poor.
I wonder about the gospel that sounds like
venom and preaching that looks like war.

I wonder what color a child would see in the milking bucket
if he had never learned the word “white.” I wonder what
name she calls god who has never heard
the word “death.”

If you must, tag my forehead with grace;
If we will, bring everyone to the dancefloor;
the tall girl with braces, the boy with thick glasses,
the boy in the corner hiding, the girl in the bathroom freezing,
the group outside smoking, the class president and
her entourage, the late arrivals from shanties and mirages.
Invite them all, their call is clear, though foreign;

they appear and then are departed before they
ever get a taste of the unnamable grace

That bathes the universe with words we know by heart,
words we cannot place, words wholly apart from memory,
but seen in the face of Love that will not let the tiniest atom
escape the resurrection of the New Name by which
every family on earth is traced.

Not Going Anywhere

Not Going Anywhere

(“And I said: ‘Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!’” Isaiah 6:5)

I think I’m staying here today, and I’m not going anywhere tomorrow.
I’ll sit in the same straight-chair, and I’ll insist there is no sense in
following
the very next dream that pulls me in.

I think I’m unable today, and I’m not lifting any stones tomorrow.
I’ll pretend I’m the very same, and I’ll resist the boundaries that
hem me in
the next time a dream comes calling.

But whether the air is musty, the sidewalks damp,
the sky squeezing the last drop of sorrow in my lap,
the sod is mud, the mulch is dry, the neighbors are shut-in,
the tress are naked and scrawny, and last year’s nests
are a ghost town in their branches;

Whether I write or speak, whether I ache or cry,
I still wait for the letter that will bring
love from a friend or money from the government;
sometimes it’s all the same to me.

That’s why I’m staying here today, an island in the desert,
an exile in the wilderness, a wild mind constrained by
suburban pain, a broken heart never fully mended and
words like arrows from my mouth that sound like
icicles sub-frozen and sharp.

So I pull my chair up to the table,
I walk the neighborhood in a well-worn circle,
I cry over voices in my head,
voices overheard,
voices simply over. And I send a text out
randomly to see where it lands.

Still I have heard, sure and I still know,
the whole earth is full of His glory,
and the embers are on the altar; purge and glow.
My lips are ready for the burning,
my mouth for the purging,
my heart for the urging to know the Love
that surrounds the air, expands the sky,
and does not insist on oblation from
a man who is knocked down already.

But I bow anyway, I’m not going anywhere today.

For Us All

For Us All

He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him over for us all, how will He not also with Him freely give us all things? Romans 8:32

One of my favorite duties as a pastor has always been presiding at weddings. They are joyful events, people are smiling, and one couple is highly nervous. There is nothing like the look on a groom’s face when he sees his bride walk down the aisle for the first time.

I also like them because I can make a major mistake, and everyone will laugh it off. Not so much at a funeral. In fact, early in my ministry I learned to read the obituary carefully, and if there were names I wasn’t sure how to pronounce, I would sit with a family member and go over them. There are times for joy at a funeral, but you don’t want to massacre a family name.

Weddings, though solemn, are also fun from the start. I’ve married couples in tuxes with hundreds in attendance, and others in simple dresses and jeans. One wedding took place on a football field. The bride and groom wore their team’s favorite jerseys, and I was given a referee shirt to wear.

One small wedding, with maybe 30 or so people, I was standing at the front with the couple. The bride had just come down the aisle, and now they both stood before me. As I began the serious part, “Marriage is important….”, a cell phone rang. It was mine. In my shirt pocket. The couple grinned. I took it out, noticed who the caller was and said, “Hold on a minute, I have to take this.” On the other end my daughter said, “Hi Dad, what you doing?” I said, “Performing a wedding, how about you.” Everyone laughed. (It was the only time I had ever forgotten to turn off my phone for either a wedding or a funeral.)

I use the same basic template for every wedding, and then add and edit based on the couple’s desires for their ceremony. So, at the ring exchange, I always said the same thing: “You may put the ring on her finger.” In one of my early weddings, somehow my brain took a wrong turn and I heard myself say, “You may put the fing on her ringer.” It took me a couple of beats to catch it. I was so aware that I had made that mistake that it was on my mind the next several weddings. In an attempt to get it right, my brain put it right out front, and at least a couple more times I said, “You may put the fing on her ringer.” (I practiced the correct line 30 times before each wedding after that.)

I always ask the couple, “What token of your love do you bring?” No one yet has responded with, “A Mercedes.” In our culture, we exchange rings. Men scrimp and save (or go into debt) to get just the right ring for their fiancée. Once she has accepted his proposal, she waves her left hand prominently in front of everyone she meets. Everyone needs to see his token of love. Most times it is a double-ring ceremony, where both the bride and groom exchange wedding bands.

Let’s face it, wedding rings are expensive. When Patti and I were married we were young and just starting out in life. We found a beautiful engagement ring, but I discovered I could not afford the diamond. The salesman suggested we use a cubic zirconium to keep the cost down and could replace it with a diamond when finances allowed. So that is what we did. But, on our first anniversary I presented Patti with the same ring, but a quarter carat diamond was now the centerpiece.

Fortunately, my wife wasn’t worried about how much I loved her based on the lower-quality stone in her ring. Nor did she think I loved her more once I was able to replace it with a diamond. Although, I should say, she was more than appreciative.

The ring is meaningful, but it becomes mere jewelry if the couple is not also giving themselves to each other in love. In some ways, this what Paul is saying in this verse, only it is infinitely stronger. Paul says that God gave his best to us. What was his best? It was Christ, his Son. But he was given to suffer for us, a gruesome crucifixion meant by the Romans to humiliate their victims and cause the slowest and most painful death.

The point Paul is trying to make, without going in to “why did Jesus have to suffer”, is that God gave all. Giving us this example of the generosity of God, then he goes on to say, “Won’t he also, in him, freely give us all things?”

Jesus was delivered “for us all”; therefore, God will “freely give us all.” Jesus didn’t die for a preordained few, he didn’t suffer only for those who subscribe to a certain belief system; it was for all.

Like the wedding ring, the suffering of Jesus is a reminder of the love that is behind his suffering for us. As I type, the gold band that has been on my left ring finger for almost 43 years is in plain view. I can look down and think, “I have a wife who loves me.” She may have suffered slightly married to me as well.

So, if God is willing to suffer on our behalf, what does it mean that he will also “freely give us all things”? Let’s start with what it does not mean. Our first instinct may go to material things. “I need a new car. God, freely give me that thing.” “God, I need a bigger tv, so freely give it to me.” Does it sound ridiculous to you? It should.

First, Jesus never directed his disciples toward material acquisition. In fact, he cautioned against laying up treasures here on earth where moth and rust destroy. Second, the whole chapter in Romans is about God giving us his Spirit, forgiveness, and adoption as his children. These are not material.

It is not that God doesn’t care about our material needs; he does. Jesus tells us to ask God to “give us our daily bread.” But there is something much greater here than just asking God for stuff. A young groom may say to his bride, “If I owned the world, I would give it to you.” Well, guess what, God owns the universe, and that is not big enough to illustrate his generosity. Our souls long for something greater and deeper than winning arguments or driving limos.

Take it out of a First World view for a moment. Imagine you are an African American slave in the early 19^th century. You own nothing. You are not even viewed as a human being, but as a piece of property. Your family may have been taken from you. Now also imagine that you are reading this passage and you see that God has “freely given you all things.”

Your needs are far different than a 21^st century first world white person. You may think, “I need my freedom.” But deeper than that, perhaps you want respect. You want dignity. You want to be viewed as human. As you read the passage you realize that God has given his son for you, and in him God has freely given you all things. You may receive your freedom, but until then, you have the “all things” that God says about you.

What would our gay and transsexual brothers and sisters think of when reading “all things”? Especially when they have been treated as subhuman by the very church that espouses these Scriptures. I don’t think a new mansion is the first thing to come to mind. They want dignity. They want acceptance and equality. They want inclusion. Ah, and, as they read this passage, the “all things” includes their complete acceptance by God.

Or suppose you are a refugee from a war-torn third world country. You and your family have travelled hundred, maybe thousands of miles, to find safety in a new land. You stop at villages along the way and the local priest greets you, prays with you and calls on the community to help you on your way. As he prays, he also reads this passage, in Christ God has “freely given you all things.”

What are those things for you? You want safety. You want freedom from fear. You don’t want your family to be separated. You want to be viewed as men and women who have suffered and to be welcomed in another land with grace and dignity.

You see, Jesus doesn’t always change our circumstances, but his co-suffering love dwells in our hearts by faith. If I am suffering, he is present, in that very moment or trial. He is with the refugees who other religious people have tried to characterize as “animals”.

Once you learn this, once you understand this astounding generosity of God’s love, you will never disgrace another human being in your life. This is basic Christianity and much of it is missing in much of the American church. If you “know that you know” that you are forgiven in Christ, then “know that you know” that every other person on this planet is included in that forgiveness. The suffering of Christ is “for us all.”

Capella

Capella

(“How beautiful you are and how pleasant, my love, with such delights!” Song of Songs 7:6)

The eyes that see only love are never blind,
and never void of beauty. Only love,
only delight,
only the spinning of rainbows in spite
of the clothing clotted with mud.

The universe is a bridal procession
with the beloved awash in blush, embarrassed
at the attention, but drawn to the One
who sees her more fully, beneath the skin,
beneath the face of age,
beneath the trauma that pencils a smile on the face
that ached with pain,
and found joy again. The beloved
no longer shrinks or scuffs; she dances, while
everyone watches, and He just stares,
captured by one look of her eyes.

She is not the caricature, nothing like the satire,
she is not a newsprint cartoon.
She is fragile like paper, strong like ink.
She is romanced when others think she
is not worth the dowry that pays any price
to see love, to see delight, to see the palette’s spectrum
mixed and glowing like the Sun, like Capella;
she is many, she is one, she is arrayed in silence.

Selah.

They are one.

Plan a Picnic

Plan a Picnic

(“Wisdom is better than weapons of war, yet one wrongdoer can undo much good.” Ecclesiastes 9:18)

Why does it seem so strange to ask a world at war
to hold their weapons for a little while;
put them on pause,
plan a picnic
and consider the stain water of
the streams under our feet?

We pray for soldiers before they
burst the bowels of humans and cities,
we
pray
for
them.

Peace is wisdom, and the making of it is like God;
war is enigma, chasing wind and meaningless.
How many stones have been owned by one empire
or the next.
How many princes cry because they fear
there will be nothing to conquer once their fathers are done?

My nation’s brains are the same structure as your nation’s brains,
same in blood and same in plasma. Same in bone and same in marrow.

We cannot crow “right to life”
when we send our innocents to fight
to make sure other innocents die.

Following the Prince of Peace, the ointment scatters
the unwise plans of tanks and planes
and refuses to call “spineless”
the very few
who fight with a martyr’s might
to see Peace On Earth as surely as the night
it was first announced.

Once called dreamers,
often named naïve,
the ships that ripped into enemy shores
we envision as first-class refugee transport.

We’ve drawn the lines, we erected the walls,
we’ve demonized and ghettoized
Israel and Palestine,
Northern and Southern,
Protestant and Catholic,
Christian and Jew

Until there is nothing left of the original design
that bears the artwork of love’s dearest innovation.
We dam the rivers
and damn our enemies,
block the seaports
and jail the seekers
and wonder why
“one nation under god”
just doesn’t seem to ring true.