Not a Bookmark

Not a Bookmark

(“But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” Hebrews 11:16)

This is no bus stop,
waiting for the next ride out of town.
This is no train station,
hoping to ride the rails further underground.
This is no turnstile,
counting your head as you pay for your playland.
This is no country club,
where drinks are served to the exclusive male and
other perfect genders.

This is ground zero, baby.
This is where the work gets done.
This is bone marrow, honey.
This is where our lives get born.
This is the opening curtain,
This is where we play for keeps,
This is first night on the boards,
No time for taking bows.

Who said this was the time to improvise,
to replace words of truth and love with lies?
Where did you learn to see darkness in the sunrise
And whiteness in the anthem you sing?

There is a better union, if only we will keep on walking,
there is a brighter day, if only we will circle the halting,
There are deeper rivers, if only we will keep on hoping,
There is a new downtown, if only we will keep on holding
the cigarette man
and the $20 girl
and the shivering boy
and the ignored woman
in the sphere that makes all things equal
and all things beloved.

This ain’t an Uber stop,
it’s not a bookmark or placeholder.
This is the essence of days, eternity past,
and, to be bolder, the garden we are called to tend
till kingdom and heaven come.

Without Watching

Without Watching

(“Whether he is a sinner or not, I couldn’t tell, but one thing I am sure of,” the man replied, “I used to be blind, now I can see!” John 9:25)

I’ve got nothing in my pockets except
shredded tissue that went through the wash.
I do the laundry now and my wife works.
She always emptied each pocket and
turned the clothing inside-out.

I haven’t filled up my car for a year and a half;
barely have driven except to see doctors and visit
an occasional mockingbird. I stay home now while my wife works.
She always detailed the car and never left napkins on the seats.
I forgot where the gas cap latch was when I filled it for the first time
yesterday
in a year and a half.

I live too much behind me. I mean decades behind me. I live with
stagecraft in my head, leading ladies and drama buddies, high school
presumptions and productions we took more seriously than calculus or
french IV. Every time we practiced, every time we performed,
donning burlap sacks of characters on a page,
we met truer than when using our own names.
My past flows through a funnel. Area codes are transposed,
and everyone I know from the best time of life
are mere digital connections; though for some of us,
the love has only deepened as we spoke each others’ names.

I haven’t stood behind a pulpit for over a year. I may never again.
I may forget decorum and study. I may become lazy and cry away
the mistakes, age and pain that did me in. I may never preach again.

Sometimes sight comes without watching,
blindness is cured while we lie in the mud.
Sometimes we were born that way, sometimes the sky
merely darkened, and others have closed their eyes because
perception is too frightening. I have been blind because
of everything.

Sometimes the good news becomes noon day and smells of
apple pie golden in the windowsill. Sometimes gospel is more than
pianos and banjos
and is heard in every birdsong sung to you from beginning
to end. Sometimes seeing is just spit and mud
in the hands of the Human One who rarely announces his name.

So we wash our clothes, empty our pockets, fuel our cars,
long for tacos our best friend’s mother always set out for
the half dozen always just showing up. We sit by the water,
we breathe the pastry baking, we hear music divine played by
earthlings like us, human or not

And hope one day, unexpectedly, the tears will clear,
the light will enter, the love will engulf and we shall
know as we are known; clothed or unclothed, named or
anonymous.

Long Before

Long Before

(“The people continued to sacrifice at the illegal places of worship, but they sacrificed only to the Lord their God.” 2 Chronicles 33:17)

We celebrated where the guns thundered and the
flags waved in the fiery sky.
We celebrated when the muskets when silent
but built monuments to remember our might.
We wear our uniforms to church,
we build chapels with crosses shaped like
fighter jets.
We sing god-and-country and cannot understand
why god has not declared a
winner yet.

We always had the better gunpowder,
never relied on spears or arrows,
wrote our language down for centuries;
poetry and science, medicine and odes for
the sorrows others inflicted upon us.
We were destined for these amber waves of grain.

Yet upon purple mountains there are still caches of blood,
there are cloaks of misery trodding the fruited plain.
How many times must the sun go down
before we reject religion that sees no difference between
animals and kin?

And still our monuments stand. Still our hollow statues of
hammered copper green with the age. We honor the killers,
sing of the rebels, send our missiles with prayers attached
to their tails.

But we have braided the stars and stripes so tightly with
the stripes and wounds upon our savior’s back that we salute the
flag and expect Jesus to answer early and late. 

Come to a monument without a statue,
settle in around the table of peace.
Break the bread where the only allegiance is
God toward his people. Find Jesus on the streets,
and bring our hidden guest, that we may begin again,
find rest again, proclaim glory again that shines the moment

we descend the mountain to the spot on the foothills where
feet walked, mothers gave birth, fathers hunted, long before
we touched the earth.

On HIllside Picnics with Us

On Hillside Picnics with Us

(“There was a tent behind the second curtain called the holy of holies.” Hebrews 9:3)

Inaccessible, and how do you get there from here?
How do you ascend the throne of the one who sits
across every constellation and speaks to the galaxies
like children?

Once a year one would draw near. Yet the curtain deadened
the vision and muddled the sound of sacred rites hidden from view.
I remember pulling the shades at night so neighbors could not
see what I was reading.

Who hides in that tented room? Who awaits the approach one
afternoon of the year? Smoke obscures our senses, incense
increases our guesses.  We wait as we have waited for this day
for hundreds of years. Yet, though mystery is the density behind
the veil,
we long for the familiarity of family. When the curtains open again
the precious stones carried on his heart glisten in the sun. He is done
for the year. We dine together, a savory meal with god and our neighbor;
a communal meal that leaves us satisfied and still unsure
about the nature of Shekinah, glory, judgement, atonement and holy
moments which seem much too large for our containment.

But the curtain is mere fabric; the ark of the covenant mere wood and
earthy metal hammered by human hands and place silently. We stand,
and dare not breathe, and less to talk. Our children pull on our robes
wanting an explanation of the one made manna and manufacturers snow,
the one who sends the sun riding on the sky and the moon hanging like a lantern,
the one (oh the ages would tell) surrounding the expansion of everything and

hidden within the smallest quarks without names.

We sometimes miss the truth for the tradition,
unchanging incantations convince us we have met the divine.
But we do not know, or are slow to hear, that all this is play-acting,
a metaphor, a puppet show. We memorized the words and drew
our swords against any who would say different.

But here we have been invited, the hospitality of Yahweh,
the invasion of the Son into every space we thought was empty,
into every moment we thought ordinary and so unholy.
But his sandals dug the earth, his hands cupped the mud,
his eyes wandered to scattered sheep, his mouth kissed the wine.

And, if this time we will hear it, we shall know that dust is sacred
(we are built of it)
Seeds are sacred
(we begin with it)
Humanity is sacred
(we can count on it)

For the Holy one who dwelt among the cherubim
chose rather to dine on hillside picnics with us.

To Speak Up for Me

To Speak Up for Me

(“Therefore he is also able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him, seeing that he lives forever to make intercession for them.” Hebrews 7:25)

I stood in the doorway watching everyone leave,
I stood in the doorway and lonely was not yet a word.

I enjoy classic diners with jukeboxes that play
45s cut before I was born. Strawberry shakes,
chrome counters and laughing so loud you put
another dollar in the machine to play the song again.

I didn’t mean to retire, it just happened that way.
I stood in the doorway where people gathered to pray
and I knew I could stand no longer, not by myself, not
without help, not without coffee and tears from a friend.

I enjoy being anonymous, I enjoy being known.
I know those aren’t synonymous, I enjoy being alone.
But solitary is sadder without an ear to hear my
Complaints in the dark.
And popular is just another word for how
friendship bracelets made us feel as kids.

I’ve been left standing in the doorway more often than I’d like,
standing abandoned in the doorway, sunspots all around my head.
Although some were invisible visitors and crept in undetected,
(this aching heart reacted to the overall theme, not each detail
of the narrative.)

I like parks where you can roll down the lawn
on green hills as far as you can. I like to watch the
clouds with a friend as they blow in over the skyline.
We never called out shapes; we were modern and cubist
after all. I like parks where frisbees and picnics share
the same air.

Everything perceived is a wave, a particle, a neuron, or
maybe angels. No one realizes it when they abandon you,
they just do not notice you are gone. Colors of morning
and sounds of engines warming fill the space the friend
once inhabited. No one
means to leave you alone.

I would turn away from the doorway, never to return,
but it will not still the yearning, the restless cry for
someone
to speak to me.
To speak up
For me.
To shed tears for me when
mine have run dry. An advocate, a brother,
a sister, a sponsor into the halls where
clouds are made to entertain an avant garde
and silly writer like me.

Everybody Wants to Know

Everybody Wants to Know

(“They kept on asking Him. Then He stood up and said, ‘Anyone of you who is without sin can throw the first stone at her.’” John 8:7)

The phone kept on ringing; everyone wanted to know the story.
Some were astounded, some felt he had been hounded, but most
were curiosity seekers with rocks in their pockets.

The letters with official stationery and watermarks kept arriving;
the mailbox was another source of panic attacks. New accusations,
new additions to the charges, new lies about what they said they had
not lied about. Though some were sympathetic, the still all had
rocks in their pockets.

He had failed, caught in the act, coughed between scene changes,
as sick over failure as over spoiled meat. He had wept, he had scored
a job just to keep his head above water. He shivered as he drove to
meet every client, sometimes drying tears before he went inside.

He heard about satan most times he gathered with the same clan
in a different town. He repented so many times he nearly drowned
in his own tears. He had revealed his weakness, sought out help,
and instead he was dismissed out of hand; one of the hands that
fiddled with stones in his pocket.

When men lie to destroy the one who sinned worse than them,
who gets to toss the rocks? When the men hate to make themselves
greater than the one who failed, how many stones will we need?

He heard about hell the rest of the times he gathered with
a similar clan that could not stand Obama. This time he was
done repenting
and showed the power of the poisoned arrows every time they
flew from the mouths of men that had no time for him. He escaped
to fewer trusted places, turned away from every face; the

fight for affection and the fear of unconnected rejection
nearly destroyed his soul. One rip after another left him
the loneliest he had ever been.

But he knew one thing, if not two, he would never carry
rocks in his pockets or spew another man’s sins by
phone or letter, word or sermon; he would not load another
man with a weight heavier than his own shame.

You Must Know by Now

You Must Know by Now

(“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, sure and steadfast, which reaches inside behind the curtain.” Hebrews 6:19)

You must know by now that sometimes
I do not feel it.
I’ve heard stories and fables ever since
I believed
about angels and visions,
about heavenly transportations,
wheels within wheels.

But you must know by now that all that
moves me are kind eyes.
I’ve heard stories about hands around hearts
and I’ve even written letters apologizing for
my disease and how I passed it onto the
unsuspecting.
Still, neither by hand or mouth, I have hardly heard
a shared or whispered word that took into account
the way their nasty tone was like boxer’s blows
to my mind.

A smile would be magic, a hug the certain cure
for a faith as tattered as bell bottom jeans,
as fleeting as memories when the world was kinder,
(the best days were in my teens.)

I do not blame anyone, I suppose I have been the same.
I call someone my best friend and we talk every 20 years.
Still, all in all, cherubim and seraphim, the floods have washed
the structures I built my belief upon and sent them
Like flotsam to the sea.

And now, what do I do with the brief remains?
How do I listen to the refrains of grief that once sang
me happy home?
I pick up words here and there; a song by Carole King,
another by Keaggy, and more than I can count from
James Taylor. I find more holiness in concerts and
coffee with you, if you find the same with me.

My heart has been broken for some time. I smashed it
myself, it is true; but there were others who finished
the job. I rarely write without crying, so I wonder who
even tries to read my words anymore. I’m too old
to keep score. 

Whether I know it or not (and, as you have gathered,
I know very little), my anchor has hardly moved throughout
this chatter of life lived between AM radio signals.
My anchor still rests in the love that is hidden from most,
and, since both anchor and love are stronger than I,
I suppose I will remain unmoved yet in the last sliver
of my life. 

Embrace My Soul

Embrace My Soul

(“For those who enter God’s rest also cease from their labors as God did from his.” Hebrews 4:10)

It is true,
the trailer won’t unload itself,
the house will not build itself.
But what if the soul grows in one
single embrace?

I get it,
the dishes won’t wash themselves,
my room will not clean itself.
But what if love is the effortless act
Of simple dying?

I cannot work,
my body won’t allow it.
I can barely write the words on the page.
Not that my fingers are stiff or crooked,
my mind has been seared by pain like a desert
and words like arrows telling me I just need more
jesus.

If just once they would sit in a chair next to me,
if just once they would share a bottle of wine,
if just once they would keep their mouths shut,
if just once they gave no advice this time.
Do I live too far away,
does my countenance frighten you?
All I know, I was just a stamp away and no one
ever wrote to me.

Are my tears too heavy for you to lug around,
do you fear my doubts will somehow undo you?
Are my words now too concrete for you to swallow,
do you pray for me while I cry invisibly?

I never stopped working and maybe I should.
My body will allow it no longer.
I no longer work, hear no voice on the phone,
no tone that enwraps my soul. “I love you” rings
more true than
“you need more jesus”
or “I will pray for you.”

Do you see my words, how artless they’ve become?
When I write in the middle of the pain
how can I ignore the silence I never heard from
Just one visitor, one victim of my hard labor,
or (maybe this is too crazy) one person who spent
a whole day imagining how a body like mine
could still house a healthy soul. 

I want to point to Jesus,
the suffering he took, the dying he imbibed,
I want to think of him with eyes that enliven
my hope again. But is it too much to ask,
too much to explain, that I wish his followers
bring him by when they came?

Why Do You Ask?

Why Do You Ask?

(“I will strengthen them in the Lord, in whose name they will walk—oracle of the Lord.” Zechariah 10:12)

I’ve been studied like an lab specimen,
investigated like a criminal even after I served my time.
I’ve been cross-examined and dissected,
my mind on the lab bench, my faith in the witness stand,
and it left my head a hoary white.

Private. You have forced me into hiding.
Sealed shut. You have forced my measured words.
What am I doing?

Why do you ask?

Do you really want to see me? Or write a paper on your
findings, describe my disease? 

What am I doing? (The question that once was
an invitation to tennis, coffee, or a walk in the park.)

Not much, what are you doing?

Baited. I believed your promise of trust.
Ensnared. My hopes were vapors and rust.

Oh, I’ve committed the crimes. I’ve crossed the lines,
dotted the t’s and tossed the i’s into word salads I hoped
they would believe. I toed the line until the friendlies
kicked the chalk away. I became an enemy, how much more
now
when I refuse to believe what they insist they see?

What am I doing?

Is it your business?

(I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. I’m tired of hearing it
like a recording,
but never saying it out loud. I’m sorry, but you’re anger
was unrestrained,
while I tried to train myself to take it like a man,
trust the god you manufactured,
quietly hold it all inside,
act the penitent, the weeping out loud
that marked how truly god must be dealing with that man.)

What am I doing?

I know why you ask. I’ll tell you. You have destroyed me
with your questions. I am worn out from the poking around
my body, my mind and

my life.

So, if I do not answer, now you know why. I will find a cave
where no one can enter and where I can cry without it meaning
anything more than I am
a man in pain.

I’ve shared my truth; once, twice. And instantly the angels sang,
the clouds lifted, the songs began.
But within days every move I made was measured by
the truth I had opened so hopefully.

So, if I do not answer, now you know why. There is no more
room inside
to let another set of eyes define me.

It is Kindness that Waters

It is Kindness That Waters

(“I pray that the Lord Jesus Christ will be kind to you!” Philemon 1:25)

The spoons lie in the silverware drawer,
the same niche they have occupied since the
first day in the kitchen. Some days there are 4,
some there are 12. Some days the dishwasher is full.

I wake on the same side of the bed,
the same bed I have occupied since the
first day I moved in. Some days my pain is 5,
others it is 9. Some days I do

 not get up at all.

I need more spoons, but the summer has beat me down
with unrelenting scorch. And even though I know the
hills above the Columbia
summon me
I cannot pull my pain, my overdrafted checking account,
out of my head to spend an hour there.

I want to show this ache to you, to paint it for you,
to cry it to you and for you to pick up the tears
with your tongue, tasting every one,
and look at me (surprised love), and wash
away every fiery arrow and the embers left behind.

And, with a simple sigh, I want to clear the air for you,
the questions I share with you, the doubts unfair that
poke us both like Poseiden’s trident. When we feel
half dead already, our silverware drawer nearly bare,
an extra demand or reprimand sends us deathly reeling
and empty.

So, here is my balance sheet, I am deeply in arrears.
I have less that I started with.
And now, this drought of sadness and pain
has left me to look for the autumn rains again;
while I wish for you the sun in full regalia,
the love that showers with each ray plus time.
Afternoon, morning, night or starshine,
it is kindness that waters our pain and
brightens our sad eyes. 

Sanity, it seems,
is losing everything; a cistern in the sun.
It is losing everything; crepe paper in the rain.
And we, you and I, though no one else can see,
are more whole because grace has crammed the
empty aches that filled us vacantly.

Trails to Hike

Trails to Hike

For all my friends who struggle with anxiety.

(“We have patrolled the earth, and lo, the whole earth remains at peace.” Zechariah 1:11b)

Does your heart race like mine,
thoughts turn somersaults and rhymes play
on repeat (songs or snippets, along the pathway
that tears have inscribed)?

There are trails to hike today,
kittens to play today,
loves and friends, close and
too far away today.
There is sky and sun
and one who vows to
never betray a single confidence.

Our senses are filled, aren’t they?
Our loves stilled upon the water that echoes the sun.
Our hopes are stunted, some have flown away.
But still the breath fills us; still one song can still us
(do you remember that one that played when we
sat unswayed by our fears and agonies?)

Does your heart hurt like mine,
tears come from nowhere, but we know where
they started; somewhere when an arrow pierced
our tender youth (we died, but continued living.)

That pierced place we hide has made our lives
fall like water on the kitchen floor. Sometimes
we wonder
when will it stop, what is it for?
When I see your tears, hear them leaking,
all I know, there is another like me,
another aching, seeking, looking for
a day on the beach that feels like
a lifetime promised by the waves meeting
the shore.

The Keys Please

The Keys Please

(“Meanwhile the earth fills up with awareness of God’s glory as the waters cover the sea.” Habakkuk 2:14 [The Message])

Don’t laugh, but it is time to turn in your keys.
Your rent is due, the lease is undone.
You argue your points with derision,
you settle your scores with scorn.
The owner is knocking, answer the door,
and face the eyes you thought you knew
while you squandered the minutes parading
the poor as your trophies,
scaping the land to the bone,
and intoning your personal freedom as if
your life was yours and yours alone.

Please. The keys. Now.
Or else meet the gaze that has risen
to greet you before the sun lit the skies.
Meet the first cause, not simply the effects that
you screened through your own wrinkle in time.
You moan there is no more preaching about
fiery hell and judgment,
while you know for sure you have escaped with
rapturous pleasure. You have forgotten to measure
the dimensions that extend beyond the
plot which you have rented.
You cry, “liberty”, as if it is a call to prayer.
You pray as if it is your civic duty to call out the
worst of these when you were formed to
help the least of these.

So, the keys. They are in your front pocket and
the lease is clear...unless
you are willing to hear the voice
that invited you to stay here in the first place.

Look at the window, shattered by the hurled limb
powered by the gale. It was sent to awaken your
perception that a miniscule world conforms
to your expectations.
The window is not your responsibility, but what
you see now is up to you.
Look through the jagged remains, feel the wind
stroke your face. Touch the shards with your finger
and let the capillaries bleed only enough to remind you
what you are made of.

Then answer the door because the lease is overdue.
See the face that is in every face; hear the voice
that gave the storm its name. You are not being evicted;
but the keys please. The window shall remain shattered
and the door never locked again.

Beyond our Reach

Beyond our Reach

(“He will once again have compassion on us; he will tread down our iniquities. You will hurl all our sins into the depths of the sea.” Micah 7:19)

Yet my heart still yearns for more love than I’ve been offered,
and I cannot admit it to the faithful and devoted
for I should be content with the love they espouse,
the love they says is unending,
(and the love I know to be true).
Yet so few grew in their affection for

a stumbler who trips over mere gravel,
a bumbler who constantly unravels plans and acquaintances.

Still I’ve groveled to earn back the friendship,
the kinship I admittedly broke. But I haven’t dug
deep enough, I think. The smoke still hovers over
embers of anger and rejection. I haven’t shoveled
long enough to prove my grief is great as their scars.

Let’s all go for a swim on top of the ocean,
let’s all go for a hike on top of the world,
let’s all seek adventures on top of dunes,
let’s all skim the top of rivers again.

I fear I’ve let the cat out of the bag,
I’m not as confident as my weekly proclamations.
There are few who care about my daily palpitations,
my constant mental storms and wilted white flags.

Let’s all glide above the atmosphere,
let’s all picnic above the earth,
let’s all round dance above the dust,
let’s all sing as if our hearts will burst.

My feet are calloused, my eyes itch from sand,
my directions are misguided, my arguments are obtuse.
The journey has been painful, knocked all my certainty loose,
the navigation is not at fault, but the way is weary,
and every sense assaulted like moth-eaten quilts.

Still I embark, never on time. Later than ever these days,
and watching my thoughts unwind. My destination has
always been the same; a tribe, a gathering, a clan,
a caravan, a band that loves to sing the same song

Out of tune because the earth keeps rolling.
The instruments enter and exit while the voices
find a common song,
An early song,
a folk song,
the music that encircles top and bottom
and leaves the air cleansed by the exhaled version of
the eternal song.