Under the Sun

 

Under the Sun

(“I tell you the truth, you must change and become like little children. Otherwise, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 18:3)

They draw pictures on the back of shopping lists,
they turn their moms into angels,
their dads into astronauts,
and their dogs into superheroes while the
cat sleeps in the sun.

They believe in prayer though they do not understand
the answers,
they believe in hugs and heaven,
they believe in god and tears and smiles and
afternoons spent in the sun.

They will whisper their answer to puzzling questions,
but sing like Elvis with a mic placed in front of them.
They dress up like kings, they dress up like princesses,
they dress up like the preacher and turn their furnace room
into a church. The pets all were saved the very first service.

They count stars and start again where they left off
every night of the summer. They wander through grandma’s
kitchen full of ceramics and pies.
They sneak into grandpa’s garage that smells like something
burning
and discover the pinball machine up against the wall.
They explore the backyard because
Nana and Papa said there was a family of rabbits next to
the south fence last year.

They believe a kiss can heal an owie,
they believe cartoon bandaids heal the fastest of all.
They kiss their puppy’s booboos
and heal the heart of the lonesome neighbor
who sees it all. Mom always took him cookies;
what else are paper plates for?

They sprinkle imagination like confetti,
put notes inside daddy’s books on the shelf.
They compose poems for mom and perform plays
on the porch. They see more than we see

And, faster than motion, they rewrite everything
we thought we believed
under the sun.

Pensive Windows

 

Pensive Windows

(“He and everyone in his home were devout and respected God. Cornelius gave many gifts to poor Jewish people and always prayed to God.” Acts 10:2)

Teach me to live with nuance and ambiguity,
deliver me from the sin of certainty.
I rehearsed my script, made all the pieces fit,
knew who was cold, guessed who was hot,
discerned who was in, assumed who was not,
and loved the sinner and not the sin
which never made sense to the to the hordes
that lived outside my redline boundaries.

Teach me to live between the clouds and the storm,
release me from the vows I have sworn
that ignore the same flesh and bone who
walk in parks,
laugh at splashed sunlight,
cry when time has deleted their first love or child,
pray with the poor,
move next door to the homeless children
who never knew the names of the preachers up the road.

Let the ink run on the page, let the colors swirl like uncaged
cardinals and bluejays.

Teach me to hear between hymns and tragedies,
deliver me from the sin of duality.
A little gentler and a lot less brutal,
let the total view from the back seat of the universe
ignite my imagination. The rain that falls on my apples
and walnuts
waters the hedges and thistles. And the rivers wash
the footprints of history to the sea.
Finally.

 

Travel With Friends

(“The earth is full of Your loving-kindness, O Lord. Teach me Your Law.” Psalm 119:64)

Warm it up or ice it down,
the earth is surrounded by divine attachment
forward and back.
Travel with friends, buy an old custom van,
and take off not knowing where to go;
that is the only way to never get lost.

Stop the first night where you land as the sun
blinds the driver’s eyes going down. No one likes
camping
so a hotel somewhere outside of Amarillo will do.
One friend is on the move, another is seeking treatment
for a fatal disease, two are sisters who are leaving home
for the first time to see what wonders there are down the road.
And the driver, he thought he knew his destination until

The next day doing Denver, he began to wonder why he
had no idea what direction to take. One convenience store clerk
said the way west was easy, but it all felt like the rattan weave
of a straight back chair. Stopping for directions every turn
and disorientation, the advice was harder to follow as the day
was lazy and did not contribute
to the need to know what direction to go.

They drove for hours, and tensions grew high. Lowering
their voices
the sisters wondered if they would ever reach the campus
of their dreams
on time.
The driver trembled for his friend so ill he barely breathed
his anxiety at all. But his face had grown red, his hands
pale and cold, and the one on the move propped his head up
on a pillow found behind the back seat.

The temperature rose as they iced his fevered brow,
the road was surrounded by angelic anonymity
over and under.
Travel with friends, driving a custom van,
and rounded the day knowing why they were going,
though lost,

They found the love that enraptures the universe.

An Inside Job

 

An Inside Job

(“Then Philip opened his mouth and, beginning with this scripture passage, he proclaimed Jesus to him.” Acts 8:35)

With their hair full of waves and an ocean that swells
they dove into their day like seals paddling upriver
following the chum.
They had not played so well in days.

Remember, there is a pebble in your pocket and
summer in your eyes. Remember when we realized
it had been an inside job all along?
Remember how we gazed and wondered at
the way the hills knew the words to every song.

With their interior design and a moveable feast
they gave away everything just to have more.
They followed the sun.
They had not been so rich in years.

Remember, there is a penny in your pocked and
sunrise in your eyes. Remember when we realized
we were connected all along?
Remember how we stared and wandered for
days like the spirit does, like a song without words.

With their reading glasses and pointed questions
they swam away their pain like swans in serenity.
They chose not to run.
They had not rested so well in weeks.

And the days began and the evenings ended,
the questions were asked and answered well-intended,
the tide rose and the tide fell,
the winds looped and the—

Stillness welled up
within the few who
took the time to listen.

The World is not Ending

 

The World is not Ending

(“He raises the poor from the dust. He lifts the needy from the garbage pile to seat them with nobles.” Psalm 113:7-8a)

Come and see the beginning, the world is not ending;
it is being born again.
Do not see death in the red crowns upon the autumn trees,
there are still greening leaves upon the ground.

I do not fear the floods, the waters are not meant to destroy.
I do not fear the fire, the flame is refining my dross to joy.

Stop looking to the clouds, stop naming antichrists and demons,
stop squeezing anxious hearts until they burst.
Stop damaging the very children of God.

Come and see the quiet revolution, the world is not unwinding,
it is being renewed.
Do not see destruction because the tables have turned,
they are upended to make way for more mercy sans merchandise.

Stop looking at the crowds, stop counting your sheep,
stop herding your cattle into cluttered corrals.
Stop grinding the minds of the very expression of God.

Come and be the quiet revolution, Jesus is coming to set
the world free. He is coming this morning, and tomorrow afternoon,
he will arrive in the evening, he will arrive to the tune of
freedom and dancing, joy and banding together; song,
swirls, unframed masterpieces, unrestrained play on the fields
where children make the rules.

He is returning, and if you can hear it, he is returning in you.
Raise the banner of the poor, lift the song of the buried souls,
place them in front, serve them on your decks and porches,
escort them in the rain and shade them in the sun. The Lord
has come

And awaits to be revealed within you.

Sit With Me a While

 

Sit With Me a While

(“For He has satisfied the thirsty soul, and He has filled the hungry soul with what is good.” Psalm 107:9)

Come sit with me a while,
I need an old friend with a new smile,
a soul who whispers deep when
the darkness creeps up on me.
I need a single scion of joy grafted
to my sighing roots.

I’d trade my troubles for an hour
sitting on a bench by the river
with an old friend who thinks I might
be crazy
but doesn’t care how murky I’ve become,
who only knows that once in a while
forest fires from faraway places can
smoke out the brightest longing for day.

I’ve cried to the God who
I’ve cried to
sooner, bluer, truer and slower,
and fasted days trying to replace the
unwieldy shivering that ran from heart
to brain
to feet
to deeds;
still I felt like dying after one falling star
of insight crash-landed in the atmosphere.

I just need someone here,
a hand I recognize,
a voice with suspended disbelief
to quiver like my own. I would have
arrived here quicker
but I staged my faith with memorized lines
waiting for the next cue to mark my entrance.

Now, no stage, no script, no audience, no
performance-ready music to wow anyone but
myself. And I am my harshest critic.

Come sit with me awhile,
I am thirsty for God but
the only spiritual experience I ever had
was joy with humans who remember that
laughing and crying
are tongues of fire that
can ignite a friendship deeper
than preaching or praying
all night.

Come sit with me a while;
and by

A while

I mean, as long as I need. Please,
do not leave until both our cups are
empty
and both our cups are filled.

I Like the Way the River Flows

 

I Like the Way the River Flows

(“He opened a rock, and water gushed out; it flowed like a stream in the desert.” Psalm 105:41)

It wasn’t really a ghost town,
it was simply that no one lived there I wanted to know.
Gravity never forgets. You may not see your halo,
but I do. You were sun and moon, but all you knew
was black sky, battleship clouds, sad eyes, and
never ending rounds of chores.

But me, I’m just here for the conversation.
I know you cannot hear the river lapping the shore,
do not feel the wind of seagull wings,
do not see the river flowing endlessly,
do not feel there is any river at all.

Still, I am just here for the conversation because,
I like the way the river flows
when you speak.

You were not certain of the river at all, but I was.
I have seen it flow through you.

It wasn’t really the badlands,
it was simply the angry way the hills burned red.
Sanity never forgets. You may not see your daylight,
but I do. You are the butterfly with yellow wings,
and all you knew was the black and brown
caterpillar, the autumns leaves red as blood and
the winter freeze ahead that broke the late buds of roses.

But me, I’m just here for the humanity.
I know you’ve heard the night’s gentle song,
felt the kiss of bonfires,
seen the children who laugh at the same things that
amuse you too,
and felt mortality like a night on the town we wish
would never end.

Still, I am just here for the humanity because,
I like the way the spirit flows
when you speak.

I am Not the Joker

I am Not the Joker

(“The Lord does what is fair. He brings justice to all who have been hurt by others.” Psalm 103:6)

Someone told me today that I am not alone,
and I believe her words, and I know her heart,
and I know there is embrace and warm breath
on my face. But like so many, she is miles and hours
and days and time away.

I would stay in the kitchen or sink into the couch
of only a handful I’ve known who find me, who have seen me
without my costumed face and were unafraid of
the lesions on my soul and skin.

I am not the joker, never been one,
I take my humor in doses.
I might be the jester; in the long run
I make up lines for the masses.

Once I was the first to arrive, not always the last to leave,
but I rarely left early. Find me in a corner with one or two
who take every laugh seriously and turn every truth into
a limerick. I once played password with a couple and
my wife
until early in the morning, 4:30 or 5. Our boys were babies
and slept until we woke them with donuts bought at 5:45.
We shared wine and meals and
stories about grieving our parents’ deaths. That was
35 years ago, and now I am, having traveled a different branch
of the same river,
lost to them. And I cannot find the way to unlock the logic
that cast me out of their grace.

And then again, my faults have left me covered with mud.
I paid better attention to my hygiene then. Now, with
a beard less trimmed, I believe my faults plus my faith that
frolics in a different stream,
have left them wondering where I’ve ended up and
where I began.

But others tell me, again and again, that they feel the same
hurt,
they know the same
pain,
and would do everything they could to find me in the drifts,
where others simply gave up the search.

On days like these the rain is too stealthy for me.

Your Private Disaster

Your Private Disaster

(“He won’t brush aside the bruised and broken. He will be gentle with the weak and feeble, until his victory releases justice.” Matthew 12:20 [TPT])

No one saw your private disaster,
no one understood your tragedy.
So no one came to your rescue,
no one searched the sharpened canyons.

You wore your game face well,
you protected your personal hell by
slack-jaw prayer requests and
avoiding the inquests that were meant
to rein you in. But you never liked the
corrals, did you? Especially when

You could see

The open range before you.

You carried the flash floods inside you,
you erased the lines from your face just before
the grinding days deepened the furrows in your forehead.
If people looked at the layers the angry river left
they could count your history, your sandstone red
and the gray clay that marked your day.

In time they might find the candle you left burning,
the wick slowly dying in the window where you watched
doves dancing with robins looking on. The only way
they might knock on your door, these wash and wear
investigators of supernatural strength,
would be to know you were sanitized head to soul,
and showed fewer callouses and sores than you did before.

You could see

They empty road before you.

And though none came to the door, your candle
stayed lit despite the hordes who stayed away.

One light ignites another light,
one soul restores another soul,
one long and lonely day with
only a phone call to break up the hours.

But the voice, the lift from a minor key,
fills the stone silence with enough music
to, perhaps, end the day with a dance.

And the Train Careened Off the Tracks

 

And the Train Careened Off the Tracks

(“You will not be afraid of the terror by night, or of the arrow that flies by day.” Psalm 91:5)

And the train careened off the tracks.

Maybe we are ugly for a reason,
maybe our crazy has hardened our faces.
I don’t know how to live normally,
there is too much that is contagious and
I live uncontained.

I visited the stage on the closing night
when several friends were players.
The music of drama, the greasepaint of comedy
have always enchanted me
and I wished I could join them in their
costumes and paces. Below the trodden boards
and after the curtain call
I walked past the limelight and loved
the champagne popping, the fogging machine
locked away for a season.
And I spent extra time with the one who,
though transferred from show to show,
removed from touch to memory,
had been my heart from Shakespeare to
silliness on high school afternoons. She
cried like we might never see each other again.

Sadness is not the same as fear,
tears are not equal to despair,
but the night remains restless while my
heart is tucked away beneath invisible arms.
Dreams come easy when the mind spills
from daylight frightening to night-time lighting
(just a covered bulb in the corner socket will suffice.)

And I ushered my thespian friends into the
next train hoping it would keep us all together
until the morning shone on our worn-out faces.
Settled in and lounging, drinks in hand and
kisses while the rails rocked us like a cradle
all the way

Until the end of the line when,
uninstructed about braking such a machine,
I sent the train careening off the tracks.

I awoke and you were gone; you had not died. But
still I miss you, whether in the long-waves of
memory
or the shortwave of dreams.

Show Me Open Fields

 

Show Me Open Fields

(“He sent Jesus to bless you by turning each of you away from doing evil things.” Acts 4:26b)

The smokestacks belch their acrid breath into
the air where deer should dance. The preachers ask
for allegiance sworn upon
the platforms of denial and mock trials of every
person who disagrees.

Shut up behind the doors of sunday, pretense
like a hollow drum repeats the clicking of teeth
at everything that must be defeated before we go
to an early lunch.

Don’t talk about me while I’m living,
don’t talk about me when I’ve died.
Just give me greater room to breathe,
show me open fields and I will not hide.

The dandelions wave their yellow heads and shed
their hairs turned white. We mow them down,
unwanted weeds we could have gardened,
turned to wine and celebrated
on spring days away from the smokey blindness
that tried to hide
the sun from upturned faces.

Shut behind the doors of doctrine, certainty
like a scorched pancake leaves us emptier than
when we began. We will stand to read the creeds,
and sit to gossip about those who live too loudly
at an early lunch.

Learn to love while we are living,
don’t wait until we have died.
Open the windows, clear the air,
join the picnic that is universe wide.

The Instant Blues

 

The Instant Blues

(“Lord All-Powerful, the place where you live is so beautiful!” Psalm 84:1)

I’ve got the instant blues, the indigo that wraps around my
head like a fog.
I’ve got the instant blues, the claustrophobic morning, smashing my
head like a rock.

I did not invite you here, you’ve laughed at me since childhood;
I did not invite you here, you broadcast your bait like a fishhook.

I’ve got the instant blues, judged immediately but never seen.
I’ve got the instant blues, treated like a heretic, unclean.

I only asked for eyes to see me,
I only desired a wink and a nod.
You never answered, never darkened my door.
You never asked me, never asked who I adore.

I’ve got the instant blues, I stay in bed and wish it was longer.
I’ve got the instant blues, I’ve lost hope, and my heart is conquered.

Why did you take up arms against a pacifist and a peer?
Why did you take up arms against a court jester in the clear?

I’ve got the instant blues, I ink my heart and hope someone sees.
I’ve got the instant blues, I sink beneath silence every Sunday.

I only asked for a card in the mail,
I only desired dimensional scale.
You never offered, never asked why I bleed.
You never called me, never asked what I needed.

I’ve got the instant blues, and the beauty I cried for fills my
heart like summer.
I’ve got the instant blues, and the temple within me is
like no other.
And it fills my heart like a friend,
like a lover.

Goats Have Followed

 

Goats Have Followed

(“They turned away from him. Their spirits were not faithful to him.” Psalm 78:8b)

It was not possible to foresee the guardians of the gate
tearing it all down and insisting
they only
carried the crown of divine glory.

Had they forgotten the peaceful one
who rode through the gates on the back of a donkey?
Instead they let their banners fly all
red, blue, and white and
sentenced him to die upon the bloody earth
and, turning the truth to a lie,
announced their rules
were God’s rules,
as if no one would notice the change in the script.

Today I sit in grief, today my tears will not cease,
the guardians are gone, and goats have followed them
thinking the shepherd is just like them. Say it again:
the shepherd hates everything they hate and they
post it on church signs,
facebook pages,
sanctuary songs,
and still wave their banners while the

Shepherd prefers
the company of those who can afford only
asses to ride
to their next destination, the next notation
of simple chants, barely heard at the gates of power,
but sung by workers in the fields,
children on the hills,
a freedom song that flags of nations can
never give.