The Hat

The Hat

(“So why do you judge your brothers or sisters in Christ? And why do you think you are better than they are? We will all stand before God to be judged.” Romans 14:10)

He walked into the room with his hat
covering one eye. He always wore it like that;
no one knew why. But they made 1000 guesses
every time he arrived. Was he partially blind?

He didn’t hear their conversations but knew the
temperature of the room. He would have just as soon
been at the bar around the corner; after all,
they gave him the hat when he retired.

Tilted across his head, the hat provoked conversation
while he never said a word.

And Then the Wind Turned

 And Then the Wind Turned

(“They stopped asking, ‘Where is the Lord who brought us from the land of Egypt…’” Jeremiah 2:6a)

There was a time when I thought that
an empty room
and vacant thoughts
meant God had left the premises.
There was a time I screamed for
God’s return.
There was a time when I was certain
that wind like fire was
the certification of a job well done.
There were times I fasted badly,
told no one (or only a few)
and convinced myself had I held out longer
my troubles and temptations would have
melted like ice cream in the sun.
There was a time when I expected everyone
to agree. 

And then the wind turned on itself
when the big voices
insisted hurricanes were God’s destruction
for
blank and blank and so much sin that
it stank in his nostrils. Can we begin again? 

Please? 

Did God knock down trees simply to appease
your bluster mister man while you collected diamonds
on the backs of the poor?
And while you spread lies about stolen votes
you have sucked the soul right out of the nation.
How much fasting will replace your deceptions? 

Now I see (somewhat dimly)
the fullness of things, the revolution that
moves into the neighborhoods we once skirted
and called dark and oppressive. When,
all the while,
God waited for us to show up and see
what God was already doing. 

starting with i

starting with i

(“For from him, and through him, and for him, are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen.” Romans 11:36)

Starting with i
unsettles it all.
Lists of colors embrace the photons
that shoot from grass, from neighbor houses,
from sky, from pets that brownly
run like foxes.

Starting with now
surrounds us all.
Some are a million galaxies distant
and closer than the itch on our skin.
It’s like a waltz, like a jig,
like a song that no one knows and
everyone sings.

Staring with eyes
sunrises it all.
Rivers are silver, sky is a painter,
footprints are warm sod,
wind is vocal. Breezes like
to whistle.

Sparing our voice
makes the rocks sing out.
Clear winter trees with arms spirit-moved
wait with feet in dirt from
meteors and asteroids,
earthworms and lightning strikes.

Starting with whole
surprises us all.

Why I Write at All

Why I Write at All

(“Therefore, your gates shall be open continually; they shall not be shut day nor night.” Isaiah 60:11a)

This is a day I ask myself why I write at all.
Why I pushed my body out of bed when the
weight of pain
nailed me to the mattress.
I turn my face to the wall,
feel myself shrinking,
feel the rusty gates closing on
my weary soul.

If you were sitting beside me
you would see the sun shining
and wonder how, on a day like this,
I could feel so small, so full of gravity,
so locked into nothing at all.

And if you asked, I could not explain why
my feet are raw from gravel,
my hands bent from electricity,
my thoughts packed with melancholy,
my eyes scratched from tears below freezing.

Surely God would rescue
me from the doldrums
(now that storms rarely crash over my bow)
and fill my sails once more.

Yesterday as I turned out the lights and
went to lock the door before sleeping,
I found it locked already.

I had not left the house all day.

Under a Single Sky

Under a Single Sky

(“For the High and Exalted One who lives forever, whose name is Holy says this: ‘I live in a high and holy place, and with the oppressed and lowly of spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly and revive the heart of the oppressed.’” Isaiah 57:15)

The corner is no place for someone like you.
The shadows are not your home.
The teeth of the cavern,
the shards of the abyss
are not the place prepared for you.

And yet we put you there.
We never meant to.
You didn’t fit in and we were not
elastic.
And now we have moved on and left you
behind
to take more drastic measures on your own.

You belonged at the table.
No, you belonged to the voices that are
rarely heard;
the colors, the genders, the spectrum, the splendor
of intervals between the tones. You
stopped speaking when
you were not heard.

Your prayers were interrupted by syncopation
we rejected.
Your pleas were dismissed. We left you
unprotected. And then designed our bylaws
to exclude the rest that came behind you.
We did not mind knowing you;
we could not risk the questions that
fell from rafters like concrete on our heads.
We assumed you knew that too.

Do they still call it a remnant? That leftover
fabric, that unused yarn? It always made me think
of leftovers, the last thing left in the kitchen.

How can we know you if we insist on a quorum,
how can we hear you over the small talk of majority?
How can we encircle you? Tell us this time and
we will remain silent. We have put down our pens,
closed our notebooks and want to join you.
We were not allies, we were pedagogues and
insisted you learn our lessons.

A few of us are grieving.
A handful are shattered that we preferred
leaving to learning your story.

Let us sit in the corner with you,
visit the cavern and study the abyss.
We have smashed our clocks, our scales
buried in the rubbish of our myopia.
And if you do not speak,
we will not depart this time. We
will sit on damp granite stones,
pour the wine in a common cup
and pass the moments, the minutes,
the hours, the ages,
where the divine dwells like incense,
where our souls revere the placement
of one to one. The you, the i. The we,
the us. The just and unjust under a single
sky.

See Without Trying

 

See Without Trying

(“How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of a messenger who proclaims peace, who brings good news, who proclaims salvation, who says to Zion, ‘Your God rules!’” Isaiah 52:7)

There were motives that we all thought were plain to see,
plans that stood upon pillars driven deep into bedrock.
There were methods we thought were acceptable to all,
frameworks that were familiar like facets on a diamond.

How could we have missed it,
how could we be mistaken about
something we were so sure of,
something about which there was no doubt?

And yet the time came for hand-me-downs to be
tossed aside
as the manufactured doctrines they were.
And the day blazed with sounds like the sun
that warmed the necks of everyone.

And the invisible was what we had missed,
we insisted everyone salute the flag
we ran up our own poles. While it flapped in the wind
we became deaf to the silence that is heard by everyone.

Executions are not cause for applause,
battlefield victories are not the inspiration for
the new song
that sings of level roads and ditches filled with
the new rain
that beautifies the desert and makes the olive branches
bloom.

How can we rest until everyone is at rest?
How can we assume that we are the ones
chosen to author the world? Better than this,
and better yet,
let our feet find the warm earth again,
the beach at setting sun,
and the long reach of unarmed proclamations.
And let us see without trying
that our morning is slumber for
half the points upon the eternal circle;
the eternal journey, one tiny tittle of time.

With The Shadows Chased Away

 

With The Shadows Chased Away

(“They will not be hungry or thirsty; the sun’s oppressive heat will not beat down on them, for one who has compassion on them will guide them; he will lead them to springs of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

One day we will lay down the bricks we used to build the walls,
one day we will dance until the tyrants fall,
one day we will plow the fields in sun and rain,
one day we will give away every crop and every grain.

And so, we watch the clouds swallow the hilltops,
loading up for more showers to paint the skeletal trees
with life again. We hear a single drone inspecting the
fields where the cattle graze.
We remember the voice of a friend who
wasn’t sure winter would be over soon enough.
And we wanted to rush the season along.

But as soon as the sun shines again
we will see it all. With the shadows chased away
because the throne is the light in the middle of it all
there will be no hiding in the dark,
no shadows to conceal the harsh asides,
the cruel remarks,
that bruised the sweetest fruit waiting to be vinified.

One day we will picnic again like we did on cloudless days,
one day we will sing until the dead are raised,
one day we will reap the grace sown with our tears,
one day we will give away all the pain and all our fears.

You Belong

 

You Belong

(“I will turn darkness into light in front of them. I will make rough places smooth. These are the things I will do for them, and I will never abandon them.” Isaiah 42:16b)

You belong to the earth,
you are a child of the sky,
though others may not see your worth,
your soul was made to fly
above the echoes that have exploded like
cannons in your mind.
You were made to walk in shoes that fit,
that shine, that warm, that find the winding path
where you belong. The beach cabin where
your mind is at home, where the waves echo the
beat of your heart, where the sun rises and speaks your
name
as more beloved than your ears have yet heard.

I would walk the solar system round just
to bring more starlight to you.
I would record the voice of heaven just
to bring more music to you.

The songs were written before your breath,
the lyrics are honey, caramel and cream. The
stars danced on the day you were born and
tonight will celebrate once more.

You belong to heaven,
you are a child of the voice
that spoke the worlds whirring in the void.
You are the first thing on heaven’s mind,
the last ever left behind. Your feet
leave prints on the sacred earth
for others to follow the way with you.
Your voice leaves whispers in the holy air
for others to hear and speak back to you.

I would collect the oceans just
to let them soothe your weary heart.
I would gather the sunshine just
to let it warm your winter hands.

You matter more, a princess, a daughter,
than you have ever been told, than
you have ever remembered.
And now believe (oh if I could embody the word)
Beloved is your title, your name, and has always been
the place you belong in heaven, in earth, in sky, in song.

Woodstoves and Venison Stew

 

Woodstoves and Venison Stew

(“In the same way, count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus.” Romans 6:11)

You could hear the clouds as everyone went to bed,
while the wind waited to exhale the midwinter chill.
There were woodstoves with venison stew cooking all night.
It would be ready before the children woke for school.

And I know I am awakened,
I know I do not sleep enough,
And I know I am shaken by the sounds of
siblings who insist I do not believe rightly
or at all.

I saw the wounds, the abuse, the bruises, but also the
how they locked your voice away. And you, with
Christ in you,
believe you have suffered because you are not worth enough.

All I know is the sounds of some siblings
are daggers disguised as hatpins. They know how
to spell your sins and lay them out in complete sentences.
While you cannot find a single room in the house for safety,
a single piece of paper to write your story, you believe
the worst fables while you grace the tables of your neighbors with
cookies and visits and the quiet type of conversation that
makes children want you to visit again.

I see the wounds; I carry some myself. Self-inflicted, but
unhealed by my family of faith. I spread the blanket
far too wide, let the undecided feel they could never catch up
to the head start of the holy. They wept. They argued.
They rarely arrived early to hear another reason (song or
dance or sermon) that their life failed the acid test. They
were insufficient.

Yet today is a quiet day, the clouds cover the earth thinly,
the wind rests beside the river banks, giving a moment of respite
from frail winter’s story. The smoke from woodstoves spirals
straight toward the heavens. Children laugh, ask for one more story,
while the parents wish they would go to bed early
and leave them, just two, for only the next hour before sleep.

Because some know. They have counted well. Their doors are open,
their smiles are wide, they take in the vagrant, they embrace the child.
I have never noticed them in church. But I notice their gifts

Scattered like new snow upon their days; sleigh-bells and
venison stew shared with whoever knew
the aroma was meant for them.

We Lay Down Our Arms

 

We Lay Down Our Arms

(“And a voice spoke out of the cloud, ‘This is my dearly-loved Son. Listen to him!’” Mark 9:7 [J.B. Phillips])

And the time came when they listened to mobs who
carried AK7s and confederate flags.
The time came when they poisoned others with their breath
and called it love. There came a time when they
made guns out of crosses
and went to war in the name of the lord.

Power was stored in the transformers that ran
a dozen outlets who spoke like puppets,
who convinced the listeners (if this was possible)
that the gospel should be shouted in angry tones
that drown the words of the master.

And above the noise and behind the walls
the Father still begs us all to listen and
stop our campfire stories that are more fable than
kingdom. We listen to the echoes of our
favorite attack dogs. We tune in to serrated theories
meant to take down the best of men.

And even worse, some among us say that
blacks are shot more often because they commit more crime.
Spouting spittle like they know the times. Read, sister, read.
And slowly awaken.

So Jesus still speaks, and has spoken. Jesus bids peace
to all who, forsaken or leaving the forests without trees,
give in to the whisper placed in their hearts from the breath
of life, the Spirit who spills love indiscriminately. My
neighbor also waits
for me to listen clearly
and shed the dragon skin that wanted autonomy,
wanted to throw stones until Jesus asked, “Who first?”

If I stand alone, may it be for the sake of my neighbor
who needs a river of kindness to drown out the righteous
rants of the unhelpful.

We lay down our arms before you. We disable our missiles.
We resist the fear of dying, for you have led the way.
And we, in stillness hear the child-like narrative again,
the lamb, the lamb, the lamb,
worthy is the lamb,
the lover of humanity.

The Sun Does Not Lie

The Sun Does Not Lie

(“This hope will not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.” Romans 5:5)

It was a winter day when the sun finally broke through;
the birds were skipping, the shadows were crisp,
the neighbors walked to their mailboxes,
and one heart still felt alone.

The sun does not lie, and you are more graceful than
the years that have whispered in your ear. Mornings like these
midwinter
reveal the love behind it all.

We take it piecemeal, don’t we? Every failure,
every uncharted word, every night we wasted
annoyed that we drank too much. We add them up
like jigsaw pieces from a thousand puzzles. We cannot
find the edge. We stay in the middle of uncertainty,
convinced we deserve the voice that scolds us
for not finishing well.

But the sun does not lie, and here you are, more precious
than anyone has told you. It takes breaths, lots of breaths,
and boldness to let it penetrate the years of darkening aches.
The shadows have mocked you while the light (stars, moon,
mars, sun, reflecting notes from the songs you have forgotten)
while
the
light
bids you to play.

Checking the Score

 
Checking the Score

(“For the Lord, the Holy One of Israel, has said: ‘You will be delivered by returning and resting; your strength will lie in quiet confidence.’” Isaiah 30:15)

I checked the score and no one was winning--
that is not true; I was losing.

My numbers did not add up,
my mind was numb with counting.
The walls turned on their foundations,
the windows were tinted and reflected
nothing back.
The room was filled with voices like lava,
everyone sat in the cheap seats while
the balcony was empty.

I checked the manuscript and no one was reading--
that is not true; I was writing.

Records show, if you are inclined to look,
that my ideas have been loose as rain tied into knots.
My grades were good, only my performance suffered.
The strain to forget was a night-full of mosquitoes,
the reminders, weeds untamed. They were housed
in my brain so long the attic was moldy.

I checked ratings and no one was watching--
that is not true; I had been recorded.

But I no longer care who sees or scores,
what unsavory secrets are stored in recent
and ancient files. They are hefty with my
under-deeds. They are filled with tales I
will not refute.

I checked with heaven; checked in.
All was quiet as the day before creation,
the day after resurrection.

The Road Had Deceived Him

 

The Road Had Deceived Him

(“You keep completely safe the people who maintain their faith, for they trust in you.” Isaiah 25:4)

He was happy where he landed, but
did not like the way he got there. He
wasn’t sure if anyone had noticed or
left him any chores to do. He
backed into the driveway carefully,
maneuvering the rented trailer
behind him.
The road had deceived him.
The trailer was gone.

He was tempted to retrace his steps,
find his lost belongings. He wanted it
all back.

Perhaps it was the roadside attraction
that distracted him from noticing the trailer
was gone.
Nearly home, though unsure when or how,
he had spotted a simple sign on the boulevard,
“Help Wanted” it said. And he vaguely remembered
“pastor” scrawled at the bottom.
He followed the arrow around the corner
and saw the fieldstone building rising.
It was modern architecture with a nod to
gothic cathedrals. There were
months between him and the last time
he entered a worship space this early.
Pulling the darkwood doors open, he
breathed the oil and candles deeply.
Two men sat at a folding table, one with a
clipboard, the other saying nothing. They asked
his name,
he explained why he came. Did they need the
services of clergy today?

They would have let him sign the application,
they looked glad that someone wanted to fill the
spaces within. But then he remembered why
he had left the last pulpit early. The pain returned
as he gave them back the pen.

He was happy where he landed,
but did not like the way he got there.
He removed the empty hitch from the
bumper of his worn-out car. He left
so much behind and little before him.
The days were deceptively silent.

Today he gave a neighbor a ride home.

Stop Now. Sounds.

 

Stop Now. Sounds.

(“Or do you have so little regard for his rich kindness, his restraint, and his patience, that you ignore the fact that the purpose of God’s kindness is to lead you to repentance?” Romans 2:4)

Stop now.
Sound out the top of the silent suns
wrapping the grand, warming the sand
while the tides ebb unconsciously.

I can hear myself growing older,
years like wind, like sails, like friends
who streak across the night sky. Shooting
star
how I wonder who you are.

I would rather borrow your eyes than
rewrite our conversations. I would rather
drive by the coast as the cliffs twist by.
I would rather squint in the light than to
strain to see you appear in the dark night hallways.
I would rather let the questions go unanswered.

Stop now.
Sound surround us. I’m up for a night of repentance.
Nothing is wasted in this universe,
everything is borrowed. It was all here first.
But your story, your spiral, your skying face and
your carousel feet carry my mind to better places.

We can light the candles, break the bread,
sweep the sidewalks, plan ahead,
fasten the nails so the pictures don’t fall
on the floor.
We can feed the poor. We can read some more
until
our shells are broken, until every unspoken story
is written across the sky.

Until we all

Stop now.
While the sounds of undancing whistle like morning,
like handfuls of birdsong with lyrics hidden within
the center of everything.