He Called it Presence

He Called it Presence

(“When they suffered, he suffered with them.” Isaiah 63:9a)

He danced the dirge like a ghost,
and felt like a silent shade. There was
nothing substantial he could remember.
There was nothing future he could predict.
He pulled the sod up over his shoulders like
a blanket to keep out the cold.
There was no one there for him,
at least that is what he was told.

It was like the beginning of creation,
It was less than the sun could shine.
It was like the last day of celebration.
It was more than the moon had to show.

He never thought anyone knew,
He never saw the eyes that saw him.
But there was another dancing, another echoing
his sad spinning. He did not think he was suffering.
The truth is, he did not think much at all.
But he could not help but see there was another
day someone might call apostasy.
He just called it presence and kept up his
sojourning ways while his heart gave way
to the questions he had been asking for
a lifetime.

Would the one who began it all
finally move his direction? Would the last
of days, ancient in its ways,
feel the tears as hot as his own?
He hoped it was so. Neither questions nor
answers
soothed him in these rotating seasons.
He just hoped the unknown visitor would
stop by before the end of the day.

Multiplied Fortune

Multiplied Fortune

(“When the workers arrived, the ones who had been hired at five in the afternoon were given a full day's pay.” Matthew 20:9)

The day was elastic, it was short and round;
I turned in my hours and found I worked for
more and put in so little time I could not be considered
an employee at all.
Was I worth a dollar, maybe two? But how could they
pay me for an entire shift when I barely was there at all?
I barely showed up,
I gave it my all,
I surely did not deserve
the wages I did not earn,
paid the same as workers there from
morning till last call. Should I contact the manager;
was there a mistake?
Should I bank it or invite someone to dine with me
to celebrate my good fortune?

I stared at the check and subtracted the zeros,
I wondered if I would be paid the same tomorrow,
if I would work a longer shift and be rewarded more;
would this benevolence continue, or would I have
to trade my pay in for
a favor I had not anticipated? I rubbed my fingers over
the ink and the numbers; they did not run.
I wondered was it a mistake, had I heard the offer all wrong?

For now, all that mattered was meeting a few friends
to celebrate with drinks and buy the first round. I could
barely hold it in,
I could scarcely begin to describe my good luck,
the grace I discovered when I was the last one in
and the first one paid. I’d show up tomorrow and
work for wages I did not deserve and wonder where
the manager got the idea
to multiply fortune to someone he found lounging
hoping for a minimum-wage job.

There Were Children Dancing

There Were Children Dancing

(“So God will choose the one to whom he decides to show mercy; his choice does not depend on what people want or try to do.” Romans 9:16)

I listened to the laughter coming from the next room;
there were children dancing to a whirling tune
I did not know and could not repeat. They circled
each other and leaped up and down. It was on a
stormy day with winds roaring from the east; foothills
to the coast, and the rain splattered the windows like
tiny balloons thrown by fairies.
It was rarely this easy. But today their feet moved
together, their giggles were not disruptive, and their
words were improvised along with their song.

There was something vital in that moment, there was

untitled poetry at play. It came from within them,
it came from without. It came from planets above,
it came from the earth below. It crept in through the doorway,
it circled room after room until, soon enough,
the laughter gave way to lavender exhaustion.

Not a breath was wasted, every movement was intentional,
every word was invented, not a syllable fell pasted to the floor.
They floated like dandelions, they tossed themselves like
pillows in the air. They sounded like cherubs, they looked like
an hour in a day without care. They slipped in their favorite
colors and poked around the edges of prayer.

No one planned it, no one invited the parties;
it was all the children knew to do with their spare time,
it was everything they had waited for since morning had dawned.
And all the adults learned laughter halfway through the dance.
Next time maybe they would lead it, maybe they would leave it
all to chance.

Questions Don’t Always Have Answers

Questions Don’t Always Have Answers

(“Then he said, ‘I tell you the truth. You must change and become like little children. If you don’t do this, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’” Matthew 18:3)

I’ve seen you playing basketball in the street,
practicing your layups, your three-point plays,
your bounce passes and the hopes you will get to start
the very next game. But, though a teenager now, the child
hasn’t completely left, has it? I know you will even jump
on your trampoline with your 3-year-old sister. Maybe you
just put up with her, but that is what older brothers do.

I’m sure you’ve seen a slew of problems you would like to know
the answers to.
And even though you live right next to me, don’t hold out any hope
for certainty from me.

I know a girl whose mom died when she was 40. She nearly beat that
wicked cancer,
she did. But then her body was done. Her organs began shutting down,
her breathing became labored, and she was compassionately kept as
comfortable as possible.

We laid hands on her, didn’t we? All the relatives; her mom, her grandad,
her sisters, her daughter and their sometime pastor. We were convinced
God could do anything. We were persuaded God would not leave this
5-year-old child alone.

We used to ask for prayer requests at Sunday Services
and Nancy, that was the child’s name,
always asked for prayer for her momma. She asked for prayer when she
was in treatment,
she asked for prayer once she was buried. Nancy only knew God had
to do something good. And the something good would be having
mommy back in the house, laughing with her daughter, making
pumpkin pie together and walking in the fields to collect kindling
for the woodstove through November to February.
God can do anything, the Pastor even said so. But it seems so
unfair
that the God who can do anything refuses to do
everything. Children feel this more deeply than us all. God,
what in the hell did we do to you for you to take away a mom from her
vulnerable child?

My neighbor keeps practicing his shots from the field. I believe
he is getting better, and I’ve never asked him about God.

I only know that I’d rather live with the questions children ask than
the vanilla retorts adults learn from books that give 1000 answers to
questions that are never meant to have answers.

I see Nancy from time to time. She was the last person I every baptized.
Even then, as she went under the water (she did love Jesus), her question floated
just above her head: “Why, why, why, is my mother dead?”

Does it Show?

Does it Show?

(“Don’t worry—I am with you. Don’t be afraid—I am your God. I will make you strong and help you. I will support you with my right hand that brings victory.” Isaiah 41:10)

Does it show? Can you see the change on my face,
the brokenness of my gait? Do my steps seem slower today,
and can I point out all I’ve endured.
And have I paid for everything; am I completely cured?
Fear is the silence of a lion sneaking up without a roar.
Anxiety is the silence of songs that refuse to be sung.
I’ve sat through days I don’t want to describe,
I don’t want to hide. I stepped out yesterday and tried
out a little conversation. I never carried my half well,
letting the parentheses spill between questions and answers.
Do you believe? Can you see the rearrangements around my eyes;
can you hear the key change I no longer can sing?

I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m tired, no naps in my easy chair.
I read the side effects and lived out a few. I listened to the list
and hoped to sleep away the fatigue.

I’m pretty sure I am in no immediate danger, but my mind and
body
buzzes like a convict on his last walk around the grounds.
I’m pretty sure I am ok. I’m pretty sure the kingdoms are
not conspiring against me. I’m pretty sure I’ll lay me down
to sleep at the proper time.

I’m not sure how to celebrate; I’m unclear on the victory.
I’ve left some writing on the wall, but I may repaint soon.
I’ve read some ancient texts that decoded my younger aspirations.
I could tell you more, if only I had something weighty to say.
But I just play the radio and wish I would
play my guitar instead. I dedicated the room to music,
but there is nothing in my head. No notes, no lyrics,
no meaningful letter to trace between the lines of
manuscript pages.

Does it show? I’m slowly unwinding and willing to
play my songs if only I can find them. Can you loan me
an hour or two? I’ll play one song, but I don’t like how
I sing these days.
Does it show? Can you see what so much solo has done?

When the Silence Invades

When the Silence Invades

(“’Comfort, comfort my people,’ says your God.” Isaiah 40:1)

When the silence invades your disquieted heart
find a place where words are weightier than
the solid rain that preoccupies your spaces of pain.
There is Spirit that speaks to the troubled fields where
chariots once charged. There is clear sky where the
clouds of thunder once erupted. There are donors of
friendship to open the ears deafened by muzzled
quiet withholding conversation.

You could read aloud, turn the volume higher.
You could strum the strings of so many spare
instruments lining your room. But something,
(a broken brick wall?) something keeps you from
standing to tune them, sitting to practice,
swaying as you play them. And the silence only
infiltrates your uneasy understanding.

There are songs I used to sing for days on end.
I would sing them to you if my voice hadn’t aged.
Some sound like cabernet,
some sound like whiskey,
some sound like babble,
some like unending rhymes.

There are phone numbers that I remember from
high school. No one lives there anymore, no one answers.
Nothing lasts forever, nothing sleeps all day.
Nothing hides unbidden, nothing knows the time.
Everything is within arm’s reach,
everything is sadder when the quiet is unrelentless.

The good news is, the Spirit whispers,
and keeps me company through the afternoon.
I’ll share the words, I’ll pour out my heart,
I’ll take some of the silence that has muted your day,
and turn it into words on a page, and turn it into
rosemary and sage.

An Outcast Heart

An Outcast Heart

(“But the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and it is those things that make a person unclean.” Matthew 15:18)

Did I hear that you wanted to change the world?
Did I hear that you stew over the ingredients of opposition?
Did I see you making a lie, turning it over, polishing it and
moreover, branding the facts and turning them into
seminal enemies of the state?
Did I see your raucous rage replace the dialogue
of critical thinking? Did I see the way you
nailed your enemies down?

I don’t have the energy to keep up anymore. I don’t have
the reserves to reverse the steady stream of nonsense
accepted as gospel by some of the angriest people I know.
I know because I came from that principality. I know
because once I found my own road (the road I had missed
for decades); once I found my new road they reached for the ropes
and tried to tie me to the courthouse tree.

I don’t have the energy, but my words well up inside me.
I need to sleep, but my thoughts keep possessing me.
I sit outside and wait for one or two who hear the truth
to renew my untitled dream. I’m looking behind me,
looking in front of me,
listening for a sound from the street that will restore
the longing of an outcast heart.

I’m looking through you from down and up,
I know the potions you drink from your deceitful cup.
There is still room for you, still there is time,
to cast aside the poison words, to admit your false rhymes,
and bring it all out into the sun, bring it out for everyone
to see,
the transformation that only quietness can bring.

Sorry I Missed

Sorry I Missed

I missed our appointment;
I am sorry, sanity got in the way.
I know someone told you that
anxiety was a sin. I know
they told you that
God is in control.
Did they have an answer why
one bullet missed its mark
and another creased the brain of a
loving father that day?

I missed having drinks with you;
I am sorry, dis-ease got in the way.
I know someone told you that
you would never understand them. I know
they told you that
this was all mandated by God.
Did they have an answer why they
never thought that way when the
candidate they adored lost? Did they
bow to God’s decree when the opposition
took the reins of power? Or does God only
work for one side of the aisle, and not for the other.
Did they mention the person who lost is
a man devoted to faith, a woman devoted to home,
a whole convention full of hope?

I missed dinner with you:
I am sorry, the locked doors got in the way.
I know someone told you that
I was a heretic now. I know someone
mentioned my stumbles that can still be seen
in my bruises and my tears.
Did they have an answer to their own sins,
or of the transgressions of the winner?
Did they appropriate love only for their own kind?

My friend, hold tight your kaleidoscope children;
look deep in the eyes of your spouse nearly deported;
beseech the little god who acts like a bully to
shovel his shit in someone else’s yard.
And ask the Only God to send the love to those
who say his name over and over again but have hardly
ever
offered his love to the others who are no different than
us all; ask the Only God to shower the people with love.

The Morning Broke Loudly

The Morning Broke Loudly

(“They are now justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus.” Romans 3:24)

I know the morning broke loudly across your consciousness,
I know the outcome pushed upon your chest like a trunk of pennies.
You expected better,
you hoped for something different than the same lines to the
same songs
over and over again.
I know you wanted to wake up this morning like summer.
I know you wanted to have a drink with your friends and celebrate.
You dreamed of so much better,
you yearned for the very thing that would give new words to the
same old songs
you enjoyed when you were young.

But the sun broke through the gray today,
the dogs chased each other and played in the field.
The promise felt like a fainting scarecrow,
I know,
I felt the fatigue too, sucking the last drop
of enthusiasm from the day.
But the sun still shone like summer,
the trees were letting go all around me
creating a carpet of seeds and leaves, heart-shaped leaves,
and the breaths we take are as full as they were
yesterday at this time.

I know the breezes are cooler this time of year,
I know the rain sometimes announces itself before the deluge.
You expected rainbows,
you hoped for the injustice in the world would never
consume the light you felt in your soul. So,
rainbow or no,
you knew the day would be hard. You knew the canyon
was narrow and shafts of light briefly played upon your brow.

I know you wanted to see this day brighter,
I know you wanted to dance like a playful fawn.
Instead you walked over the dew-drenched yard,
took the letters out of the mailbox
and went back indoors, sat on the couch and wondered
what would come of all of this.

Everybody Has a Mountain

Everybody Has a Mountain

(“Because their minds are dull, and they have stopped up their ears and have closed their eyes. Otherwise, their eyes would see, their ears would hear, their minds would understand, and they would turn to me, says God, and I would heal them.” Matthew 13:15)

What do you see, what do you notice?
Are they too q for you? Or too diminished, or too damaged,
or too sinful, or eat too loudly, or have parties with transgressors,
sharing food like family? What are you seeing? What makes you
keep your distance? Or make your insistence clear that repentance
is the only cure for the pain they carry from daylight to sundown?

Are you able, at a moment’s notice, to rid yourself of easy aphorisms
that say little and mean even less. Do you discount the doctors who only
“practice”, why only God “heals”. Or can you see the doctors as the
hands of God, a miracle in the flesh, a co-conspirator in the dawn of
divine healing? Don’t diss the doctors. I’ve met more angels in white coats
than I have in blue suits occupying a box made for worship.

Everybody has a mountain they wish would move,
Everybody has waters they must traverse,
Everybody has danger that stalks them from long ago,
Everybody has a wasteland where food and water and health and matter
disappeared like an oasis approached at dusk.

Did you see the transman wanting to worship? Did you, with all the
confidence religion gives you, declare “God does not make mistakes.”
Did you forget about congenital heart disease, spina bifida, or cleft palates?
Our world is full of mistakes, imperfection is the beauty of our mosaic.
Why tell a rugged tourmaline that it should be a nicely polished emerald?
You are right. God makes no mistakes. And the sister who know she’s a
brother, is not a mistake and never has been. The baby who needed a
heart transplant within 3 weeks of birth was not a mistake. She’s going
to college now. She’s a miracle of God’s partnership with medicine.

What do you see? What are you forcing them to keep inside because
they know you’ll lecture them without knowledge?

Let us learn to hear again; let’s unstop our ears, let’s open our eyes.
We are the ones who need healing. We, the ones who have boxed in
so many hurting souls, driving them further from the divine acceptance
they deserve.

Let’s turn. Let’s face Jesus. Let’s look at him touching lepers, healing the
blind who everyone else thought was a sinner. Let’s watch him bring life
where everyone else was talking about death. Let’s pull it together,
sew it masterfully, a net that hauls all species of fish. Let’s build a
mosaic of healing to decorate the beauties of the Lord.