Never Sleeps

While a pastor on the Fort Berthold Reservation I was honored with the Indian name, "NeverSleeps". It was primarily because I was often responding to particular needs in the middle of the night.

Even more relevant, the Lord Himself, Maker of all, "Never Sleeps".

Surely you know.
Surely you have heard.
The Lord is the God who lives forever,
who created all the world.
He does not become tired or need to rest.
No one can understand how great his wisdom is.

Isaiah 40:28

Welcome to every reader. I am a simple follower of Jesus. He is perfect, I often fall short.

Thursday, July 3, 2025

It’s Easy to Dream

It’s Easy to Dream

It’s easy to dream once your eyelids close;
it’s harder to dream what you want like a set
of your favorite clothes.
I tried to direct the choir, now I just play the piano.
I tried to feel the fire that had burned in my heart
all afternoon.
I hoped to live within the ropes that tied me to you.
I remember how ICE dressed like masked gang members
to confiscate some human’s feet from the concrete.
I’ve seen the gulag where they keep them like
cattle waiting slaughter. I’ve heard the mumbles
about the bible, I’ve seen their inchoate references
to excuse their handgun executed arrests.

I threw my hands up hoping you would see that
I cannot excuse or stomach the worship that parades
itself like confetti on the front rows of avenues.
There are no demons to attack, there is not warfare
to extinguish,
there is only love, love only love, left for us from the
One who forgave every notion of adversity from the pain
that would have driven sanity from the best of us.

I saw your attitude inside the congressional halls, the
room of the people. I saw your faux prayers that you prayed
to push through the bill that removes hope from millions. I’ve
heard your prayers on the corner in direct defiance of Jesus’
direction to pray alone in our own room.

I threw my hopes down the tunnel created by hidden boys
thinking they could hide inside the dark trees and foliage.
I dreamed the American flag was removed, finally and for all,
from every church’s stage. I dreamed we learned that empire
is the enemy of following the Lamb.

It's easy to dream when you sleep so late. It’s lately
uneasy, but I’ll keep speaking and trust the words will
end up carving a new way in my mind overnight.


Tuesday, July 1, 2025

The Pockmarks of War

The Pockmarks of War

(“He brings an end to wars throughout the earth. He shatters the bow and breaks the spear; he burns the shields with fire.” Psalm 46:9)

I don’t need to think about it,
I don’t need to start again. I’ve heard the cry
of victory that savors peace like an early supper.
I’ve heard the mothers begging for skirmishes
to cease. I’ve seen the pain melting from the faces
who swore to study war no more.

Throw the spears into the forge, remake them into
garden rakes. Throw the guns into the furnace, remake
them into gazebos where the only invasion is music
on summer evenings.

Heed the voices who are crying. Heed the babies
who have been dying because you had to avenge
everything that ever pained your land.

The refugees hover inside whitewashed tents,
they take cover when they hear the missiles whistle
overhead. The children know the drills too well.
I’ve watched them huddle, leaving behind every
vestige of nationality. Sadly, the vileness of violence
followed them to nowhere home.

Why do we use words like love and caress our bombs?
Why do we mutter syllables of peace and prime the fuses?
Why do we pray and send away for more munitions?
Why do we hug it out and then paint targets on people’s backs?

Do you see creation? Do you see the children’s songs?
Do you hear the sound of tomorrow? Do you hear the robin’s song?
Can you feel the beauty of lands where pockmarks of warfare
have ceased? Can you feel the daylight that opens the door
a self truer than military salutes and slogans?

Sunday, June 29, 2025

Perhaps a Doppelganger


Perhaps a Doppelganger

(“A man named Jesus made a paste and rubbed it on my eyes and told me, ‘Go to Siloam and wash.’ I did what he said. When I washed, I saw.” John 9:11 [The Message])

Another long day placed him near the pool where
jokers and religionists, housewives and jesters,
would was their vagrant sins away. He was certain
the waters could heal his blindness; he was just befuddled
as to which sin had taken away his sight.

Had had to resort to begging, not being able to look them in the eye,
I suppose his coffers grew more slowly than the sighted ones who
could coax some mercy and a sliver of shame from the passersby.

some were wearing turbans, some were wearing fedoras.
He could not discern their readiness, he only could listen and
hope
their voices told their readiness to contribute.

But then a man approached and said not a word. He looked at him,
this Jesus, and spit on the ground. Making clay with the saliva,
he rubbed the paste on the blind man’s eyes. The blind man
shivered; what could this mean. Then he spoke, this Jesus,
and told him to go wash in the Siloam pool. He sent him there
directly.

The man went. The man washed. The man could see.

Scattered across the portico the people held court and could
not believe. Perhaps there was a doppelganger who had alwayscoul
had his sight. Perhaps they merely mistook him for the man begging
at the gates.

inally, he spoke up, “I’m the man, the very one.” His voice was
happy but shaking.

How did this happen? The clowns asked from the circus motif.

I can see. Does that bother you? A man named Jesus made a paste
and rubbed it in my eyes. Does that offend you? He told me to go
to the pool of Siloam. Does that confuse you? I did what he said.

When I washed, I saw.

Does that make you want to follow him?

Instead they marched the man to the religion experts who
dressed finer than cocktail tuxedos at night. They knew it had
to be a fake;
it was done on the Sabbath. He was healed on the Sabbath.
Jesus did work with mud and clay on the Sabbath. The man washed
it off on the Sabbath.

And every adjudication contained a clause that insisted miracles
cannot happen on the Sabbath. They take too much work. You cannot
rest and restore sight at the same time.

All the man knew is that he was once blind but could now see.
Jesus could have healed every blind person that day, including the
clowns posing as experts, if only they knew they could not see.

Saturday, June 28, 2025

I Sweep my Emotions

I Sweep my Emotions

 

I was tempted to lie about my status,
to tell you I felt loved and whole.
It’s not that I’m left alone, or misheard,
or disrupted by delusions of my late afternoon words.
I was even questioned in the friendliest of ways
about my plans for the afternoon and weekend.

There are dozens of friends I could call on,
there are maybe a hundred that know my name;
there are scores who have witnessed my wounds,
and fewer who blame me for my forgotten moods.

Even as I sit down to write this, I question every
word or phrase,
I sweep my emotions out the front door and do not know
if they will return in the morning to
remind me how stolen I feel. I remember the voices
who said I drank the Kool-Aid,
who told me to get over it,
who said I shouldn’t feel any sort of way. Even the sun
feels foreign on this summer afternoon.

I’ve asked, as if anyone is listening, if it is dark yet.
I’ve wondered how long the days can be. I’ve wasted
my days with endless talking heads and tried to write when
all I knew were tasteless odes to disembodied heroes.

I heard it was a five-year-old’s birthday in the restaurant
I retire to when I want to read and sip a beer. I gave her a dollar
and loved the way she giggled and smiled. If only I knew
every child’s birthday.

Someone said I was obsessed with politics when all I
wanted
was for a few believers to love the Sermon on the Mount
more than their pet projects that canceled the hopes of
thousands. When will love be the answer? When will
devotion look like another helping of soup without
questions for the hungry ones who only needed a
spot of daylight to create unconscious acceptance?

I won’t lie again to be more accepted. I won’t
support your rebuttal of good science. I’ll stand
up every day for the unassuming immigrant who only
wants to find a new place to call home.

Tuesday, June 24, 2025

To Confess My Loneliness


To Confess My Loneliness

(“The priest shall burn all of it on the altar, for a burnt offering, an offering made by fire, of a pleasant aroma to Yahweh.” Leviticus 1:9b)

I’m so tired of confusing every emboldened cryptic answer
to the questions I send by test balloon. I’ve kept my eyes open.
I’ve even shut my mouth.
I’ve waited for the reply that would set all my doubts aside,
but all I remember is the smell of grilling from next door.
I had hoped the breeze would bring more voices,
would open up the choices I had that could make the day
feel sooner that later. I’ve been told it’s nothing personal
when I get no answer,
it's just the delivery system that is broken. I do not believe
that silly response no matter how well it is spoken.
I’ve been taught that loneliness is not a big enough
reason to cry.
“Isn’t God enough?” they ask. They walk on down the road
while I scratch my head about what they said.

I used to be embarrassed to confess my loneliness,
the result of silence I never asked for. Everyone had
an opinion;
everyone laid down their advice like directives from a
commandant. I was born in a room full of noise,
of laughter and crying. I live in a room of silence so
I turn the music up loud. I could relax so much better with
someone to talk to who didn’t have the answers full of
conclusions. They want me to put it all on the altar,
to let it burn up every part of me. They do not understand that
I have so little left to offer that the smoke from my altar
would barely be seen.

I’ve walked this pathway before. I’ve humbled myself in words
full of self-loathing. I’ve let it burn until there was nothing left of me
except bones blackened by the flame. I left one ceremony early
because my baby was tired and getting restless and others
shot their eyes at me like I was a heretic or transgressor,
when I was just a father with an exhausted toddler.

I wish someone would draw different conclusions. I wish
they would sacrifice for me the way they think I should sacrifice.
I wish I had something left to burn. Maybe it’s because I’m old now,
maybe it’s because I remember for so long the screeching sounds
of cars suddenly breaking outside at midnight. Maybe it’s simply
me who has been wrong, maybe I spent too much time in the moonlight.

Maybe I need one person holding back their well-intentioned advice
and revising their presumptions about me. Maybe a single voice,
quietly whispering its way into my heart would inject something new
into the dreams that cause my heart to ache in the middle of the night.

Sunday, June 22, 2025

Everlasting Springs

Everlasting Springs

(“Let the one who believes in me drink. Just as the scripture says, ‘From within him will flow rivers of living water.’” John 7:38)

We had been patient, waiting for the day to begin.
We had approached from below, finding the hills where
we could look out across the river, shiny and silver,
no wind, no wind, no wind.

We look to the east toward the mouth of the river some
200 miles away. We wondered how many had sent their
best wishes toward us standing above the water today.

We walked down from the hill to feel the river on our skin.
We approached from above, finding the ledges that edged
five feet into the rivers running torso. Fishermen slung
their line across the lapping waves, stirred by a late breeze
in the afternoon.

We look to the west to the foot of the river, some 50 miles
away. We wondered how many ships turned from the sea
and followed the river to upland ports to unload their burdens
before the tugboats turned them round to the sea again.

We sensed this lane of passage was something within.
We determined this was a picture of something more tangible
we could carry like canteens. We drank water to refresh
our parched tongues; we shared water to brighten the eyes
of the solitary ones. We might practice solidarity with
those excluded from the river. We might lead them by the
hand to hear how the Spirit pours herself into us like
everlasting springs.

From watching and waiting we learned to listen well,
and we were more certain now at the end of the day that
the river was our mother, always ready to share her affluence.
The river was our mother, always ready to show us the confluence
with every other stream along the way.


Friday, June 20, 2025

Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

(“The cherubim had their wings spread upward, covering the Mercy Seat with their wings and facing each other. The faces of the cherubim were turned toward the Mercy Seat.” Exodus 37:9)

The room was dark, but their eyes were bright
like cats caught in the middle of the night by a beam of moonlight.
Imprinted, their space was inhabited by curiosity and
mercy; their timing was perfect, their projections
silently filled the place with awe and dread.
It took time to become used to the shadows cast
upon the curtains hanging like fluid waterfalls.

I had fallen asleep and assumed it was a dream.
I saw my younger son as a child pretending to ride
our Australian Shepherd like a cowboy.
He liked to journey across the earth, ticking the
boxes
of every planet he visited. He logged his progress,
and I leapt conclusions. He always preferred to
visit somewhere new until his card was completed,
until enough time passed to make its memory dim.

What would I see within the tabernacle,
what would I write after seeing angels in stone?
What answer could I give to the silent room where
no one could visit, except for high priests and novices
in dreams? In my enlightened imagination sunrise and
sunset inhabited the same moment and place. I could
breathe without pain;
I could speak without forgetting the refrain that echoed
relief from the unanswerable contemplations I had piled
in the corners of my mind.

The cherubim, heavy with the weight of glory,
unshadowed the primordial imprint that stained
my preconceptions.

It was a chilly and cloudy summer solstice with the
rain occasionally painting the hills. I remembered what
it was like to dwell with the ancient wings buffering
my descent and holding me mercifully from the moment
I stumbled on the steps to the temple. I was frozen
in fear
until the images of forgiveness played like light
from the sun a minute before it goes down.

Tuesday, June 17, 2025

Of Bread and Music

Of Bread and Music

(“I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever, and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” John 6:51

I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been asking for a rhyme
to bring me closer to another soul like mine. Recent years have left me
frightened of conversation and forays into the depths of contemplation about
God and sunsets and music and the proper tempo to play a hymn.
My abilities have wavered as my fingers bend and tremor. Not
that anyone can tell, but I know my fine motor skills are no longer
fine and have left me with less skill.

But the trio invited me to join them as I walked into the bar
a midday Thursday afternoon. Two women with voices of angels,
one husband, a kind man, buys me a beer. We sit and talk music
and I’m invited to join a group of ukulele students with me on
keyboards. Recent years have left me skittish of forays where my
mistakes can be readily discerned. I’m a music reader and have
never played by ear well. I need to see it and from there it transmits
to my fingers. But they have been left dormant for so long they
miss the keys and come down between them in discordant half tones.

But the urge still moves me, while anxiety pumps the breaks.
To gather around picnic tables and share bread and wine,
steaks and beer, or anything else brought by the few who
(I hear) are as anxious as me.

Could there be angels surrounding us as we pass the
food down the line?
Could there be divine messengers listening in to our
musical etudes and attempts? Could our small talk be
a tactical vest to protect us from blushing at our inadequacies?
Whatever it is, and whatever we hear, whatever we eat, and
whatever we drink,
let’s let make music of heaven sink into our closed-mouth
inhibitions.

Monday, June 16, 2025

Tide Pools

Tide Pools

(“I will send an angel before you…” Exodus 33:32a)

The blue wall formed the front of the visage
from the cliffs above the sea. The marine layer
hugged the coast like a mother dolphin, like a day
when the sun yawned until noon.
We had driven overnight to arrive there, hoping
the tidepools were full of orange anemones and
sandy starfish. We wore our best shoes to keep from
cutting the heels of our feet.

When we looked behind us our shadows disappeared
into the frothing waves. When we looked above us
the blue was gray, and the breeze was unsteady.
When we looked before us we saw more than we
saw below us. We expanded the day beyond yesterday’s
noontime vigils. We had planned this for longer than we
admitted.
We could not see it, but we had been led there by
by the uncreated spirit of divine presence.

We heard the bells behind us pealing like iron
from a forgotten California mission. Had the worshippers
come from the edges of the city; had the celebrants
begun their homage to the sea?

We discovered more music surrounding us in
the whistling of the wind, the cawing of the gulls, the
whispers of the waves receding from the rocks. We
listened and the lyrics came to remind us that these
tight spaces on the earth can be fuller than a cup
overflowing
with late summer wine. We are spots, we are dots,
we are only the tiniest drops of water on the
sphere we inhabit. And sometimes, if we notice,
there is more to see than we came to see.

Friday, June 13, 2025

It’s All So Complex

It’s All So Complex

(“The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord will receive my prayer.” Psalm 6:10)

She thinks you are indifferent and have sent no one to help.
She feels forgotten, she sees nothing on the horizon. She hopes
you govern in love
but learned little but coercion.
Hear her please. Hear her pleas. Receive her cry, respond to
her anguish, the residue of trauma.

It's all so complex. It’s jigsaw puzzles in four dimensions.
It’s air that feels too heavy to breathe. It’s earth that is blown dusty
by the northwest wind. It is every resume sent with
new hopes kindled. It is every rejection when you swore you
were the most qualified. It is your children feeling your anxiety
in their bones, but they keep on playing because it all seems
more mysterious than they can imagine.

Show her just for a moment that she is chosen. Let her
snatch the words from the air that speak of sparks of
divinity. Let her journey into the warmth that is
fashioned my mercy. Let her walk today unhindered
by loneliness and loss.

I know you haven’t rejected her. I know you have remembered her.
I know she is one of your own. I know she hasn’t chosen this land
of the unknown. I would remain silent if I thought that would
amplify your voice to her. I would speak only softly with warm
rain words like late summer afternoons. I know she belongs to you,
I know she’s crossed more bridges than she can count.

I know the day is coming when the horizon lifts like a curtain
and the mystery will no longer be inky night. I know the mystery,
the secret of the inner life, will one day be a place of peaceful reflection.
I know you are affected by her plight and may have sent help already.
I know the fear of the silence too. I know the dread of days when
there is no voice to muscle the heavy lifting. I know the loneliness
of silent friendships.

But I am learning the comfort of solitude between the flighty words
of new friends who happily buy me a beer.

Monday, June 9, 2025

The Answer to Every Question

The Answer to Every Question

(“This is love: it is not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son as the sacrifice that deals with our sins.” 1 John 4:10)

You would know me from a distance,
I have the same appeal I did when we first met.
We can start again because we have ended at the same
fork in the road. Tell me which way you will go and
I will turn that way too. Tell me your destination and
I will make it my own. Follow me, I may not know where
we will end up,
but I know I want to go there with you.
My car is old and slower than it used to be,
but we can still get there if we take our time.
I will take my time until the breeze whispers that
you are mine.
Feel it all, the large and the small; let the emotions
that are hidden come out into the afternoon sun. Put
them in my hand and I will massage them, the hurting ones.
Put them in my hand and I will cherish them, the loving ones.
Waiting only postpones the way our souls relate,
putting it off increases the ennui. Can’t tell if it’s
right or wrong,
I just want to sing the words of the song and watch them
etch beloved lyrics upon your face. You might smile
while I am awkward with the tune. But you will know,
later or soon, how much they mean.
We both have been bogged down in tradition,
we both have been forced to keep the rules that keep us
fenced up like incarcerated rabbits caught nibbling the garden.
Today I do not even need to persuade you,
today I only want to upgrade the love first begun.
We can get out and walk once we reach our destination,
we can feel the sand between our toes. We can feel our
hands lightly touching,
we can hear the surf filling in the words we have forgotten.
And in that moment you know and I know there is nothing
we could tell that would drive us away.
The universe answers with the deepest love when we
ask the questions we have been afraid to ask.
It is you, I have seen you in the storm;
It is you; I have loved you in the warm and quiet
afternoons. And only hope to be loved too.
Then you take my hand and put it on your face and
I know
No one can replace you, then or now, and I take
you in my arms and hold you softly as our eyes
kiss and we know the answer to every question we’ve been asking.

Saturday, June 7, 2025

The Immigrant is my Brother

The Immigrant is my Brother

“You must not mistreat or oppress foreigners in any way. Remember, you yourselves were once foreigners in the land of Egypt.” Exodus 22:21

The immigrant is my brother, the foreigner is my son,
the stranger is my sister, the refugee is my daughter.
I will be their asylum, I will be their sanctuary. I was
a stranger once and I needed refuge. I was
seeking sustenance once when few listened,
looking for a place to take me in as a friend.

There were troubadours among them, songsters who
sang stories of long treks to freedom. They played with
sorrowful hope, they sang with joy like jesters,
they invited us jokers to learn their tunes. The chords
were native to their lands, their music helped them cope
with vacillating orders from an empire that closed their ears
and chanted words of arrestment to the ones who spoke with
open throats about their dreams.

They fired up their grills and cooked for the neighborhood.
Everyone was welcome, everyone had a chair. Their children
played
like children play all over the world. Language separated us some,
but not enough to keep us away. The day was warm enough
for water balloons and beer. The sun showed up and embraced
our outdoor cantina while we laughed at the toddlers trying
somersaults on the lawn.

I would be a clown for them, I would make them smile,
I would tell the ancient stories of slaves who found a way
to leave the oppressive state. I would tell them God is
on their side,
the persecuted are always the passion of the Divine. Children
always know what love looks like and they teach it to us
if only we will listen. If only we will observe them.

The undocumented is my neighbor and today we shared
a moment outside the lines of judgment and strict legislation.
The undocumented is my friend and today we learned
there are far less differences than people create. The
undocumented is the man who fed my dog today and
I was the one who tickled his child and ran with him across the lawn.

Friday, June 6, 2025

My Heart’s Thin Veneer

My Heart’s Thin Veneer

I’ve stood at your doorway, my toes tickling your threshold,
wondering if I should knock, if I should see if you are home.
I know you’ve told me to come over any time, but I still feel
it is such a risk
to let you see me out of my element. You may ask me to
leave early,
or not to come inside at all. It’s almost like a wedding where
the groom has only heard of the bride and
worrying what she will think at her first look at
the one who has written the words line by line. His
face might betray how afraid he is that the door will stay
closed
well after rapping softly on it asking for entrance.

I’ve told you about my heart, maybe a half of it, maybe more.
But now I stand at your door knowing this time you will
see all of it. The falls. The lies. The uncomfortable way
it shies away from dropping the façade it wears. So far
you only love half of me, and the other half remains in shade.

Would you dare to embrace the darkened shadows
I’ve hidden from you? Would you let me in the door
not knowing? And yet some unbidden hope tells me
my heart may be already welcome inside your own.

I’ve protected it with words as thin as onion skin,
I’ve ventured to this door with a resolution to say
all I am afraid to say. You may think I have said
it all
already, and that may be true. This time I’m knocking
like it was the first time we met. This time I’m hoping
you and I both know what it’s like to be lonely. This moment
I might be brave, or I might slink away. Would you invite me in
once I dared to hold out every thought of my heart?
Would it be like the start of a song with every stanza
unrehearsed and every note belonging to you?

Here it is, my anxiety on display. Here it is,
knowing all I want to say, and knowing the
risk there is in unveiling everything.
Still, I cannot wait to hear your footsteps coming
to open the door.

Wednesday, June 4, 2025

The Idol

The Idol

(“You are not to craft for yourselves an idol or anything resembling what is in the skies above, or on earth beneath, or in the water sources under the earth.” Exodus 20:4)

His voice was crackling like firewood,
his face hotter than an embarrassed teen,
his gait the sideways hustle of a man convinced he
is sent from God. His words full of lies and deception,
His proclamations completely committed to retribution.
And all the believers, the jesus type of people who drew
iron circles around the mountains of faith, they all called him
the messiah sent from god.
And yet not one could see, even if they had wanted to,
that the man was a fraud, a Nero-type psychotic,
speaking like a despotic king taking charge of everything.
And worship leaders hawked their words for millions and
power. They bundled real estate like late night shots of tequila
to take back the land for god.
Like Delilah they tied him to a chair and did unspeakable things there.
He was their prince, he was their paramour, he was the answer to
cultural morose battles.

But still there were a few who, lacking portents of anger,
gave water to the thirsty, walked to the courthouse with immigrants,
carried signs asking for sanity, and sang the songs of peace and
unity.

We were not the silent ones, not after an insurrection with a gallows
lifted for the head of the second in charge. We knew, against all odds,
the time was over for indistinct words of spirit that very few understood.
Instead we wrote our names on the sidewalks of every town,
guiding them to hot meals, warm beds, and rural hospitals
still standing, for the time being. We did dance. But only because
we have met the Lord of Love and know, without a blink,
that he has nothing to do with the hot-faced wannabe king who
is trying to take over everything.
God will have his day. The tear gas will clear. The horizon
will be decorated with double rainbows by day and
the aurora borealis by night. We cannot capture either,
cannot bring it up for a vote. But we will stand without moving
as we see the face of Christ connecting everything through love.
As we see the cloud of the Spirit cooling every angry word.
As we see the love of the Father, undoing our idols, tearing them down,
and leaving them post-revolution, broken on the ground.

Monday, June 2, 2025

I Tried to Lasso the Wind

I Tried to Lasso the Wind

(“The wind blows wherever it wants to. You hear it, but you don’t know where it is coming from or where it is going. It is the same with everyone who is born from the Spirit.” John 3:8)

Yesterday I tried to lasso the wind,
it refused my invitation, ephemerally slipping loose
and, so softly I hardly knew it,
kissed my cheek with a whisper.
Yesterday I tried to catch my breath,
it was far behind me, hiding beneath the yellow brush blossoms
and evaporating into a field where rabbits play.
Yesterday I tried to dictate the Spirit,
she refused to obey me, cooly uncoiling her
love power so quietly my voice lost its authority.
She beckoned me to a place in the middle of the river
where the mainstreams flow. I decided to go,
having decoded her intention to vivify everything mortal
with eternal notions of change.  

You cannot control what you do not understand.
You cannot understand what you refuse to hear.
You cannot hear with your ears filled with orations.
You can only follow the glimmers that are so small
they reflect the hummingbirds’ wings, and fill the neighborhood
with songs so good that old men come to listen.
We learned to stop trying to capture the tunes that
came in the afternoons and only celebrate the reprieve
they brought from working with sweat on our furrowed brows.

Saturday, May 31, 2025

An Artifact for the Future

An Artifact for the Future

(“At the morning watch the Lord, in the pillar of fire and cloud, looked down on the Egyptian army and threw the Egyptian army into a panic.” Exodus 14:24)

The ground in front of us tilted and almost melted away.
We hadn’t counted on anything stopping our campaign,
we hadn’t planned for any opposition.
Just like that we were in the dark again;
the wind was dusty and the sky was gone.
The water nearly swallowed us up and the
morning fled like a dirge underneath our feet.
We had conceived of a quick weekend operation,
a short foray into the jaws of destiny.
We did not expect to come home so wounded,
to return with so little to result for our time.
How could we anticipate this scattering, this
chattering after training so well?
We called on our gods, we devised our sacrifices,
we practiced our prayers and were certain we
had been heard. We could not lose.
We could only win.
We planned on kissing our wives when we returned,
but we were still recovering from the frightening
thunder that came from nowhere. We thought we
were impervious, we thought we could win anywhere
with the help of our gods and our technology.
But those we enslaved escaped; we were meant to
bring them back. They became invisible and we,
confused and dazed, decided the time had come to
retreat. Everything we believed had become an artifact
for the future to unearth. We did not look forward to
giving our full report.

Wednesday, May 28, 2025

A Patch of Sky

A Patch of Sky

(“…so that you may know that the earth belongs to the Lord.” Exodus 9:29b)

I looked up at the patch of sky above me;
I looked out at the swatch of green before me.
I saw clouds pulled across the blue with kite strings;
I saw myself imbedded in a shadow box of early afternoon breezes.
Sometimes it goes without saying that certain stories need to be told.
Sun or rain,
the words can be heard in whispered portraits of the day.
A doe crossed the road just beyond the cemetery
and disappeared into the stand of trees and brush.
She didn’t know I saw her. She sauntered like it
all belonged to her.
I walked toe to heel hoping to get closer to the
next one that crossed my path.
The air was thicker today, and I heard the
blackbirds say there were still hours to stay
in the middle of the afternoon.

Sunday, May 25, 2025

Joy Unaware

Joy Unaware

(“Because they were wondering and questioning in the midst of their happiness, he said to them, ‘Do you have anything to eat?’” Luke 24:41)

We couldn’t believe our eyes though we looked
closer than the center of the target. We thought we were
seeing ghosts. We cried with tears in our eyes,
we cried with joy overwhelmed by surprise.
We thought we were looking into the sun,
we thought our eyes were blinded by the sight
of the center of the universe. We were castoff to the
edges of the earth. We were on the precipice between
laughter and accidents. Descending the stairs of sorrow
we were astonished at the brightness of the way. We
finished the interview and waited for the doors to open
when we saw the face that was as alive as a window full
of reflections. And that is all we thought we saw. But
we knew by the countenance that shined through, we
had walked with him through the waters and the blue
solitary skies. He had stilled the storms we thought nearly
swallowed us whole. We had watched him die.
Did I mention that joy overtook our sight? Did it
occur to us that things we never dreamed of might
swoop in and catch us unaware? We would share our
meal with him, we would watch him join us and,
corporeally speaking, our joy would slowly transform
into trust.

Friday, May 23, 2025

Songs for the Road

 Songs for the Road

(“So the people believed. When they heard that the Lord cared about the people of Israel and had seen their suffering, they bowed to the ground and worshiped.” Exodus 4:31)

Listen, the story is coming. Give heed to the words that
contain the seeds of your liberation. There is an announcement that
is no longer fantasy. It is not vanity to think that the divine has
given you an avenue of escape.
Open the envelope, break the seal,
read the news that announces the days of sorrow are over.
See the signature, hear the voice, recognize the penmanship,
breathe the perfume. Let it remind you, let it make you dream
while you are still standing there in the sun. Let it transport you
to the next day that describes the reasons for your pain.

List the ways you have heard, catalog the moment you
understood that tomorrow, though the same as today,
will bring reminders that you have been understood. The
message
was timely.

The sweat had left trails of salt down our
brows and cheeks. We checked in on our children every
time we had a chance. We looked past the horizon in hopes
they would not suffer our hardship once they were grown.

We thought we might perish in the sun. We thought we might
grow extinct, but unsure of the exact moment in time.

We heard the words and fell on our faces. We listened
longer than we had before. We were seen; we had been noticed;
our silent soliloquys had stuck in the mud. We built an altar
and loaded it with every prayer we had ever uttered. We
grasped every syllable and molded them into shapes of
angels who had been following us all along. We kept
quiet, though, saving our songs for the road, saving our
songs for the road.

Tuesday, May 20, 2025

Execution Hill

Execution Hill

(“Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them, because they do not know what they are doing.’” Luke 23:34a)

We pretended to walk across the river,
we made fun of the way others swam.
We filtered our sarcasm through a dozen
courtrooms filled with hungry spectators.
We expected a show, we expected to know
how the day would end and why we held on so long.
But we let loose of our story and demanded dancing
from a one-legged dog. We were not cruel,
just vastly misinformed.

We never expected the sky to storm from noon until
three, we had been told to expect sunshine on our sublime faces.
We were informed that we were born for this;
we believed it like a phone call from the government.
But we put our trust in iron, we put our hope in blades
of steel; we outsourced our future to magazines full of powder,
to derisive wars of words. We nailed the truth
to the wood.

We followed the dark procession,
we were there for the show.
We had nothing more to do that afternoon
than watch the slow execution of a trio of criminals,
(or so we were told.) We had heard the stories,
and met a few fellows who said they knew the
man in the middle
from an encounter along the road. They were
convinced they were healed. They were convinced
he didn’t belong hanging naked in front of the world.

We didn’t expect him to speak,
we expected little from him at all. He saved
those fellows along the road,
surely he could save himself like a king on a throne.
But we heard, quieter than the breeze, and loud as a
man innocent by degrees. It was forgiveness he eased
from his throat as we watched his life ebb away over those
hours.
It didn’t matter if we knew beforehand, now we knew
exactly what we had done. We stopped our talk and dice games,
and lost our exuberance for parades to execution hill.

Saturday, May 17, 2025

Just When Everyone Else Is Walking Away


Just When Everyone Else Is Walking Away

(“But from now on, the Son of Man will be seated at the right hand of the power of God.” Luke 22:69)

Empires are threatened by authority that wields its power
like dying. Rulers rage at the gentle grace that sits upon
the face of those who have learned, at the sharp side of the spear,
that military parades are the antichrist in a world desperately needing peace.

The Son of Man, the human one, the person no one understands,
will always be the one brought before courts with made-up charges
from the cream of the crop.

The accusations fly and Satan laughs and dances: That man told us
to stop paying taxes.
That man is misleading so many people of our nation.
That man says we shouldn’t give anything to Caesar.
That man says he is a king!

The empire implodes. The purveyors of propriety pull their hair,
the strong men grab their whips to teach a lesson or two that the
Teacher
needs to learn.

They thought to sit him down and shut him up,
they encouraged every false claimer to speak up,
they needed charges, false ones, accusations grown of
discontent and jealousy. They needed to rid the nation of
this threat to their good way of life. Follow this man and our
whole reason for existence could be ruined. Mute him;
forever.

You will never see the power of the divine until you
contemplate the splintery stake upon which Jesus sat.
You will never understand the dream of God until you
study the way the Son of Man ruled from a cross meant for
shame: humiliation: death: In those moments you may receive
illumination that God’s power is not like human kings who
write out executive orders to rid the land of more uneasy people
of color.

God’s throne is not golden, it is not gilded in precious jewels,
it is not at the end of a royal carpet with warriors holding up
the corners. God’s throne is among the jesters who know how
shame can bring rain that washes all the dust away. They are the
ones who started to tell the truth when kings thought they must be gods.

No one ever knew, and many still do not, that God is no king, but is
a servant. That the Son of Man is not a destroyer, but a giver. And
it is time to know kingly edicts can only come from crosses of pain
that remind us that we have been forgiven again and again. And the
Son cries, “Father forgive, for they have no idea what they are doing.”
And the jesters dance just when everyone else is walking away.

Friday, May 16, 2025

With the Tongue

With the Tongue

(“With [the tongue] we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse people, made in the likeness of God.” James 3:9)

Another day I might have ignored the comment,
another time I would have kept my peace.
Another day I would have slept through the thunder storm,
another time I would have caged my words.
You didn’t know the races that person ran,
you didn’t pay attention to their struggle and pain.
You just ran your tongue over your incisors, sharpening
your sentences to slice them whole. You memorized
the hymns and high songs,
and spit out invectives like tiny missiles across the
face of the target of your disapproval. Your aim was
off-center and your poison spread around the room.

The mouth formed the words moments after you
thought them. You didn’t look close enough to see
that the victim of your aspiration was another
re-creation of the Divine you loved to sing about.
You tamped down like a foot destroying a rose,
destroying the image that would have beautified the moment.
You doubled-down your unsacred sound moments after
How Great Thou Art, and Amazing Grace. You scattered
the light you could have shared across the floor in the
faintest phosphorescence.

God doesn’t need your compliments, God isn’t looking
for your slippery accolades. But God is waiting for you to
inhale and find the words to reverse the damage you did
to his creative artisan. You are just a crock of clay,
and so am I, inhabited by the Spirit, we should be
shining without looking away.

Tuesday, May 13, 2025

Waiting on Hold

Waiting on Hold

(“Then a dispute also arose among them about who should be considered the greatest.” Luke 22:24)

I called you up with my remaining time of the afternoon.
I waited on hold; I laid the phone on the desk while
scanned the internet until you picked up. It wasn’t
your fault
you were running late. The demands on your time
are endless,
and I called without an appointment.
So I waited on hold; patiently wondering how you had changed
since the last time we talked. I heard rumors
that you had traded your throne for
a camp chair in the middle of nowhere.
As soon as you were settled you looked in
on the children whose scrapes and bruises spoke
more of abuses than playful stumbles in the yard.
You touched their wounds delicately;
you understood their cries instinctively. You
interpreted their prayers silently and
slowly learned their names. You sat beneath
the sun with each one of them telling their stories.
You cradled the smallest ones who barely formed
a dozen words and had not yet found yours. You
always said your name was a mystery. But your
reputation preceded you. Even at your pinnacle you
mixed with the least of these, you decreased to
come down to their size.

--Hello, it’s me. Do you remember? Thanks for answering
my call. I just wanted to say I’ve learned from your ways and
will not stall another day to jump off my high horse and walk with
the poorest on the dusty road.

Saturday, May 10, 2025

On the Patio

On the Patio

(“Do not neglect doing good and sharing, for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.” Hebrews 13:16)

Afterwards we ran inside to escape the rain.
But until then we had been breaking bread on the
patio surrounded by palm trees and bougainvillea.
The music was loud, our feet were tapping the concrete floor,
and the children hopped like sugary frogs.
Nearly the entire neighborhood was there, invited
on a whim. The grills were hissing, the dogs were
growling playfully waiting for every morsel
intentionally dropped their direction.
We ignored social graces and didn’t set places
based on early reservations. We
sat where we wanted,
stood and chatted like geese populating a mown field.

The sun had warmed the day, pushed the clouds away until
midafternoon. We laughed at silly jokes, some we’d told
since childhood.
No one cared except the stray teenager who heard and
rolled his eyes and then told it to his cadre of bros.
The cats, domestic and feral, soaked in the sun,
stretched out like tablecloths on the warming driveway.
No one talked of God, or angels, or sanity, or delusions.
We didn’t test the temperature of faith or check the boxes
of doctrinal hoaxes. We had no need of talk, no requirements
ticked of on ballots. It was lately the place where
names were memorized and acceptance ubiquitous.
Men remade amends, women healed the wounded,
children built memories out of legos and no one was
left out in the cold.

And then the deluge, then the downpour, then the dash
for irony that what started outside with more room than
we ever needed was
forced inside where we stood face to face, shoulder
to
shoulder
and nothing changed. Everyone sang. We ate and
then ate again.