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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Unshakeable Room

The Unshakeable Room

(“So since we are receiving an unshakable kingdom, let us give thanks, and through this let us offer worship pleasing to God in devotion and awe.” Hebrews 12:28)

I tried every door, tested every lock,
tried to gain admittance, you rang the bell,
I knocked on the door until it echoed back to
my knuckles on the wood.

There was rubble all around me, but I wasn’t
sure why. The buildings had just been standing proudly
the day before.
But I stood at the threshold the only edifice left unbroken.
It was a home, it was a bungalow,
it was the dwelling of a handful of vagabonds
who insisted the world was not their final home.

I listened for their voices. They seemed coarse,
almost hoarse. Had they not used them, had they
vowed away their noise for silence?
Someone turned the handle, and the door curved
on its hinges slowly, without creaking. It was a
heavy wood and dark, maybe mahogany. A large man
filled the frame and invited me in.

I turned around to look
one more time
at the debris behind me and wondered how this simple
abode stayed standing all alone.
The man croaked lowly at me, inviting me in
and I turned my head around once more to see
my bearded host bid me come. It was dark inside,
illuminated by candles. Half a dozen sat around a
large table in the middle of the room. They were laughing
in the midst of tragedy. They were waiting for others to
seek sanctuary. They were sending invitations up the road
as far as they could see.

I did not know how they escaped
destruction,
but I knew I needed the instruction they could give. I knew
there would be others at the door, so I took a platter,
ate and drank what I needed, and asked permission to welcome
others up and down the block to the unshakeable room.

I’ve Narrated the Road

I’ve Narrated the Road

(“Let us look only to Jesus. He is the one who began our faith, and he makes our faith perfect.” Hebrews 12:2a)

The story doesn’t end there, even though it felt like the final chapter.
The asteroids still circled obliquely.
Bring me another water please; my throat is dry and I have
such a long tale to tell.
We haven’t finished, though we needed a moment’s rest.
The pale yellow butterflies show it best, the way they
flit from flower to flower undisguised as the day lengthens.
The beginning has little thrills,
the middle is unexciting,
but the ending is unexpected and sometimes causes me to flinch.

When you have come this far already it is hard to
see clearly the beliefs that may be unsupported by the facts.
My story is full of pitfalls, my tale surrounded by struggles,
my ending unreliable, my addendum just a summation of facts.
But I suppose I’ll keep writing,
I might keep believing if there are no more suitors for my heart.
I could use a navigator,
a fellow traveler who knows the terrain well. Or someone
who doesn’t mind traveling blind. You take the wheel for a while
and I will nap until our next pitstop. We can write our bearings in
the journal I’m keeping, another chapter to a story I would never
have written if I hadn’t traveled so far. I could use a navigator,
I would love an illustrator to picture my ups and downs.

I’ve narrated the road from beginning to end, from “gentlemen
start your engines” to the checkered flag. I finished far back
in the pack, which explains why so few follow me.
But on further cogitation, I say, without qualification,
that the one who began the race still accompanies me and
has completed the story long before I’ve crossed the finish line.

Chase Us Away Again

Chase Us Away Again

(“He told them, ‘The Scriptures say, ‘My house should be a place of worship.’ But you have made it a place where robbers hide!’” Luke 19:46)

They rode in late, just as the sun was slanting
through the gates and turning the plaster walls golden.
The day had been long, minding the store, trading in livestock,
stowing away coins taken from foreigners before they could worship.

But their afternoon was interrupted, their commerce dented,
when someone chased the merchants out of the precincts
and quoted prophets quite out of context. We were
the elite who showed up every week to facilitate the
transactions that put offerings in the hands and silver in our pockets.
It was standard practice. We enhanced their worship for a modest fee.
We set up early in the morning, we were prepared for every transaction,
we counted our earnings often, and gave sojourners reasons to
sing the old psalms paid for by the temple tax.

How were people
supposed to worship
when that man caused such a disturbance and hindered their prayers?
We deserve to earn a living, we deserve to be paid for our time,
we offer a sacred service, we offer entrance to god.
We do it in the open, we do not hide. We capitalize our assistance
in banners print boldly about our booths. Today only we offer
a Passover special, two lambs for the price of one. Share with a
friend or just sacrifice both and you’ll be happy with your results.
God will double your prosperity, and we will divest some of our inventory.
But our supply is running short, that man chased them out of the temple.
The whip he used cracked louder than the ravens flying overhead.
We weren’t the first and we won’t be the last who, dressed like
penitents, hand out tickets to god with a price you must agree,
is quite reasonable to gain an audience with the Almighty.
Come back next week, the intruder will be gone by then.
There are plans afoot to make sure he disturbs no one ever
again.

So, we’ll be back to work, with better deals than ever before.
Announce it to your friends, let’s keep the practice moving
through the centuries. I’ve heard Jesus doesn’t shout as loud,
or maybe the churches have drowned him out. I’d like to see
how much money is spent to make one prosper with lear jets
and castle compounds built off the exchange of dollars for
distilled water from the Jordan.
Jesus, come and turn over our tables. We will not know how
to put it all together again without you. No more grand opening
sales,
no more closeouts,
just a room large enough for pilgrims to pray, women to worship,
and men to mend the relationships hardened by corporate greed.
We need you to chase us away. We need to get the picture.
We need to be quieted. We need to be freed.
We need to offer, free and fearless, a place at the table
for the poorest and the rich. We need to be divested of our
big-eyed lust for the best. We need to honor the humble like
the lambs we are and the Lamb we follow. Come, chase us
away again.

When We Emptied Our Pantry

When We Emptied Our Pantry

(“And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds.” Hebrews 10:24)

Now that I think of it, we should have white-washed
the entire edifice before the strangers came to play.
The shadows would be silhouettes in the late afternoon sun.
We poured milk for the lime-faced children who asked for
nothing at all.
They deserved our attention, they reserved their laughter
for the moment we appeared.
We shared cookies newly baked for the skinny-faced children
who squealed for it all.
A lot of us questioned why,
a majority assumed we were required to distribute
the goods we had in store. But some of us wished
there was more that we could do for the baby-faced
children who shrunk silently around the corner.
It is the height of embarrassment to admit there are
no baked goods back at home.
I cannot describe our motivation,
we had not thought it all through,
we were only daylight decorations,
we thought it came out of the blue.
But the children played brighter, roses on
their cheeks, chocolate chips melted in their hands.

We decided to travel there again,
to memorize their names,
to baptize their happy eyes,
to bring sandwiches of peanut butter,
and instruct them silently to fly.

And yet we sprouted wings once our feet
hit the asphalt,
we were heavier too, weightier than
our many words we displayed uncarefully.
And all we wanted was to get lost among the
throng of the needy, and have enough even
when we, unready, emptied our pantry
uncarefully.

Wrapped Around Hope

Wrapped Around Hope

(“For I will be merciful toward their evil deeds, and their sins I will remember no longer.” Hebrews 8:12)

You could not have timed it any better,
the fates aligned, and the angels faced the
future with their eyes as fierce as tigers.
Too many gave up taking themselves all
too
seriously.
We live with pain, pounded by the past
and fooled by the future. We look for answers
to manufacture gods in our own image.
Signing on the dotted line, we expect to be
charged with misdemeanors and felonies,
admitting our criminality, feeling like guilt
with shame running down our chins. We hoped
we would be better by now.

We memorized every misstep,
memorialized each sin.
We sat on Santa’s lap knowing we would
never deserve what we’d asked for.

Still,
we wrapped ourselves around hope.
We tried to elope before the wedding began.
We tried to leave early from the annual board meeting.
We wanted to hide away because people always save
the harshest words for the conclusion. What we need
is benediction;
what we hide are the contradictions that drive us
into undercover dungeons.

Yet,
the light is washing away the cobwebs,
the morning is inviting the lost and lonely,
the afternoon is singing songs set free,
the evening invites a quiet contemplation.
And the angels turn their faces toward the
sun as we watch them glorify the one who
opened the skies for us well before we gave up
all our vices.

Gifts of Consolation

Gifts of Consolation

I don’t have to wait until I hear your tears,
I don’t have to put it off one day to
console you with the gifts I have already
set aside. You don’t have to wait
to hear me say
that I would do anything to keep the
world from sneaking up on you like
careless serpents in the sand.

I would take your anxious shivers into
my own nervous system,
I would punctuate the fears with music
that sounds like a dozen madrigals singing
between the fine lines of loss and quantity.
I would remind you how laughter can
dry the raindrops that sheared the air overnight.
I would assign your name to the best
accomplices of mercy without an explanation.
You would breathe easier; you would see
the meteors cross the late night sky. The
falling stars would remind you that beauty can
pierce the darkness and bright eyes shine
best through the spectrum of tears.

I wish I could tell you I know how the dice will roll,
I wish I could predict the uncertainties of hikes down
uncharted canyons.
All I know is the water still flows after the
overnight fever dream,
I know the daylight will warm your hopes
like pearls adorning your face. I know, even
though it seems little is left, that the wine is
still in the cup,
the bread still on the hearth,
and children giggle while parents watch
their unambiguous play.

Freedom is Nothing

Freedom is Nothing

(“And if the same person sins against you seven times a day and turns back to you seven times and says, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive.” Luke 17:4)

Freedom is nothing like the fortresses we build,
it is an open plain,
it is streams winding,
it is easy moments between noon and afternoon’s
breeze.
I’ll never excuse the hurts,
but I’ll forgive them.
And we can talk this Thursday evening
on the phone or on my deck.
We can unload the shipments of sludge
we’ve dug up from the past and
joke that we ever were all that serious.
Freedom is nothing like the theology we float,
it is God-in-us,
it is Christ forgiving,
it is the hardest labor between scars and therapy’s
change.
Nobody told us we could bottom out
so we didn’t talk for years.

I tried to revise the history,
I tried to say it never happened.
I wanted the day to transform the
memories that held my brain hostage.
You wanted to know there was nothing
left to be upset about. We wanted
freedom;

We wanted nothing more than untitled poetry
to hold us up between the storms. We could
laugh for ages
once we understood how mistaken we both had
been.

Freedom is nothing like the chronicles we read,
it is unrhymed poetry,
it is words waving,
it is written so well that the future can read it
like cuneiform characters in stone.