We Kept the Soup Warm

We Kept the Soup Warm

(“As the Lord had promised through Elijah, the bowl did not run out of flour nor did the jar run out of oil.” 1 Kings 17:16)

It took us so much longer than we planned.
We were ready to feed anyone who showed up
but our shoes were slow in the dusky ground.
Our resources were few,
our words even less,
we counted the heads, and we counted the eagles
that flew above the trees. They could see everything.
They said there could be snow in the morning,
they said it might turn to rain. They did not
push their narrative,
they only mentioned it as a percentage of
weather we saw yesterday.

It was no accident, and we kept the soup warm,
it was no frivolous expense of funds.
We trusted the bread into the hands
of children, we placed bowls and
slices in front of the elders who sang
old songs like echoes in a canyon.

We walked some of them home
along the river where the sun sets like
a bird diving in the water. The rainbows
slept for the night and our noses were cold
by the time we came back inside.

We washed the dishes, emptied the coffee,
wiped the tables, and mopped the floors.
We tried to sing the song we had heard,
the words were scattered across the room.

My Words Like Armor

My Words Like Armor

(“But Jesus told them, ‘He wrote this command for you because of the hardness of your hearts.’” Mark 10:5)

I wear my words like armor,
I look for loopholes in yours.
Starting from the middle I can
slide down the slopes from north or south;
I can believe I am above it all.

Or, if someone talks out loud, I can
nod occasionally, I can mumble famously,
and leave them thinking I have heard
every word.
They may even think, though I would not admit it,
that I agree.
I do not.

How many years does it take to lay down my shield,
how many decades to reshape the form that held all
I believed.
I sealed up all the cracks and the darkness stayed inside;
the light could not find me. And you thought,
like all the rest,
that I was at my best when talking about God.

I disagree. My metaphors are misanthropes,
hindered hopes that sit at the base of my spine.
Every opinion I’ve ever heard has been mine
until
I heard a love that was more solid than
the poetry I created. I cannot define it,
I can barely describe it, but there is a WE
that exists in the midst of everything. My
theories only keep you at arm’s length anyway.

My fingers are calloused but my thoughts are mindless,
my progress is timeless and the cure I was offered
only tied me in knots. But I’ll sit with you here
as long as it takes to untie the kindness we had
at the start.

Flocks of Geese

Flocks of Geese

(“During a severe ordeal of suffering, their abundant joy and their extreme poverty have overflowed in the wealth of their generosity.” 2 Corinthians 8:2)

It was the time of year when flocks of geese
gleaned the fields. The cattle a fence away
fed on grass and drank out of tubs halfway between.
A calf chewed away just an arm-length from the fence and
turned back toward the herd as a man stopped to look him in the face.

There were footprints on the path the man had walked and
he carried the world like a backpack on his shoulders. He had
started with everything he needed but had nothing for the
weight that pushed his feet into the mud. He was not
destitute,
but he could feel the pressure of the day robbing him of hope.
But he would continue walking, he would carry on.

While the cattle grazed, while the geese fed,
he met the day the way a grandad baby-talks
the toddler who crosses his path.

Sighting down the fence-line he saw the cattle
to his left
and the geese
to his right
and remembered something like waking up
on a Saturday with the sun already in the sky.
He had room in his pack for one burden more

And he walked on to bring the easel, paint, and
brushes to the child
he had met just the day before.

Invitations in the Mail

Invitations in the Mail

(“For we are the temple of the living God, just as God said: ‘I will live and walk among them. I will be their God, and they will be my people.’” 2 Corinthians 6:16b)

Did you truly need an explanation about grace
and how it crosses the divides between shame and power?
Did you truly think your hardness was acceptable,
that your curses were blessings, and your judgment the very
throne of God?

How did we ever arrive at a time when people with no sense of God
told us everything
God hated about us? Did you turn your Sunday School lessons into
declarations of division? Did you think that Christ would not notice
your atom bombs and jack-booted roundups of people
who are more like you than you can imagine?

I’ve been waiting for a turn of phrase,
for a moment of grace,
for a day of mercy,
for a year of humanity that finally celebrates
every color of the rainbow and every hue we cannot see.
I’ve been watching and all I hear are enthusiastic salutes
that send us deeper into sorrow and loathing.

If God wants to be our God, then why are we expecting him
to stamp his insignia on our basest instincts. Do you want
God
to be your God
and never give a moment’s fuck to what it means when he
asks us to rethink everything we’ve been poisoning the world with?

This is my deposition: I have never wanted a single person excluded
from the fellowship, the fraternity, the family that laughs at the
feet that keep walking toward home. There are invitations still
coming in the mail.

Working in the Back

Working in the Back

(“We are ruled by Christ's love for us.” 2 Corinthians 5:14a)

Were you working in the back where no one could see you;
do you crouch behind the boxes to hide the words you fear to hear?
Didn’t you once run the place,
didn’t you greet every person as they came in the door?
You were no warrior, but you fought for those you loved;
You were no prophet, but you spoke love to the unloved.
Did it wear you out,
did it damage your innocent desires for something far better
than fences to keep everyone out? Did the wall
they
erected make your heart fail as you clawed at it with
your fingernails.
People used to come and go freely.
People used to come and go.
Wasn’t it about time for the wall to fall,
nearly time for the sun to call when it sets
for all the hiding and timid ones who once
frolicked through the day to come watch the
horizon light up like Picasso.
Our hands
are still calloused from bearing the burdens
that only love makes light enough to carry.
Our feet
still walk home to home hoping to find
artisans who model their days after lovers in the park.
But some days are too much,
much too much,
and we drink our coffee in the shadows,
sit behind boxes,
work in a corner of the backroom closet hoping
to wake to a different day. Hoping to find a way
to bring some love back to this place that has forgotten
its name.

Decorate my Soul

Decorate my Soul

(“Cedar paneling completely covered the stone walls throughout the Temple, and the paneling was decorated with carvings of gourds and open flowers.” 1 Kings 6:8)

Let the scent of cedar permeate the air,
let its incense waft from here to there.
Let my soul be decorated, fragrant and serene,
like the way the temple explained the
the place where mortal and eternal meet,
where love is commonplace,
where peace is waiting for the chants to begin.

Adorn my soul with roses, let the magnolias invite
new looks when I sit among familiar people
on benches outside the bakery.
Beautify me with grace, grace me with beauty,
let the awe of the sunset be imbedded within,
let the surprise of the new moon brighten the mood.
Spruce up the inner me, spot shine the heart of me.

There is a temple, there are billions, that hold Spirit within.
There are trumpets, there are pavilions where dancers go
to celebrate love that is love no matter what the dark night says.
After a while we will air it out and
begin all over again.
After a while we will play the simple tunes on an Irish whistle,
with a simple guitar played by the high priests of the holy place
found within,
found within,
found within,
Father and
Son and
Holy Ghost.

Let the beauty shout louder, let it whisper lower, let it
permeate the question marks we start with each day.
Let it teem with the motions that God makes in the middle
of all that is ordinary and common. Fill this earthen vessel,
this crock of clay,
with everything that brightens the day, with everything that
opens the night with quiet song.
Saturate me.

Come Away

Come Away

“And He said to them, ‘Come away by yourselves to a secluded place and rest a little while.’ (For there were many people coming and going, and they did not even have time to eat.)’” Mark 6:31

We were invited to silence after our noisy
debriefing and some latent laughter. We thought
it was time to dive in again, dive in again
following the success that we met on the road.
Wasn’t that man healed when we spoke?
Didn’t that woman rejoice when her baby boy walked again?
Didn’t dozens rejoice when we told them the Christ had come,
the Kingdom was come, the dream of God was come?
Didn’t they rejoice even when we did not grasp our words’
full intent?
I mean
we walked away and they followed us Jesus. The crowd
needed us Jesus. They wanted to hear your words Jesus,
not just the repeaters we broadcast.
We spoke the same language;
they understood our words, but ours were light balloons
and yours are weighty as the world.
Hey! Let’s heal some more people, look at everyone following us!

“Come away”.
Like a child who is over-tired and cannot be lulled asleep
I think we heard those words and wondered why we would
leave the crowds behind. We felt good. People were seeking us
out;
It was like we were finally in proper demand!

“Come away by yourselves.”
I guess he means it. But what is the point? We can
just pick up some bread on the way and keep giving the
crowds what they want. We’re not tired Jesus, we are
eager and energized.

“Come away…to a secluded place.”
See, that is what I’m trying to say. There will be
no people to heal
in the wilderness. We are full of energy. Yes,
we haven’t slept or eaten much, but there is
so much to do. We’re not quitters Rabbi.

“Come away…and rest a little while.”
Now that you mention it, I am a little light-headed.
My eyes are burning, my feet are calloused,
my mouth is dry as the desert. But now is not
the time to retreat Jesus. Let’s keep advancing!

“Come away.”
And we began to understand, our enthusiasm was
the excess stimulation of our nervous systems behaving
like steam locomotives going full gear.

He was telling us to learn when to rest, when to
let the stimulation go like smoke from a campfire.
He was telling us the rhythm, he was writing a song
with the silence and rests contributing as much as the
counterpoint and fugues we liked to dance to.

We drew our breath and followed his way,
even if some of the crowd insisted on staying.
Stillness is a gift, and we should not refrain from opening it.

Yeses

Yeses

(“For Jesus Christ, the Son of God…is not one who is ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’ On the contrary, he is God's ‘Yes’”. 2 Corinthians; 1:19)

The hours passed like low-lying fog;
the river was dressed in gray and white.
I don’t believe in your destructive God,
I don’t believe the fire is eternal,
I don’t believe the ice has melted.
I just believe the love that hastens to
lead me through the rain. I just believe
in yeses again and again.
I could stand with the sun melting the mist,
I could walk with the breeze kissing my cheek.
I could walk to your house
leaving my house for the afternoon.

We could talk all afternoon if you want to.
We could paint a dozen sunsets before dusk.
We could sink all the vessels of doubt;
we could let all the anxiety out and
leave it on the uncompromising ground.
We could sit next to the river where the
fog is silently lifting.
We could walk there past the man
walking his dog,
the seagulls dropping baby clams on
the pavement,
the ducks huddled against the cold.

Why do we wait, you and I,
to live out loud? Why do we question
who we are when who we are
has never been uncertain?

Do you remember how we played for hours
afternoons after school? Do you remember
making kites from newspapers and clubhouses
from scrap lumber? Do you remember
who we were before everyone had an opinion
about our worth?

All I hear (or hope to hear) are yeses that sound
like your laughter from the sky. We have both
carried these backpacks of expectations far too long.
Today let us walk unladen like horses in the fields.

Fractured Segments, Consonants and Vowels

Fractured Segments, Consonants and Vowels

“’My daughter’s going to die! My daughter’s going to die!’ he pleaded. ‘Please come—lay your hands on her—rescue her and let her live!’” Mark 5:23

Below the hum of marketplace rustle there are the
bass notes of a parent in pain. Troubles wind through
his throat and land at the bottom of his feet. He has no
breath
to project his plea much further.
But there is an ear that hears all,
there are feet that come closer to discern
the consonants and vowels that explode underneath.
And he took those fractured segments and turned them
into a dirge
that heard the anxiety that felt like a bat trying to break
out of the crying father’s chest.

It was like standing in a whirlwind, slow motion,
it was a tornado of fear.
It was like the sun had forced its way past his eyes
and seared his aching heart. It was like the moon
did not
exist at all.

He could not contain the weight that smoldered inside his chest,
he could not choose anything other than this unrest
that blinded him to the fog of people swarming with
their constant hum and cajole. He could only see the one
he hoped would see him. He could only see the
shadows that fell fast over him.

“Come”, he said, not knowing the answer.
“She is dying,” he said, not knowing the outcome.

He heard nothing but the eyes that heard, and heard
feet that were ready to follow him home. Everything
was smoky,
was befogged,
was blurry,
as the healer listened and came to his home. Live or
die,
he knew his hope was tied to a stranger that acted
like a friend.

You Heard Me

You Heard Me

(“In my distress I called to the Lord; I called to my God. From his heavenly temple he heard my voice; he listened to my cry for help.” 2 Samuel 22:7)

Somewhere between the margin of the
sky and earth my cry was heard. The sky was
as thin as a skin stretched over a drum.
The earth was thick and slowly rolling toward
the river that occupied my dreams.
I cannot quote a specific line,
I cannot identify the rays that broke from
sun to sky. I only know the vibration of my own
voice
lifted it over the trees and carried it further than
I could see.

This life has been a laboratory where
experiment and experience meet in unexpected
embrace. I theorize and record the results in
a journal written across my face. I still await a voice
that tells me my words are not insane. I still
await a hand
that helps me climb between earth and sky
where I walk foolishly and faint. Creation
changes with the tide; nature offers so little
insulation against the dark shades that haunt
the edges of my mind.

But you heard me. You let my distress arise;
you let the best of my poetry erase my first
draft of a life. I never belonged, or so I thought.
I dug my fingernails deep into the mud, squeezing
every pious word out of my undressed mind.
But you heard me, though no one patted me
on the back
to tell me I had finally gotten it right.
Prayer is not a magic formula learned in
lectures from experts.
But you heard me. And I walked assured on
the deep grass until I heard you as well as

You heard me.