Above the Weakening Waves

Above the Weakening Waves

“Jesus said, ‘Come.’ And Peter left the boat and walked on the water to Jesus.” Matthew 14:29)

I’ll be the first to admit the whipping wind almost
was too much for me. The day turned on a dime and the
evening screamed like a child with a lost toy. We were
afraid

we would never get home. Once the storm hit, we
threw out hope like a lifeline cut in two. We could not see;
the waves crashed, and the wind was a banshee. No one
predicted this, no one had it on their radar. The radio scanned
for boats nearby but all we heard was static etched by lightning.

Fear rose like a monster from the waters. Our throats were tighter
than the rigging we hoped would hold.

We thought he was a ghost. The tempest tainted our vision.
But we heard the words urging us toward courage and we thought
we knew; it was so familiar. I steeled myself, shivering in the wind.
“Could that be you?” And then insanely I said, “If it is,
tell me to join you on the water.”

All he said was, “Come”.

I cannot explain it, or why I asked. But putting my feet over the side,
I touched the water, and it was solid under me. I was dizzy with
wonder; my breath escaped into the waning storm. I could see
him
as I had seen him so often before.

Then the wind whistled, the waves spit, the boat still rocked like
a jazz band warming up, and I saw it from the corner of my eye.
My feet slipped. “Help” is all I knew how to cry. And “Lord, save me!”

I felt my hand in his, the strength grasping me. He told me my
faith was small, but I thought
I had endured pretty well. It was the storm that spun me away.

But his presence calmed me and calmed the wind and waves.
Like a morning after thunderstorms our hearts were overcome,
believing, hoping, wondering, stuttering a new faith
that danced above the weakening waves.

The Dream of God

The Dream of God

(“God’s kingdom is like a treasure hidden in a field. One day a man found the treasure. He hid it again and was so happy that he went and sold everything he owned and bought the field.” Matthew 13:44)

It was a normal day, and by normal, I mean he took the same route by foot
that he always took, walking five blocks west, crossing across the park and
lingering briefly at the fountain (it always seemed to know his name), then
continuing north the building where he worked for 25 years. He still hadn’t
quite figured out what his job was. Or better put, how what he did intertwined
with what everyone else did. They had departmental meetings, but only one
department at a time.

He was not bored, he was hypnotized. The same walk, the same pace, the
same project, the same people, the same “how are yous” and “hope you’re fine”
every day had cut a highway through his mind that all the electrons followed;
a racing oval without knowing the perfect ending. All that was missing was
the checkered flag.

One Tuesday (he knew it was Tuesday because that’s the day he bought a
coffee and croissant from the vendor at the park. One Tuesday, croissant in hand
and the coffee warming his mouth, he traversed the park one more time,
the itinerary well remembered and rutted through his brain. Just as he was about
to move from the grass to the concrete of the roadway something caught his attention.

He thought it a toy. Maybe a dime-store keepsake. It might be from a child’s
Halloween costume or a young salesman’s sample case. He picked it up and
held it in his palm.
Blue like a stellar jay, more blue than his grandson’s eyes, darker than the sky,
but brighter than the water’s flow; its weight told him it was more than glass.
He had started the day like every other Tuesday. The sky was the same as yesterday,
the stoplights blinked the same time as they always did. The same doors
opened to the office buildings that never changed, not just day to day, but
year to year.

He set the jewel down, and with his well-groomed fingers scratched a hole
in the dirt deep enough where it wouldn’t be discovered. He marked the spot
with gps location and continued on to work.

But the sapphire, that precious treasure, stayed hidden within his churching mind.
He had never seen a thing like it before. He must have it. He must make it his own.
Leaving work he walked back to the spot where the gem was buried. He wrote down
the coordinates and the next day went to the bank, asking about that spot of land.

Though surrounded by a public park, this bit of land, this mini-acre, was private
land and the owner had long ago wished it sold. The man, gathering all he had,
made an offer, and, accepted, he sighed the papers and rushed to the site again.

He was apprehensive. What if someone had come across his treasure while
he was gone? He gently moved the dirt away from the treasure, and there it was,
gleaming as the late afternoon sun danced on its facets.

He laughed. He danced. He held a party. He left his job. He fed the homeless
man who sat outside his building. He stopped by the hospital to see his
adversary and wish him the best. He took his wife to the club, and bought
his children the biggest, brightest books they had ever seen.

This is the kingdom. This is the joy. This is the beauty of God’s dream
for the world. Lean over. Pick it up. See its beauty and dance…simply dance
at your good fortune. God’s dream of peace not war is upon us.

God’s dream of light not dense is here.

God’s dream of sense taking the place of lies has begun.

God’s love that heals the sick and the sorrowful is fully formed before us.

God’s dream of circles of people owning nothing but the need to share
everything one on one to each other.

Nations dissolved their boundaries; missiles were decommissioned and
turned to playground equipment.

Churches closed because the celebrations just never ended and spilled
out on the streets. This is the kingdom that no empire of the world can defeat.

The Spirit Does Not Shout

The Spirit Does Not Shout

(“Jesus answered, ‘The person who sows the good seed is the Son of Man.’” Matthew 13:37)

The Spirit does not shout,
she does not garner support by surrounding herself with sycophants.
She is agrarian, sowing seed like the Son of Man.
She does not make demands, does not insist your property
be remanded in some sort of trade for later projects without
your permission.
Her position is always within and without, her invitation
can be heard in the ways the leaves rustle in the freshening wind.

The Son walks softly,
he does not break the broken reeds and leaves the flickering wicks
to find their light again.
He is domestic, but untamable. He is accepting and oh
so
challenging. He invites every lonesome wayfarer,
he picks up the fallen braves who were called cowards
for all their fighting. He wields a sword full of words
planted in the fields prepared by quiet meditation.

They do not shout, the Father does not condemn,
they do not schedule rallies to rile up the red-hatted minions.
They tell the truth, the truth is love, and faith is expressed through love,
and so is
missed
by some who only want noise and accusations. They prefer gunshots
to the light touch of divine inspiration that lies before them in the
fields gold and ready for harvest.

Through the cycles of suns and setting,
of births and dying,
of beginning and ending,
are the voices that speak like velvet to the
fainting hearts and hammers to the pious folks
who will not give up their seats.

The Spirit does not shout,
so be silent, let go, and leave the puffery behind

Let’s Be Clear

Let’s Be Clear

(“Then the Lord put a message in Balaam’s mouth and said, ‘Return to Balak, and speak what I tell you.’” Numbers 23:5)

Let’s be clear,
not everything that is spoken can be heard;
not everything in creation can be seen.
Not every pocket is empty and not every
wallet is full. There are holes in my jeans
I never paid for; there are angels assigned to
lead us, or so we hope, or so we believe,
or so we tell everyone when it was all just
a matter of coincidences. It was two atoms
in the same place at the same time and they pulled
each other apart like the yoke of oxen in the field.

Sitting up straighter I can peer through the window;
my posture has been bent by pain and years. You say
you don’t believe, and I understand. Doubt is a ladder
up or down, depending on how you’re persuaded.
These noises have continued unabated and fill the silence
that anxiety brings.

I would speak if there was anyone to hear. I would talk,
but the varying results make me fear the knocks at my
door and who may be waiting to criticize my past
agony and my present
disquiet mind. I would apologize, but I’ve tried
that before. Forgiveness was granted but the
icy wind still blew through the cracks in the windows.

That has left me suspicious of everyone who possesses ears.
As much as they pretend to hear, I know they have never seen
the authentic me, so I may as well paint a picture they would prefer.
I may as well lock myself away. It is a risk too far
to assume how the highwire will hold the full weight of
my blended truth. I’ve welcomed the vagrant whose
story was as murky as my own. And now, in my spiritual
vagrancy, I look for someone to listen to my vague
incarnations of stories and stumbles.

Wordless Moments

Wordless Moments

(“I tell you, on the day of judgment people will render an account for every careless word they speak.” Matthew 12:36)

Do you allow it all to spill out unmeasured,
do you take the time to filter the multitudes that hive
within your head?
Do you hallow the sounds from your mouth or
do you treat the silence with sacrilege?

Have you added to the trauma, and left the victim
lying in the mud? Have you cocked your brain like
a gun at the person in pain?

Do you spend your days searching for another reason to be right?
Have you kept track of the arguments you can use to keep back the light?
Children are dying among the rubble while you discuss
second comings and end times. Mamas hold their children while
we debate arming soldiers in the streets.
I’ve watched uncounted moments dashing people’s hopes
with unsightly doctrine.
I’ve felt the shrapnel ricochet off the sky and paralyze
the objects of your screed.

Come with me to the river that speaks its peace without a word;
walk with me upon the hills where gatherer’s trod ten
thousand years ago. What did they say to the day as the
sun warmed their foreheads? What might the river remove
from all our speeches and dissertations?

Silence can be holy, stillness a sanctuary,
Unspoke can open the soul,
this-day can lighten the load of a million
thoughtless words. The sun can purify the
wounds left by experts in law. The breeze can
speak without talking and leave you wanting
for more days where life is lived inside the spheres
of pleasant and wordless moments on the road.

Nothing To Say

Nothing To Say

(“He will not break a bruised reed, and He will not put out a smoldering wick, until He has led justice to victory.” Matthew 12:20

The words escape me today like bats lodging together midday.
The page is blank, my mind is slow, the ocean is miles away.
Imagine a smokey jazz club but the piano is out of tune,
or a summer afternoon when the squirrels don’t need to
climb the trees; the walnuts have begun to fall to the ground.

There is a quietness that feels intrusive; there is an emptiness
that feels oppressive. There is a heat wave on the way.
My branches are dry and my mind is unreasonable,
my memories are weak and my eyes are blurred from
thinking things should have been different. Thinking
I should have changed it all.

I blame myself for the lonesome trench, for this
yearning that extends past my reach. Light as a
hummingbird’s feather, the smoke from my candle
is flickering low.

But sometimes the next day is better than the last,
sometimes the routine is disrupted, and you find the
tiniest
glow of impartation. It is impractical to dig in
yesterday’s sludge.  

Sometimes it is someone’s smile that strengthens my mind,
sometimes it is jazz playing in the background.
Sometimes the light hits the window so subtly that
I can discern all the colors of the spectrum one by one.

I need to train my voice again to sing the songs that
capture the moments that ignite the love that only sets
us free
from having nothing to say.

They Redrew the Boundaries

They Redrew the Boundaries

(“Native-born Israelites and foreigners are equal before the Lord and are subject to the same decrees. This is a permanent law for you, to be observed from generation to generation.” Numbers 5:5)

They redrew the boundaries and stone-built it higher than
anyone could climb.
They turned their language into a test for allegiance and
turned their ear away from unfamiliar accents.
They acted like the world was a trinket they won
at the county fair midway. They pretended no one
else could play.

The land did not come this way, divided up into uncomfortable
portions of triangles and dust. The skies do not argue over
languages. The sun extends every ray without filtering
for nationality or gender. The moon gently shines on
us all.

Lanterns of suppositions pretend to show the way,
but only hide behind the walls erected like underrated mazes
to analyze those who go astray. We have driven too many
underground. We have complicated the translations of
the simple sounds of equality and freedom.

The answers are easy; it’s the questions that challenge our
very being. We could have lasted longer if we had let
the binds between us be as flexible as time. But our
bipolar world kept demanding that they are not us and
we are not them and all of us are separate like the verses
of a long-forgotten hymn.

We taught it to each other, and as long as we listened carefully,
the tune wound itself in and around us, through us and
outside into the waiting air. We knew, after all, that the
differences we see are just the imagination of games played
with loaded dice. We needed the advice of those
who listened to jazz even when they did not understand it.

Let’s Not Pretend

Let’s Not Pretend

(“Even though you are so high above, you care for the lowly, and the proud cannot hide from you.” Psalm 138:6)

>Did you notice that day was new,
and did it seem they had all forgotten you?
Were the walls still stained with grease and pain,
did you ever try standing and found that you were faint?
Where is the mighty magic promised by the priests,
where is the comradery promised; where are the feasts?
It is frosty in their presence, the center is sub-zero;
I want to meet the fiery ones, I want to know another anti-hero.
Maybe being alone is the best option, maybe missing the day:
Maybe my pain is the place God meets me, my ache when I pray.

I don’t discount your stories of falling under the power, healing the blind,
uttering tongues that no one can understand. But from here it looks
like so much showing off (I hope that is ok to say). Jesus kept his
works semi-secret, like only one square of chocolate left,
dark chocolate that only pairs with a good red wine.
I haven’t tasted either for quiet some time. Here is what
I know…lowly to proud…

Life passes at the same rate for all of us. We all have an
end date stamped on our best years, and no hand stamp to
get us back in again.

So, let’s not pretend any longer. Do you see that homeless man
begging for bread or cash or a place to lay his head. That’s where
you can discover everything you have ever wanted to know about God.
Do you see the religious man bellowing, casting lost ones into eternal fire,
scolding struggling ones who have tries so many ways, and proudly announcing
the Second Coming is coming within days or months (apparently he has
an inside track.)

So, let’s not pretend any longer.

Oh, Never Mind

 Oh, Never Mind

(“If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?” Psalm 130:3)

Until the final word has been sung,
until the final syllable rolls of your tongue,
there will be little to write until the listening is done.

I etched every mistake like a stylus into clay;
I memorized them; I kept them in a diary high
on the shelf hoping no one would find them, no one
would redefine them, and, at the end of the day
someone would right them to banish my pretense.

Although I wrote them, they were meant only for me,
but somehow, they were released into the ether where
daylight caught them on the fly. They had been only intended
to come out at night when fewer eyes kept watch.

They were a record of my illnesses, the symptoms well defined.
They were a mirror of my inconveniences, a probe into…

Trying to describe it here after all these years may sound
like a metal spoon pounding a kettle to coax get the tea to come out.
But what I think I hoped was that someone would read it all,
and, without excusing at at all, would absolve me of everything
written or forgotten,
and treat me like the whole thing had been a farce,
like the words had never existed,
like the story was far more nuanced than the
ledger I kept them in.

the eternal eyes removed all doubt and looked away
without a single glance at my exact notions. The
party started hours ago, and I thought I was disinvited.
Until someone whispered that the party was for me.

Our Unsavory Stories

Our Unsavory Stories

I suppose the starting point is to map out all of my stumbles.
That would be extraordinary, though, because so few who I know
have written about theirs. I am not suggesting that we all project
our failures like an image on the screen. It would take only a moment
after seeing it the first time, to never want to see it again.
Are our connections tangible? Is this why I rarely talk to
anyone throughout the day.
I’m not entirely embarrassed about my sins,
It's just that those who would bear the load with me have
moved on or, even worse;
died.
It's true, I can share half the conversation with my departed
ones
and not fear their responses. But my dearest touches of heart
are those I desire to authenticate my life with me.
I’d invite you to dinner, and I would be fine while we ate,
but what do we do with spidery conversations after the dessert
is pulled from the table?

I’d meet you for a drink, but that is ever more frightening.
How would we fill the hour while we waited for the barkeep
to pour our next beer? And besides, I don’t even know if
you like beer or not. I’d order for you but I’m sure I would
choose the wrong concoction, setting our meeting up for
failure from the start.

There are a few, though, along the way, for whom I’ve secretly
cracked open the door hoping to see a face who wants me
truly, no matter how disorderly my story might be.

I am not despondent about it today, I simply wonder how
many days it takes in our economy to repair the sandy foundations
of a life that meant well. We could go to the park and
chase frisbees I guess; sit in the sun disguised as friends.
That would give little time for the discomfort we feel in trying
to occupy the air with words we haven’t thought about in ages.

That’s not true; the words preoccupy my mind. I worry who
would accept them carte blanche from the first time we spoke?
After all,

And maybe I’m wrong.

But don’t we all have unsavory stories we’d prefer stay
hidden like an old photograph fading in the sun?

I’ll Stop by Tomorrow

I’ll Stop by Tomorrow

(“I do not deserve to have you come into my house. Just give the order, and my servant will get well.” Matthew 8:8b)

There were no shadows in the house,
the shutters were closed and the drapes pulled against the sun.
I tried to divide my attempts to be seen from
my instincts to hide.
Slowly the scene shifted as the sun found the
cracks in my defenses.

I meant to mention, I’d like to sit alone on the porch,
wave at the children on their bikes and sit with men
of my age
thinking out loud about our past and painting the future
something brighter than gray. We all admitted it was easy
to embrace our halcyon days when we thought life could be
lived in layers we never completed. We lived from
playhouses and swings to pens and musical things we
hoped would help name us forever.
We pretended there would be reunions where we
remembered every spiral adventure and made plans
to get together only for time to steal our best ideas.

But now in the epicenter of my life I’m too shy to invite
new faces to my porch. And that leaves me friendless in space.
Locked away, my heart waits for the night lights to take over,
and wonder what I would say if I ever came out under the stars.

Exactly how long I’ve been this way, probably just long enough
to notice the damage. But I’ve been invited to the
grand opening of a friendly space but slept through it.
I’ll stop by tomorrow.

Pretending to Know

 Pretending to Know

“For with whatever standard you judge, you will be judged, and with whatever measure you measure, it will be measured to you.” Matthew 7:2)

1.

Everyone thought they knew him,
everyone pretended to know his motivations.
What they could not imagine was the way
he sat on the edges of darkness because no one
listened to the way he waved his hand, hoping for a ride.

He could have walked, but more eyes would see him.
He could have avoided it all by staying at home.
He didn’t like walking though, it reminded him too much
of all the falls he had taken. Cross-examined based
on supposition and opaque opinions
he kept his head low and voice quiet.
He missed a number of friends he felt he
no longer reserved. He didn’t make new ones
not knowing what they knew or what they assumed.
True, his sins were worse than he admitted. But based
on past experience he didn’t trust the precarious stares
of those who did not know him.

So he kept his distance and tried to write away the fears.
He used to laugh at dinner with friends; he used to hear
the fascinating songs they played. He used to be content
for half the day, but now he either naps or seeks stimuli
to ease the pain.

It’s not that he is innocent, but the sentence imposed
kept him bound and on the edges where no one could find him.
He hoped he could slip the knots that dug into his wrists,
and the endless thoughts that would never die. He did not
want to become
one of them. He wanted transformation and less preoccupation
with the way the road bent miles ago, with the way
the miles ended ages ago.

    2.

You may have discerned that the He is Me, and I’ve
wandered around trauma without processing it well.
You may conclude that my writing plays a major part in
rearranging the damage done along the road. I never
withheld forgiveness, never denied my wrongs, but the
stings still stung and the silence still stabbed my aching soul.

                                        3.

Would you believe him if he told you he was once sought after,
and that he was frightened of climbing hanging roofs? Would you
blame him for going so silent when once he was sought after to
speak to a crowd or two? Would you understand that there are still
days when contentment feels like a distant cousin? Would you look
out for him if you knew he was coming to town? Would you buy
him a drink just because you spotted him at the bar?

                                        4.

It’s getting better over time, but it seems some of my talents have
slipped by without taking time to rhyme.

I thought I saw you yesterday, having lunch in a Mexican restaurant.
We hadn’t talked in ages and I was sure it was you. I don’t thing you
saw me, or maybe didn’t recognize me. But feeling the need for protection
I stay in my seat, nursed my beer, and read my book on Universalism.

If it happens again, I promise I’ll come to your table and give us both
a laugh. Until then, thanks for listening. Until then, I’ll find the river
road warm, and talk to the ducks eating their lunch.

A Serenade to Soothe

A Serenade to Soothe

(“When you pray, do not say the same thing over and over again making long prayers like the people who do not know God. They think they are heard because their prayers are long.” Matthew 6:7)

Do you think your fancy words,
all dressed up and shining, make God hear you better,
make God’s ears perk up?
Did you think your elevated language,
complete with words of foreign tongues,
made God take notice,
make God get up and redecorate the dawn?
Etch your words deeply, not long.
Keep your focus narrow, not wrong.
When morning rises, greet Creator with a
silent song with hope of relief before long.
Let the shallow stream that never ceases to flow
teach you communion different that you have known.

I’ve been on the earning end of teary conversations,
I’ve dug my fingers into the carpet to be heard.
But you saw me before my first sight,
You acted before I even finished and came to my rescue
before I exhaled the Amen.

I only heard the invitation, I only saw the embers warm,
the table was set before I showed up, the meal was provided
before I began. The words were silent name tags
reserving my place from the beginning until now.

I’ve stopped my public praying; I’ve quieted my soul like
a child newly weaned. I’ve left out the titles I once used
and waited to meet you where you have always waited for me.

I mention my friends to you, even some who are gone;
I carry them in my heart and hope crosses their path today.
And if not, I continue to pray, knowing they do the same.
Our refrains are the same:
In your earth as it is in God’s heaven, and,
enough to eat for today if you please,
and a serenade to soothe the blues of
these difficult days.

Bright Like a Needle

Bright Like a Needle

(“Your light must shine before people in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.” Matthew 5:16)

The light was apparent from a distance,
small but bright like a needle in the night.
It guided the lost to hard won hope;
It sent the vagabonds on the way with solid instructions
and food for the day.
It was high on the cliffs, sending its beam in all
directions and once.
Some ignored it and struggled to find their way.
Others saw it obscured by mental fog.
But for me it was salvation, an escape from
the agnostic samples of my soul.
I’d be happy to see the light again,
to look at the work illumination begins.
I don’t disbelieve, I’m just out of living examples
of lights that shine for any person, reason, or rhyme;
of lights that open the way for queries about the
nature of things.

The applause of people can disguise the focus
shot in the dark. Alone is overrated. Alone is
understated.

Let the light set this soul aglow. Let it disclose
all that is hidden or too quiet to be heard. Believe me,
the longer I believe the more the light wains like the
sliver of a moon.