Do You Remember the Fireflies?

Do You Remember the Fireflies?

(“The Son of Man will come again just as lightning flashes from east to west.” Matthew 24:27)

It was unlikely the way it all happened at once.
We were walking next to the fields where the cattle grazed,
the river in the distance, the clouds slightly amazed at the
unseen winds that whipped the trees like buttery churns.
We had wondered what the day would bring, what would
occur between the horizons from east to west. There were
challenges that kept us up late the night before and crept
towards us so plainly we recognized it right away.
We had heard a dozen rumors over the years, hints that
this cacophony would reorganize itself once we recognized
the signs.

It was never meant to be secret or merely hinted at.
It was always going to be announced like a procession across the skies.

Do you remember the fireflies on warm summer nights?

Lately I’ve been thinking how much it costs to keep defending
hazardous beliefs that harm the hearts of those who hear them.
Oh that we could feel the warm the same way the cold has
infiltrated our bones. Are there missiles bearing down on us?
And what is their payload? Could they be carriers of hope
and a panoply of star-drenched prophecies fulfilled?

It's taken us a long time to get here, this hike around the world.
We imagined things might be tied up by now,
the signs and signals capturing all our fears. But
instead
we find ourselves dousing the toxic fumes from
the fires from self-described holy men. They have
mapped it all and know every turn and every date.
Believe them, they will show it to you for a monthly
contributions.

We remain vigilant and poised for peace. We remain
outspoken as we scan the skies for a renaissance of
heavenly love.

I Think We Misunderstood

I Think We Misunderstood

(“Therefore, Hebron still belongs to Caleb son of Jephunneh the Kenizzite as an inheritance today because he followed the Lord, the God of Israel, completely.” Joshua 14:14)

There is no distance between hope and possession
though it may seem ages before it is accomplished.
There is no disconnect between faith and profession
though the definitions change as time rolls on.
I’ll read for an hour and a half if the day will allow me.
I’ll write for a day and a half if the weather will allow me.
I’ll stand atop a mountain and perceive the valley below me,
I’ll wander among the grape vines whose fruit is so full of sunshine.
I’ll assess the why we shouldn’t let the occupants of the valley
stay as long as they want. Maybe we forgot they had the land
before us. If it’s the Promised Land

Why should we have to kill anyone to enter it?
Oh, I’ll follow you Yahweh, but I won’t swing my sword.
If you can give them miraculously to us to slash and burn,
I think you could give them to us without death being such
a high priority.

The law you gave us forbade killing (Oh, I know the old trope
that it doesn’t apply to warfare death.) It forbade killing and yet,
the only way you have given us to take it is by taking every life
within the perimeter of what you call the holy land.

How can it be holy when we must slaughter people
made in your image? How can it be holy when we are not
instructed in the ways that produce shalom? How can it be
holy
when we alone are to possess the perimeters? Why don’t
we learn to offload our weapons and bring food and meat,
a true sacrificial meal, and invite them from the distance of
the sunup to the sundown to dine with us here in the land
we both desire. Let us offer our God thanksgiving without
killing anyone who lived here anciently before we did.

Teach us, we have the time. Instruct us, we will listen this time,
and Christ will repeat how it is not our bravery in taking lives
that represents the kingdom,
but the giving away of ourselves that opens the gates for
all who desire to come in or go out.

I think we got it wrong when we thought you wanted us to slaughter
or be slaughtered. I think we misunderstood when we though they
would lead us astray, as if you weren’t strong enough to guide us,
as if you weren’t kind enough to find us when we started to miss the path.

We will follow completely, speak it again and let us hear. We will
let the voice of Jesus give us the instructions this time and wait for
the proper time.

Glam-Spangled Words

Glam-Spangled Words

(“When you swear ‘by the altar,’ you are swearing by it and by everything on it.” Matthew 23:20)

You want to be noticed; you want people to watch you pray
so loud and long and higher than the clouds. You shine your
shoes so bright you blind everyone who stands beside you.
You declare
that the air you breathe is rarified by your piety. Your colors
are white but your heart is blackened by the dust of your hypocrisy.
You want everyone to see how you gather with your
dozen or so patriots downtown and pray louder than the
automotive exhaust. You never tire of making it clear that
you have climbed the ladder with your highly developed muscles
you used to use to kick fingers off the rungs. Now you don’t care,
you are far above all the failures you see from where you sit.
You’ve given more,
you’ve spent more,
you’ve announced more,
you’ve attended more,
you’ve spoken the most,
you’ve forgiven more than most,
you’ve bent the air of bishops and clerks,
you’ve pronounced their names disdainfully,
you’ve pretended you know the most,
you’ve broken the hearts that yearned for grace.

Your disciples are awed by your glam-spangled words,
they repeat them like mantras and receive nothing in return.
Why do you think your words mean anything at all after
being repeated endlessly before adoring crowds?
The day awaits your quiet heart that can give without
breathing a word about it.
It awaits your honest attention to the cries of those you
have overlooked, or seen and just set aside. You think
that extra hour of prayer
bought you a ticket to heaven, and a pass to doing anything
like feeding the poor. You lock up the immigrants and
declare yourself holy for doing it.

There is more of God in one beggar’s eyes and all the
crystal cathedrals you can build.

Sing the Silvery Song

Sing the Silvery Song

(“And now behold, we are in your hands; do to us as it seems good and right in your sight to do.” Joshua 9:25)

Oh no, not today. Not while we are doubling down on
the trouble we have avoided so far. You were far stronger than
we could imagine and bowed ourselves before you with our
hands quivering in the sun. There was a day

When we were all simply people on the sand. But you took your name,
we took our land,
and it all became the worst capture the flag game ever seen.

Your ancestors and ours roamed this dirt in different directions.
Some followed the river, some stayed close to the oasis of trees.
Some built huts while some built tall houses with gardens on the roof.
We all shared the plums and figs and dates and planted new fruit
trees when we wanted. We raised our sheep and goats and a few pigs.
We ate at tables spread for neighbors with enough for children and
elders.

Oh no, not today. Not another gridiron gladiator storming the gates.
Not another flock of locusts setting the air on fire. We’ve hidden
for far too long and now
ask for courtesy, a little sympathy, a new translation for an old
alteration we made up on the spot. Speak the old languages,
sing the silvery song, beat the drum slowly and wake us up with
pipes from the hills.

Let us gather now like we know it’s almost over,
let us share the table set among the sweet clover.
Let us listen for the bell that rings out freedom,
let us grasp hands, and shake them like we just succeeded
and will look for the ways the sunlight plays so late
in a summer evening.

Like Spray on the Crags

Like Spray on the Crags

(“After the people finished crossing the river, the priests carried the Lord’s Holy Box to the front of the people.” Joshua 4:11)

It was an early morning while the fog lay
heavy in the air. We breathed the dew like
an elixir brewed by a master of the day. We
knew another miracle and another crossing and
another trek would take us to the front of the line.
We saw the ark of the covenant gleaming and glancing
while the waters danced like two walls of a tunnel
leading us to new land, found land, new sounds and
new scans of the sky that opened us up endlessly.

We spaced ourselves apart and watched the fog lift
like diamonds in the air. We lasted longer than we
had assumed. We walked through the sun like roses
bloom from their branches; we talked in whispers for
the sacred places we trod. The hours were as long as
they had always been, the air on the peaks was
as thin as it had always been. We dispersed our patience
laterally, let me explain.

We counted hours like waves on the ocean, like
the washing of the breakers across the beach.
They told time like the hinges of the day, managed the
seconds like spray on the crags.

We knew there would be travail on the other side,
mountains to climb and opposition to the long love
we were assigned. But we were ready, we followed across,
we etched our movement and entered the promised places
where we could breathe again. We could dance until the
night grew silent again.

Unlearning is Sacred

Unlearning is Sacred

(“And if you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.” Matthew 21:22)                

Come on over and set yourself down;
let me tell you the ways of the wind,
Come on over and sit beside me;
let me introduce you to explanations I
have not yet found.
Together we can solve the puzzle,
on our own we only scratch our heads.
Tell me today one way the world has changed
when you asked it to change.
Tell me the transformation you observed while waiting
for sundown to melt into the west.

We were sitting on the curb asking donations;
We were singing the songs we learned from the wind.
We were singing in the park, busking for dollars:
We were sitting awaiting the introduction to a
new world we were promised so many years ago.

We learned to stand up to bullies, we trace lines where
our coffee cups sat to refine our focus. The bullies grew
up
and lowered the boom on the people in the margins and
passed the responsibility on to their part-time managers.

But there are tender years we can discuss;
There are listening ears we can sing to.
There are fascinating trips around the world like
geese migrating to the end of autumn.

Pray now and ask, there is nothing new to learn.
Unlearning is sacred if we will take the time.
So let us sit in the sun of the fading day and
recount the ways we can appeal for a new way,
interceding for a day like kingdom come.

Dance With the Runaways

Dance With the Runaways

(“And the disciples were filled with joy and with the Holy Spirit.” Acts 13:52)

The time passes like a semi on the highway.
The rain hits like pellets of joy. The wind was from the south
and warmed the mid-September air. There was nothing foolish
about spending the day outside.

Words were scarce as he searched for enough to fill a page or a pail;
his appeal was heard though, more thoroughly than he knew.
The wind turned for a moment and blew the lid off the
neighbor’s trash can. It flew like a frisbee across the warming street.

I won’t be remembered for keeping my mouth shut.
I can sing the joy, I can speak the prophecy, I can hum the tune
that calls for freedom to flow from the surrounding hills.
I can, in a word or two, remind you of redemption,
the song that is meant for everyone.

Can you hear the echoes, can you feel the rejoicing of those
who feel the vibrations and have set the captives free?
Have you listened long enough to dance with the runaways
who have fled the dirges of the day?

Come, leave your vitriol behind; find a new word to terminate
the sentences you have imposed. There is time, though it may be
running fast,
to catch up with the jubilant sound of every voice freed to
sing the day away while others are blindly following their own
scripts into dark and silent caverns of gloom.

The Circle Widens

The Circle Widens

(“Let me tell you, it’s easier to gallop a camel through a needle’s eye than for the rich to enter God’s kingdom.” Matthew 19:24 [The Message])

The circle widens as we look toward the horizon and see
the way we waste our efforts in converting 400 people to become
just like us.
The night darkens while we light another lamp to create
some smokey brightness to break open the faces that are
just like us.
The private jets whoosh past above the timberline where the snows
stays trapped from middle Spring squalls, captained by people who are
just like us.
We never expected to be such consumers of black plastic bags and
thousand dollar bills. We had only hoped to have enough to eat tomorrow
and to have a little lunch for later in the day. But billions landed
next to us, from a suitcase in the sky,
and what could we do but spend it like a black-tie dinner.
Some, I heard, spent their earnings in little bits at a time:
a power boat, a jet ski, a Mercedes or two, an indoor tennis court
and spices that come all the way from china. Money made us think,
money made us lose track, money made us turn black what would have been
the brightest of skies.
The rich point at the homeless and refuse to listen to their stories,
and accuse them of not taking advantage of programs made for them.
One fool says we should take their lives involuntarily. That is what has
become of pursuing Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

No wonder it is nearly impossible for rich people to enter the kingdom,
they are so bloated, so overfed, so obese they cannot fit their
fat asses through the gates to the kingdom. We wonder how to remember
people that were once
just like us.

A Pretty Good Day

A Pretty Good Day

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

Splash is a sound that slaps the salty sidewalks on
summer afternoons. Children take the water seriously,
pointing the hose at the nearest victim. Giggles turn the
corners round the houses of everyone who has come out to see
the joy that fills the street.

They were mostly grandchildren dancing like fountains,
toddlers tasting the sunlight as they hugged the water
spraying over them. They had not learned

(Like so many adults do)

That it feels so much like earning the days that
are given for free. They invite us to misbehave for just
a triangle of time each day.

Children take what is offered, unabashed liberty.
They point the water hose at each other and the liquid
looks like diamonds bouncing off the sod.
The day turns late, the shadows grow long and parents
whistle for children to come home. One more slide down the
wetted grass, one more mouthful of water from the hose,
one more dousing of your crush, and one more towel to
dry everyone off

All in all, it was a pretty good day.
No of a certain age needs to be taught to play.

The State of My Brain

The State of My Brain

(“The Lord makes our human spirit like his lamp inside us. It shows us what we are really like.” Proverbs 20:27)

I’ve got enough time to read a chapter or two,
to turn on the overhead lamp and see what the words say.
I’ve been reading from the day I knew that one word and
another
could take me to world without moving a muscle.
A man down the street asked me what kind of books
I liked the best. I was eight or nine and I said “adventure”
though I wasn’t entirely clear what the word meant. He gave
me two books, one about the thirteen original colonies and
I don’t remember the other one. Maybe a Hardy Boys mystery.
I made weekly trips to the library; its front steps were marble.
Sometimes I walked since it was only six blocks from home.
I would take a volume of an encyclopedia and start reading articles
in alphabetical order. I wondered who wrote all this candid information
and how they knew so much stuff.

Reading captured me as a teen. I read all of Shakespeare in one summer and most
of John Steinbeck. The next summer it was Ray Bradbury along with the
poetry of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Rod McKuen got an occasional look.

I read early twenty century playwrights and imagined their words in
my mouth.

Ten years later I was a newly formed follower and read books on
prayer and spiritual gifts and how to manage your emotions by concentrating
on Christ. Truth? I found myself falling woefully behind.
There was a method to pray an hour a day. I managed 15 minutes.
There was a way to speak in tongues, and I mumbled them well. I
never got my mind swept clean from thoughts that invaded constantly.

Today I read memoirs and liberal theology. Today I quiet my mind
with music before I read. Today I talk slower and less certain.
Today I am not sure of my purpose, but I do not shame myself
for the state of my brain.

Follow the Messengers

Follow the Messengers

(“The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run into it and are safe.” Proverbs 18:10)

Beyond the borders there is a square of
safety for me. I had studied the rural forms
for nearly 20 years and found the remains of
remote islands on the run. The tables were turned,
the tallest cedars burned and returned decades later.
All I could see from miles around atop the largest hill
on the grounds of a dozen acres of refuge, were angels
winging their way to me.

I discovered my identity in the motion of their wings and
the song of their mouths that echoed like childlike giggles
up and down the face of the canyons and the depths of the
muddy river running candidly.

I started listening to the way the wind blew through the
narrow windows of the tower and I could swear the birds
had stopped their chirping so I could hear the way the sun
made the grass grow. So I could hear the leaves inching out
toward the sky.

There had been trouble outside the fences,
there had been blockades keeping the stockpiles empty while
the children starved. They insisted it was legal the way
they turned away international aid. They imagined they
owned the soil where the tears of the mothers watered the dust
where innocence fell.

The angels moved past me. I was not their project and now I know.
They were moving me to move with them;
they were sent to melt the hearts of so-called kings who devastated
tens of thousands for an incomplete retribution. They have
nowhere to run, so let us run to them and leave our watchtowers
behind. Let us follow the messengers whose words are peace
and whose ways are love.

The Next Page of the Book

The Next Page of the Book

(“Depend on the Lord in whatever you do, and your plans will succeed.” Proverbs 16:3)

So much depends on how we carry our load and how
heavy it sits upon your back. There are some who would
steal your soul
to upend the work you’ve done to wake up where you are.
The mistakes you’ve made only take you closer to
learning what is no longer needed. The image of God you have
needs to be erased so only the naked reality remains.
Half of it was prayer, half of it was doubt,
the day remained misunderstood whether cloudy or bright.
He was sure there were few who knew or understood the
ransacking his brain had endured or how late the scars remained
after the pain.
He wasn’t sure about healing, or what it meant. Too many
wounds
were self-inflicted, others were done by those practicing their
religious vows. He wasn’t sure what was worse, or whether faith
was still part of the picture at all.

He understood little the longer he contemplated what remained
and the change of scenery hadn’t paid off anyway.
He was distressed it came to this; he was silent about
all the rest.
He had been depending on divine intervention for so long
it felt like his breath in winter, vapor vanishing in the air.
He had been hoping for renewed inventions but his hopes
were too high
and they seemed to fly past his field of vision.

And yet anyone looking at his surroundings would conclude
the plans had come together full. He knew that. It was
all in his head. And he knew that now as well.

He decided to turn the next page of the book he was reading.