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.

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.

Mornings Are the Best Time

Mornings Are the Best Time

(“Don’t panic! You’re looking for Jesus from Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been brought back to life. He’s not here. Look at the place where they laid him.” Mark 16:6b)

Someone left the door open and all the breeze
searched the corners of the room and the dogs
bayed
at the intrusion.
Something swelled from within,
something we had not seen before;
something breathed like an open yawn,
something we had not heard before.

Angels sit on the porch announcing the
sunny morning. Angels, like fierce beasts,
flustered us; angels, like tender rain,
assured us.

Someone was free, someone defeated death.
Somewhere in the raising of the day,
somewhere between my house and yours,
behind locked doors that never kept him away we
found what escaped our perfect reasoning and
we swallowed our tongues at the thought.
Reality was more concrete than our theories
of life and death.

Didn’t our minds spin at the thought of it?
Didn’t our hearts dive at the weight of it?
Didn’t our hearts fly at the sight of it?
Didn’t our minds rise at the grace of it?

We could barely speak at the jolt of it.
We could barely believe, but we caught our words
and remembered that mornings are the best time
for celebrating stones that have been rolled away.

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.

The Retaining Wall

The Retaining Wall

(“Everyone who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on bedrock.” Matthew 7:24)

Sluggish as an Autumn morning, I climb to
the nearest hill to maintain some masquerade of
control. When life pulls away ahead of me,
when I roll the dice on the universe,
I lose control and cannot predict
how they will fall. I cannot pretend
that suffering is the ache of needing a period
at the end of every day.

I saw someone driving a truck the same model
of my best friend who died over a year ago.
The man inside looked like him and I pleaded
that maybe time had run under the bridge and
looped back in fantasy. I have no control over
who leaves and who stays. I cannot pretend
that my words will make you stay until
the end of the day.

I am not God anyway.

I saw your house where I visited you often.
The new owner is building a retaining wall;
granite block abutting the back of the property.
He has three dogs. One black and one brown with
heads nearly the size of horses. One is white and
rules the yard; a 15-pound Maltese.

It is Autumn in the afternoon and the breeze from
the north
chilled my hands while the sun behind me
warmed my shirt like it was freshly ironed.

If I lose control, perhaps I’ll suffer less.
If I move along the trails made by deer in the woods
perhaps
life will be more effortless.

God does not hide far away.

She Earned Her Living from Art

 

She Earned Her Living from Art

(“The light is pleasant, and it is good for the eyes to see the sun.” Ecclesiastes 11:7)

 

The sky was creamsicle orange late on a December afternoon;
haze and long rays from between the hills lit the early evening dimly.
It did not seem a night for reverie,
the day had crushed even the lowest expectations
and sleep seemed a distant and uncertain relief.

I met her only briefly,
truth be told, it was a dream,
hair black as youth,
cheeks like candle-glow,
skin the color of Arizona stucco.
I knew her,
and did not.
She said she earned her living from art.
I said I did not.

I did not see her entire gallery,
but misty frames in the background hung on gray concrete.
They drew me in as certainly as her raven eyes.
She was oil and acrylic, digital graphite and
fashion design.
She stood eye to eye with me,
invited me without words to join her collective,
to share my oeuvre of writing with her.

She stood straight and I slid to my knees;
not a faint and not a bow,
but a balloon without air; I was still an
unpublished poet. And she earned her living
from art.

The morning was neapolitan; I am sure of it. Though
I woke after dawn, the colors of the sun and the
face of the girl remained until the afternoon rains
washed them
mostly away.

No Regular Work

No Regular Work

(“You shall do no regular work, and you shall offer a food offering made by fire to the Lord” Leviticus 23:25)

My mind has done all the heavy lifting,
and now will not stay silent, filling my earth and sky
with visions of places decades of spaces away.
I may rest, I may recline,
I may spend my time adding movies to my queue,
but my mind races ahead. I cannot spend any time
alone without it rehearsing something I
wish I had not said.

I would take a sabbath now, but I tow every mistake with me
to the lake, to the river, to the isolated pew
in the tiny chapel where the dew is still on the roses.

I suppose it does not matter, this muscling of my thoughts,
except they scatter the melodies that angels sing here and
only now (not then) and I begin again with days so long they
move backwards toward the dawn.

Yes, my brain is more energetic than my brawn, but it also
is befogged and hears the basso horn sounding the alarm
(but I cannot fathom the depth of the beach that surrounds the island)
sounding the alarm
as my chest vibrates with its imperceptible voice. I forget
why I came here and where my body belongs.

It remembers songs I used to sing, stages I boarded,
music I played outside on the square or inside in the
ballroom repeating a second set of jazz after people
finally began to dance.

My brain fills my days like a dirty martini,
unclear and wet; the dreams unmet leak from me
in brackish streams.

So, no, I will do no regular work today, and,
if I may,
I will offer (like a cantor) memorized words
and pieces, sentences and phrases, jigsaw pieces
of incompletion. My conceptions have gone
astray.

So, yes, I will write these words today, and,
I still pray,
they will speak to every love and friend who
knew me well enough to keep the
day tremors away.

Far Enough Away

Far Enough Away

“The Lord is merciful and righteous. Our God is compassionate.” Psalm 116:5

Spun far outside my tribal galaxy
I’d like a slice of dopamine
please.

I don’t know why, but someone noted that
we deserve nothing from the divine. Without mercy,
without compassion,
we are assigned only a fiery brine.

I reject that notion outright. Right-out loud now.

Far enough away to recognize the echoes from decades
of ingrown notions, my mind spins at those once close
who love the dictates concerning shithole nations, women’s faces
bleeding,
and blaspheming the life of Christ in wanderers who come to us
like Mary and Joseph journeyed to Egypt.
(notice, I have no ellipses.)

And while we leave them like fanciful dung,
there is a God who “lifts the needy from the garbage heap.”

There is sun for your face, beloved.
There are kisses of love.
There is fog, but blue above.
There is new for you in the circle that
embraces everything.

But some lap up mercy like milk,
and beg for more after the dishes are washed and dried.
Then refuse it those orbiting outside, beyond the walls,
beyond the rules and laws we write to control how many
falls we are allowed;
then, I fear, right out loud, the cupboard is empty and
the bowl is quite broken.

There are bluebirds for your ears, beloved.
There are waltzes of love.
There is fear, but mercy above.
There are myriads and myriads
around the throne
who speak a language never known.

And the kingdom will come (on earth as in heaven)
when we stop sanctifying gravity
and learn the lesson of unholy leaven.