Of Feasting and Wine

Of Feasting and Wine

(“Jesus said to them, ‘I am the Bread of Life. He who comes to Me will never be hungry. He who puts his trust in Me will never be thirsty.’” John 6:35)

Nourish my soul again like an apéro in France to enhance
my waiting for the later feast that would fill us until deeply
slumbering.
Brighten my eyes with refreshment like waters from the
mountain spring that set my mind to waking refreshed.
I feel hollowed out, not listless, but unsure of where the
next step should go. I feel ready to meet a dozen questioners
who laugh between bites and sometimes sing when the
meal is over.
I never wanted to take my meals solitary, but avoided
the call to ordered
groups
that met over stir fry and casseroles to revisit their
latest protestations about everything they thought was their
proper use of their locked up Spirit of God.

Their meals made me blush, my face, sometimes red
with hurt and anger held back, wishing I had not joined
their buffet. I found their sustenance wanting,
I found their repasts repeating words that had already found
their targets with arrows sharper that truth. I arrived
late
to avoid as many of their scattered incantations as I could.

If only I could find some, even merely two or three,
who would share a meal in joyful reverence, in laughter
that is
invitational,
in stories told about stones overturned while preparing
their flower gardens.
We knew their roses were the most fragrant in town.

Even the rain outside my window cannot muffle
the water being poured out over our wounds. Even the
clouds could not cover the waiting in our hearts for your
eternal food. I can taste it on my tongue, this new dish
served that never runs out. I can feel it running down my
throat, this new wine that revives the weariness that weighed
heavy in the air.

Full, complete, revived and ready to meet the
path I will walk today. The new energy caught up with
me and pointed me to the next banquet of joy.
I’ll show up early and hopefully hear another
traveler’s tale
of feasting and wine.

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.

You Tend Your Garden Well

You Tend Your Garden Well

(“Do not oppress the widow, the fatherless, the sojourner, or the poor, and let none of you devise evil against another in your heart.” Zechariah 7:10)

Did you offer them bread from the loaves
decorating your kitchen? Did you pour them wine
the moment it seemed the time was right?
Did you hear them knock on the door and
did you happily open even though you knew
they would leave you more weightless than before?

I know you’ve ached before, haven’t you?
I know you’ve slaked your thirst, didn’t you?
I know it’s been years for you, but for them
there is no setting sun to disappear their cravings
for necessary food. I think you knew that chapter
before you opened the book.

I hope you believe their stories, I hope you listen well.
I hope you believe their inventories of pain. I hope you feel well.

But what do I know? People call me political when
I make any noise for the hurting and neglected, and
they aim for my head telling me it’s not my place.

The moment you close your heart you dismantle the possibilities
that could feed the starving at least through tomorrow. Fire up
the hearth in your heart, let the liquid warmth of the sun behind your back
take you tears and make them heavier than you can bear.

You tend your garden well so that no red rose petal
goes unaccounted for.

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.

To Bake the Bread

To Bake the Bread

(“Seize life! Eat bread with gusto, drink wine with a robust heart. Oh yes—God takes pleasure in

your pleasure!” Ecclesiastes 9:7 [The Message])

I saw you come in from the fields,
covered with wheat dust and dirt.
I saw your face burnt from the relentless sun,
and saw your hands roughened by the twine on the
rows of bales thrown on the back of the truck.
I saw you come in.

The crop was late this year, a cold spell mid spring
slowed everything down. And now some may not take
the sunflowers off until February after they are frozen and
dry.

But today, late in the evening, we would break bread; we would
throw our stories around like fast pitches at a pick-up baseball game.
We would kid the children who sat in the cab with us. We would thank
the women and teens who brought our lunch to us. We would drink
deeply of water to clear the dust from our parching throats. And
(out of courtesy) we laid our over-hauls in the mud room. We would be
back at it in the morning.

So, with dirt scrubbed hands we passed around the meal. The bread
was there in abundance; hot rolls, banana bread, whole loaves that smelled
like they were still baking. We ate deep (the children ate quick), we ate but
stopped between one chew and the next to playfully thank our host and ask,
“Do you bake all day, so you don’t have to come to the fields?” It’s harmless.
Because mostly they do frequent the fields, pulling double duty: guide the
combines and back to bake the bread.

And tonight, though not the finest wine, the color came back to our cheeks
with each glass. Grandma sipped slowly but was the first one up from the table.
She had a plan, she had a spark, she had an itch to make our simple meal a party.
The crops were nearly in…except for the late sunflowers…and it was time
to celebrate.

She put on a record full of standards from the 40s. The kids and teens groaned,
and honestly, so did some of the adults. But granny knew what we did not,
there is no better dance music than big band music. “In the Mood”, “It Don’t
Mean a Thing (If it Ain’t God that Swing)” The toddlers took to twirling first.

They kept their socks on as they slid across the smooth hardwood floor
surrounded by couches, recliners, and side tables. They spun like dervishes,
and giggled like dolphins showing off.

First dad, then uncle, then cousins and teenage relatives, took one of the
skating toddlers and spun them round to the music. The giggles hit the rafters
and ricocheted back into the room.

Granny and Grandpa were the next up. He took her in his arms like a schoolboy
at prom. Their eyes gleamed. They had waited out the day to eat of the bounty,
and now wanted to celebrate free of restraint.

Everybody in between, after they stopped their complaints, found a way to keep time
to these tunes from another century. And then, just as every was losing their breath,
Grandpa pulled out his fiddle, and Mama pulled out her guitar, and they played
bluegrass, and reels, and jigs. The same songs they always played. Their
repertoire was short, but their execution was precise.

Good food, abundant wine, dancing like there would be tomorrow to do it all over again,
all seemed the most appropriate way to say

Thank You

For a harvest, a hard harvest, that was now nearly in. If they could, they would
have wiped the plates clean, depleted the wine, and danced all night laughing with
the children, some of whom had already fallen asleep on the floor and couches.

We Forgot About the Bread

We Forgot About the Bread

(“If you had obeyed me, you would have had peace like a full-flowing river. Good things would have flowed to you like the waves of the sea.” Isaiah 48:18)

Waiting for the day to arise,
for the full sun, the faint sky to push
broadly
through the clouds pretending they are
stone walls
between rumors below and
and celestas above.

And we wait for angels.

I would rather an old friend hug
me for one minute longer
than meet an extra-terrestrial, winged
and spinning. When someone told me
they paid for my stay,
I did not assume they were heavenly.
I was happy they lived next door to me.

Once I prayed for days on end for
fire. Once I thirsted privately and
imagined visions suggested to me.
I pounded the carpeted floor,
I petitioned the bronze anatomy of
heaven
to help me convince onlookers
of my spiritual bona fides. There was
little left to hide while I watched for a
wind or a
wave or a
dream or an
angel (so it seemed).

While we knelt behind pianos,
while we were prostrate on antique floorboards,
we hoped for a handout from a messenger to tell us
we had been in the presence of god.

Amens sometimes punctuated the crying. Fierce
words brewed within cauldrons; souls bubbling over with
who knew what or why.

While we prayed just 10 minutes longer to guarantee
our purity,
and did so in all sincerity,
we forgot about the bread and the fishes
and the five and some-odd thousand who waited
for bread.

I Hear/Bread and Wine

 I Hear/Bread and Wine

(“Or do you not know this about yourselves: that Jesus Christ is in you.” 2 Corinthians 13:5b)

At this point it is so hard to remember
chocolate or
guitar songs with my clan
or
warm beaches with my toes in the sand.

(I am in no mood for stoic meditations. Some
days it’s so easy,
but mostly I’ve forgotten.)

I don’t mean to be grumpy or
self-indulgent or
sorry for my plight.
I just wish I got get-well cards
from someone
other than my
nurses.

My house is cozy,
my family loves me,
but I am lonely
inside these days that pass
while I breathe and
eat and
live and
sleep
under the radar.

My soul is taxed,
my brain no match for the bass drum
of days that advance without my permission.
At this point
(let me make it clear)
Christ is more than all
while I wonder why the snow falls
so late this year.

Today the hours taunt me with self-made
stories
and the sadnesses I remember.

And then I hear, yes, only faintly,
the bread and the wine and the
voice that has never minded my questions:

“Remember me.”

Like Rustic Bread

Like Rustic Bread

(“But he said to them, ‘You give them to eat.‘” Luke 9:13a)

Remember when we used to meet for lunch;
Denny’s, Round Table or the shop on Monument Boulevard
with 50 kinds of hamburgers? Meals were
our sacrament.

Remember the pizzas we ate hurriedly halfway through
dress rehearsals? We never thought
two dollars
could go so far.

Remember picnics in the shade and
the dogs misbehaving while we protected the
potato salad
from ants on the ground and the sun in the sky?

Remember the bottle of Almaden when we
could afford it? Otherwise, it was Boone’s Farm.
With the stream singing in the ravine
the birds harmonized in the tree above our
makeshift eucharist.

These days I am shy about
dinner invitations. I am less sure.
Conversation is pizzicato in my trembling fingers.
Blood rushes to my face
belying the uncertainty of gravity.

Do you remember sitting in grand circles
waiting for all the relatives to arrive at the
memorial? It was January and the roads were
frictionless. The friends of the departed
did not mind the extra time.
The food never stopped, and our laps were
precariously full in
the great hall
where coffee was poured all night.

I would give anything to be
brave enough again
to break off part of my heart
like rustic bread
and entrust it into your hands.

Heroes Offer Bread

Heroes Offer Bread

(The Lord does not let the righteous go hungry, but he thwarts the craving of the wicked. Proverbs 10:3)

And so we set another shooter free who
thought he could thin the ranks of looters
in another state.

And we lionize the baby-face vigilante,
we call him hero and put his silhouette
on t-shirts to promote the next angry citizen
to take aim.

And we forget how to pray.

Heroes offer bread when cities blaze,
heroes bring a cold cup of water to reduce the heat,
heroes find the reason anger took to its feet,
heroes march the Via Dolorosa,
walk closer to the cross the more
the violence burns. Peace finds the ways
to become new heroes of the age.

Don’t shout so loud over your gun-toting victories,
don’t push verdicts like they are divine exoneration.
There is a Kingdom above all kings,
a government that lies upon the shoulders of the wise.
There is a campground where all are welcome,
there is a neighborhood where children are fed love
instead of anger.

Rioters may pay, but I don’t get to decide the verdict.
Looters may pay, but I do not get to perform the execution.
The streets of Jerusalem were filled with
mobs and moral judges
that both sent the Prince of Peace
to the cross.

When our meals are anger overcooked and burned to the edges
we will starve, we will bloat, we will boast about every alleged
grievance,

While the few leave their fields unharvested for the poor.

For Pianos and Wine

For Pianos and Wine

(“People ate until they couldn’t eat any more. He gave them what they had wanted.” Psalm 78:29)

I would give anything for eight candles and a piano,
a light for each visitor in the room, a table of food,
and a tune we all knew by heart.

A draught of ale, bacon wrapped dates with an entrée of duck
or lamb,
or goat or ham,
and dessert imagined by witty minds or luckily stumbled upon
at a Mexican panadería.

I would go back in time if it helped,
to hug the finest friends (some still in arm’s reach,
some across the wireless space,
some closer than before but with back turned to late
comments and figures of speech.)
I am the same friend, only my brain has changed.
I have same love, only the scope is strange to their thinking.
I have the same calloused fingers from playing guitar alone.

I would give anything for two guitars, a flute and a horn.
An evening searching for baptism and listening to the call of
nightingales.

But I would not give up the expanse, the exploded boxes,
the labyrinth that takes me deeper, the hope that takes me sweeter,
the few new friends who think it a wonder that I share
a drink with them at all.

I would give anything to hear a voice on the line:
we heard you are hurting. We heard you’ve changed.
We heard you may be out of the tribe. We heard you’ve remained
the same. We saw your slow exit and your limping. We saw
your tears and the simple goodbye you waved when your heart
wanted to stay.

And we just wanted to say: We don’t care how your brain works today,
just join us again for bread, for candles, for pianos and wine.

When You Can't Taste the Bread

When You Can’t Taste the Bread

“I am the bread of life,” Jesus told them. “No one who comes to me will ever be hungry, and no one who believes in me will ever be thirsty again.” John 6:35

I think for most people the aroma of baking bread is one of the wonders of scent. Why does something that tastes so yummy also smell so enticing? And, as a staple of life, bread is ubiquitous. Every culture has its breads; flat breads, grilled breads, yeast breads, wheat, rye, oat. Well, you get the idea.

The perfect morning would be to smell both newly brewed coffee and freshly baked bread upon waking. The buttery dough saturates your tongue as the brightly bitter brew washes it down. In most homes, that is enough to get you going for the day.

Smell seems to be connected to memory. In the early 1980s I worked for Laird’s Office Supply and Business Forms. My territory included both San Francisco and the East Bay. I was hired to go to any business that did not have accounts with the firm and cold call, developing new clients.

Once or twice a week I drove across the Bay Bridge from our office in Oakland to San Francisco. If the breeze was just right, at a certain point where the freeway turned north into downtown San Francisco, two aromas met in an atmospheric elixir I’ll never forget. Folger’s Coffee was just to the south and the many sourdough bakeries were northeast. The slightly acrid perfume of roasting coffee beans met the yeasty output of the sourdough ovens. The combination was heaven to the sense of smell.

Jesus had just miraculously fed 5,000 people with a boy’s lunch of loaves and fishes. People were astounded and followed him up and down the coast. He turns to the crowd, telling them they weren’t looking for him because of “signs” but “you ate the loaves and were filled.”

As Jesus often does, he takes something tangible and teaches a spiritual lesson. Bread isn’t really bread as he begins his unusual speech in answer to their inquiries. The crowd knew that God had given the wandering Hebrews manna in the desert and asked Jesus, “So, what sign are you going to perform?”

He first sets them straight. “Moses didn’t give you the bread from heaven, and, my Father gives the true bread from heaven. The bread of God is the one who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”

“Well give us some of that bread, Jesus, then we’ll never have to eat again!” Was there snickering among the crowd? Maybe.

But Jesus tells them, “I am the bread of life. No one who comes to me will ever be hungry, and no one who believes in me will ever be thirsty again.” This is an absolute statement. Jesus doesn’t say “will rarely be hungry”, or “will usually never thirst.” He is positing himself as the full and complete answer to life and human need. It is sad that we have reduced it to one or two propositions.

First, it’s about salvation. “Give your heart to Jesus, you’ll go to heaven, and you’ll never hunger again.” And there is truth behind that. But Jesus is talking about food, something we do every single day of our lives. He is talking about water without which we cannot exist for more than a few days. He is talking about life here and now.

Second, we make it about satisfaction. “Make Jesus your everything. Turn away from the ‘world’s’ bread (fill in anything your church thinks is scary) and fully commit your entire being to Jesus.” The only problem here is that Jesus is offering an invitation to a meal, not a marshal order.

What he is saying is so much richer, so much fuller than either the “heaven when you die” or the “perfect discipleship” picture. Food is life. Water is life. What he is saying is what most of us realize; much of our life can feel very inadequate. Jesus opens up an abundance of life to us through being the very sustenance we need. We do not need to prepare the meal; he is the meal.

I’ve been struggling with this ever since I retired early from ministry this January. I am closing in on 11 years of a never-ending 24/7 headache. It is torture at times. We moved in with my sister in Texas, Patti found a job at a university, and I fill my days with very little of any significance. Without a car at the house during the day and no hangouts or restaurants within walking distance, loneliness and isolation easily take me by the throat.

Add the constant pain, the average of 6 out of 10 pain, the pain that feels like a spear piercing my temples and an iron helmet pressing in on my head, and trying to keep my outlook positive approaches the impossible. I despair of knowing or experiencing Jesus’ presence. Indeed, I have called to him for help over and over, weeping; and here I am. The things I loved to do the best are, for now, out of my reach.

And today I read this passage and I fell into a pit of gloom. “Jesus, if you really are my bread, my sustenance, my satisfaction, then, even in this pain, I should at least be able to rise in spirit and be comforted.” But I am not. I lay quietly, listening to music, stilling my heart, hoping to feel him near. And I do not. I pour out tears on my pillow hoping he will place his hands on me and dry them, but he does not.

And so, I decided to be honest. But, the risk of being honest is that people respond with, “I know what you should do!” Before you write me, let me assure you, I’ve been in evangelical Christianity for 47 years and a Pentecostal for almost that long. I’ve tried and experienced almost everything you could suggest. Recently someone even told me that they “know” what my problem is, and if I just tried crystals, I’d be free! Others suggest I have unforgiveness in my life. Others, sin. Some seem almost more stressed that God hasn’t answered their prayer for my healing instead of simply caring about my well-being. So, with this paragraph done, let me go on.

Imagine an illness where one could not taste or smell food. We’ve already described the delights of both senses. The person would still eat, of course, out of necessity, but the joy of the tasting would be gone. I think, in a way, that is what both the pain and the extremity of my circumstances have done. Jesus is still my bread; but, for now at least, I cannot taste it.

This should help us when dealing with people who are in desperate need. Be present to them. Listen to them. Don’t give them answers. And please don’t tell them about your experience of 20 years ago when God felt “so real to me.” If anything, share a time when God seemed distant to you as well.

The final thought after pondering this all day in the middle of an extremely painful and lonesome day is this: In Jesus’ day, meals were communal. You simply did not drive through the Capernaum McDonald’s on your way to the Sermon on the Mount. If you know someone who is isolated, in chronic pain, economic poverty, deeply depressed or ill, don’t just take them food; have a meal with them. I promise you, that meal, and the blessing that accompanies it, will probably help that person sense the savor of the Bread of Life at least in that moment.

Sowing to the Spirit

Sowing to the Spirit

“If you plant in the field of your natural desires, from it you will gather the harvest of death; if you plant in the field of the Spirit, from the Spirit you will gather the harvest of eternal life.” Galatians 6:8

Have you ever wondered who was the first person who thought that putting seeds underneath the ground was a good thing? We simply take it for granted that something should sprout once seed is sown into a fertile field. It seems counter-intuitive; that by emptying our hands of those tiny seeds we will eventually harvest something bigger and better.

Jesus said it this way: “A grain of wheat remains no more than a single grain unless it is dropped into the ground and dies. If it does die, then it produces many grains.” (John 12:24) So, not only does the sower end up with empty hands, but the seed itself “dies”. Out of our sight, underneath the black earth, it bears all the markings of the grave.

Yet we know from experience that, given time, we will see an amazing process. Perhaps you had a sandwich today, or a hamburger, or tortilla. The bread you consumed is the end result of this miracle of planting and harvesting, sowing and reaping, dying and living. A single seed of grain gave birth to a stalk of a hundred more. Those were harvested and ground into flour, eventually becoming the delightful bread that accompanied your meal.

Paul takes this concept one step further and tells us we can sow into two different fields, giving two different results. We can sow to our “natural desires” or to the “Spirit”, resulting in either death or eternal life. Every follower of Jesus has this choice daily.

When we make decisions based on our self-interest alone, we reap “death”. Relationships suffer, our spiritual life becomes dry and discontent rises. Life is neither enjoyable or ultimately pleasurable because self-interest can take us only so far.

But, when we make decisions based on God’s Spirit, especially as revealed through Jesus Christ, we reap “eternal life”. This does not mean “heaven” primarily. It means a quality of life that is God-like. It echoes His self-giving nature. As we decide to follow the Spirit’s lead, we experience a harvest that leads to greater love in our own hearts. We reap joy that is not dependent on the winds of changing circumstance. And the fruit of peace rules our thoughts and relationships as we learn to be like Jesus.

Here are some examples. Sowing to the natural self involves a scolding nature. Sowing to the Spirit involves a supportive nature. The person who is self-interested will often try to dominate others. It doesn’t matter if the cause is righteous or not, dominance is not of the Spirit. Instead, the Spirit it gentle and supportive by nature.

A few sentences before Paul talks about sowing and reaping he wrote, “if someone is caught in any kind of wrongdoing, those of you who are spiritual should set him right; but you must do it in a gentle way.” (Galatians 6:1) Do you see the non-scolding nature of the Spirit? Even when someone is doing wrong, those who are “spiritual” set them straight in a gentle way. Scolding seldom reaps the God-kind of life; whereas supportive guidance can produce great results.

Criticism sows to the natural self. When we look at people and behaviors with a critical eye we are more intent on judging than on helping. Instead of criticism, perhaps we can find ways to help carry the person’s burden. “Help carry one another's burdens, and in this way you will obey the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2) Can you imagine what would happen if every follower of Jesus became less critical and simply offered to help ease the burden of the troubled folks around them?

Admittedly, sometimes the “giving” nature of the Spirit feels like losing; just like we empty our hands of the seeds which we plant. And, self-interest feels like winning; though we keep nothing but dry and dusty seeds. Learning the Spirit’s way is not easy, but it is the way of life. 

Think about Jesus and His interaction with the “sinners” of His day? How often did He scold? Was He critical? He had lunch with Zacchaeus, an embezzling tax-collector, without publicly berating him. Jesus stood between an adulteress and the scolding crowd, bringing her grace and healing. He healed, He set free, He loved, forgave and empowered men and women to live in the light of God’s grace. Let us sow to the Spirit in the same ways. The results are truly eternal.

Pop the Words

Pop the Words

(“How can you believe, when you receive glory from one another and do not seek the glory that comes from the only God?” John 5:44)

You pop the right words, “God gave me”,
and “Christ told me”, and “I’m led to”,

But why I cannot find you when
the poor need another week of bread,

Why you are not running
to open the bus doors for the
children who smell just like you did
when you were a child that smelled;
did you stay home to avoid another buffet line?

You’ve changed your words, but still shoot daggers
at the same people as before. Now you quote Scripture
to prove how right your intolerance has become.

Come now, sing the tune, the words, the Spirit,
the same as we have sung for centuries on end. Why?
Do you?

You set your timer to go off at exactly the moment
you notice
no one notices
your commitment; your words last only
as long
as they are easy to speak. Hard to keep and
the alarm rings

And the Pastor is preaching suspect passages,
the doctors are only practicing, not healing,
the teachers don’t know their curriculum
and the banjo player gets his fingers stuck in
the strings.

Or so it seems to hear your report.

You met Jesus, and all he did was give you a new vocabulary
to tear up and shred every decent person who ever tried

To help you a decent person. And “Christ”, as you call Him,
is not Christ at all if You have forgotten the blessing of doing
what nobody ever notices.

Banquets to Come

Banquets to Come

(“But the bread that comes down from heaven is such that a person may eat it and not die.” John 6:50)

Do not feed me diamonds, I will not eat them,
Do not serve me golden, I cannot taste it.
They have no fragrance, no foretaste of banquets to come.

I will dine on sunrise and drink its reflection from
the silent river still as autumn. I will drink the conversations
poured from yesterday’s thermos, the chill pinching my cheeks
with the hope of no more goodbyes.

I am a starving wanderer with an appetite wider than
the prisms refract. I hunger, on lazy mornings like these,
for the kitchen where momma baked

The French rolls from a secret recipe; butter, cinnamon,
sugar and cream, cornbread gold and
topped with molasses’ coffee crunch.. The damp air
from the crack in my bedroom window
met up with the aroma from the Jenn-air oven. Dad was there first

and never a single one leftover if anyone

slept in.

A Bread Narrative

"A Bread Narrative"

(“Jesus replied: ‘I am the bread that gives life! No one who comes to me will ever be hungry. No one who has faith in me will ever be thirsty.’” John 6:35)

I spread the white cream cheese, one side at a time,
onto each half of my blueberry bagel. That is my breakfast,
two, three, or four times a week. That is my breakfast except
for the two times a week I pour almond crunch cereal into a bowl with milk,
and the one or two times a week I smear the same cream cheese
onto two slices of cinnamon toast.

But yesterday I spread the cream cheese on a bagel and walked out the door.

It was Sunday morning, the first day of Fall, and the half block to the church
was mostly grass, gold and brown after late summer’s dehydration, though
soft from the fog inching up from the river a quarter mile away; half eaten
I brought the second half, unthinking and rote, to my mouth as I strode across
the lawn. And half of that half, with an unhappy crease, fell upon the ground,
upside down, a sandwich of earth, cream cheese and bagel.

I thought about picking it up, not to eat, I knew there were cookies with the
coffee soon to appear as people began to populate the morning worship.
I thought about picking it up, just so no children, closer to the ground than I,
might like a bit of my breakfast as well.

I thought about picking it up, but left it there instead.

We prayed and we laughed inside our simple building. We rejoiced that
God allowed a young girl to keep her cat, it’s true. Last week the evil cat
was attacking all three other kittens in the home, and would have to live alone,
unless it learned to behave. We prayed. Now the cats get along, and one young girl
thinks God is pretty cool to do that.

After all had left, and standing for an hour long conversation with a constituent
who had no idea that my head pain increases the more I just stand and talk
and talk and stand. Inside I nearly toppled onto a pew, grabbing my temples and crying,
“Let me go home.” Instead I listened; and it was good.

I strode across the lawn, going home, and noticed my quarter-bagel was gone. I
am sure a
blue jay enjoyed a feast, a fortuitous find, and I suffered little at the loss
of just a bit of Sunday breakfast on my way
walking to church.

Who Washed Your Hands

Who Washed Your Hands

(“Every time you eat this bread and drink from this cup you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes.” 1 Corinthians 11:26)

It should have been me who washed Your hands
that night before eating the exodus meal; I should have
set the table neat with white linen, poured the wine
red
in the cups that speak so well,
set the matzo unbroken before our final
consummation, our ears not hearing
this was no celebration;
more memorial, a portrait predicting
what we would not speak throughout our
entire meal.

How could we know (except You had told us
time times it all) what we were too excited to hear.

We knew who You were, but missed who You are,
We confessed You Messiah, but doubted Your methods,
We wanted to follow, though unclear of our destination,
We asked the right questions, and lost the answers in our assumptions.

I cannot approach the table again with my sentences dotted,
my paragraphs complete.
I will not dine so certain nor stare down the uninvited,
I will sit with men uninitiated, talk with women untrained
and admit we are all simply amateurs, in it
for the love of the game.

It should have been me, washed Your feet,
but You took the towel, the basin, the water.

It should have been me, broken like bread,
but You took the fracture, the spikes and the thorns.

It should have been me, poured out like wine,
but You spilled the blood, for our tears and sweat

And built a family upon winning one death final
like we thought we would die given half the chance
(accomplishing nothing).

And built a family upon dying like victory
teaching us with basins and nails the announcement to make
to a world dead of war and sick of valor.