A Blank Slate

A Blank Slate

(“If someone says, ‘I love God,’ and yet he hates his brother or sister, he is a liar; for the one who does not love his brother and sister whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen.” 1 John 4:20)

I’d like to believe I am a blank slate.
I’d like to think I’m ready for the writing on the wall.
I’d enjoy the chance to talk in private the ways
I preside over public speech.
I’m ready for the old instructions to be rewritten
on my heart.

You were lying by the side of the road, a
castoff
of better times. Nothing in your pockets and
nowhere to go, you canceled your subscription to
unhelpful words of painted pain.

I’d like to believe I’d give you a chance.
I’d like to believe I’ve read the situation well.
I’d enjoy the chance to enjoy an open door
before I closed it for the afternoon.
I’m ready for the completion of the courses
I signed up for free.

You were worn out, a castaway who once
believed
in basic rhymes. Your mind was crawling with
nowhere to go, so you sat on the side of the road
and waited for--and waited for--the mail to arrive.
Words on paper might transform the vagaries
of time.

I’d like to write on the whiteboard of your heart.
I’d like to think you could read me like an open book.
I’d enjoy the chance to show you something
more than recited dogma, to serve you something
more than leftovers and crumbs.
I’m ready to accompany you through the shadows
others had left behind.

Much Simpler

 

Much Simpler

(“You have been given the chance to understand the secrets of the kingdom of Heaven.” Matthew 13:11)

Don’t say a thing. Just listen.

When some see a serpent and call him a saint,
when some see a servant and say he ain’t,
isn’t it about time we stop digging in graveyards
to find a spitting image
that conforms to our fanciful parades about living?

Secrets are not the same as conspiracies,
the kingdom’s keys are much simpler than that.
Power in weakness, tears in strength
are the earthy recipe for heaven’s width and length.

When we see a vagabond and call her a vagrant,
when we see a singer and call her a siren,
isn’t it about time we stop projecting our movies
on the of paperback
bibles that confirm our king james boxes of doctrines.

Shadeless hands are the kingdom’s first gardeners,
no darkness that complicates the fields.
Earthen and single, seeds and cereal,
the seed revives only after burial.

Don’t feign a thing. Parables.

More Time on the Ground

More Time on the Ground

(“Or you think nothing of the riches of his goodness, patience, and longsuffering? And remember not how it is that the kindness of God leads you to repentance?” Romans 2:4)

Take it like a man; as if he can.
Splayed out like a mud pie after rain
he begins his story with dripping explanation.

It was all I could do to wipe the darkness away.

They made their plans to make him strong.
They knew what was wrong and why, then
interpreted
his every moved like inspectors with magnifying glasses,
never seeing both of his eyes crying at the same time.
He offered few excuses.

Time has been longer and steeper than I planned.

Hunt like us, shoot like us, shout like us, grunt like us;
as if he was made that way.
He loved numbers as much as they did, but loved the
mountains more.

There was more stumbling than I wanted; more time on the ground.

They gave him chance after chance, enhanced their techniques
to pull all the darkness out of the man. They stood him up white-
faced
and patted him down in public.

There was more sin than you knew, but I sinned less than you thought.

Once he went years without a phone call, without a smile or the
embrace of men. Twice he wished it would never happen again.
And crowds froze him to the spot while he scourged the scars
that remained and reminded him why he deserved
to be alone.

Some days I checked the mail more than once.

His heart had ached from adolescence. He longed for the
glance, the gaze, that welcomes everything. And sometimes
he saw it when it wasn’t there. And sometimes, blinded by the sting,
he would not partake of the table offered him.

Do you know something about me that will make you turn away?

All he wants is to be held by love, like tea in a prewarmed cup.