Morning Brings the Next Door

Morning Brings the Next Door

Morning brings the next door to enter,
the next word to define, and the next
chance to chase the sunshine. Even then,
though,
the clouds can unframe the sky till late afternoon.
I’d sweep them away for you
to feel the solitary rays on your face and
a double rainbow defining the hillside.

I’d roll up the midnight into an hour full of
sounds only the creek can make. I’d spread it
like a carpet
while our conversation winds down. I’d send it
to you the moment it was finished. I’d preserve it
for you
for the days when the moon winks from a starless sky.

I’ve debated how to say so many things,
I’ve deleted a hundred texts that I never sent.
I’ve trusted you could read my heart, know my
hopes, and accept my softness that is better than
the brawn that too many call strength.

Let’s talk about love. Let’s let the words flow easily
like wine,
like a stream,
like the breeze rolling down the hills. Let’s talk
about tomorrow and never regret what we say today.
Let’s fill the silence with our quiet words,
with our healing hands clasped like hearts that
were meant to be as one.
Let’s talk about love. Let the rest of the world
scatter in its anxiety. Let’s be sure we say the
words we both need to hear.

Morning brings a name to me, and I will
never be the same. Grace and pain sit behind
my eyelids awakening.

Two Cheese Enchiladas

Two Cheese Enchiladas

(“And while they still disbelieved for joy and were marveling, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’” Luke 24:41)

So much depends on the weather (I hate
to admit that.) Too much depends on the
barometric pressure. I would have walked miles
to meet you but, forgive me, some days are like
graves my body digs to disguise the scenic route.

Did I disappoint you? I wanted to show up.
No. I wanted you to show up.
Sometimes I’m buried so deep I probably did not
hear you knocking. Or other times I can’t face meeting
another face that sees my pain and does not cry. My
apologies.
I am not strong. People lie about that. I just don’t wave
my doubt loudly in the sky. When I do hoist it on the flagpole
it is half-mast, not nearly as agonizing as I let on.
And here I go again, running letters together like they
mean something fascinating. All I’m saying is
I need something more than old songs on the radio.

Days like these, mangled up between joy and disbelief,
I would surely answer the door if you showed up with
two cheese enchiladas and a beer.

There Should Be Angels

There Should Be Angels

(“Why shall not the ministration of the Spirit be much more glorious?” 2 Corinthians 3:8)

If you would, God,
could we make a deal, God,
to switch out my brain for another?
There is less shine here
than I thought there would be here,
the days are no different, one cloud after another.
Nostalgia does me little good,
the ones who knew me well are dead,
and the one who live speak of light even after
the sun goes down. Me, I weep
and wish the chemicals that keep me lonely
would catalyze into a new solution.

We can predict the tides and decide
where the salmon will run.
We can predict the weather and decide
how the clouds will sound.
But these moods are feral and unbroken.

The weather is so thick here that you can
grab a cloud with your hands and put
it in your pocket.
My moods are thick like molasses.
The clouds will evaporate, my pockets will
still be dry.
But my moods stick to everything I touch.

Another friend lies sick with congestion
thick around his heart. More than brothers,
he is cranky the way I wish I could be. Between
crashes on his hawg and attacks on his heart,
his body is no longer his friend. So I will be his
pastor,
the shepherd to my pastor-friend. And wish I could

Make a deal, God,
to switch out his life for another. To see the
joy of the man who took me as his brother
a decade ago. To elicit laughter from his
agony and anger. There is less shine for
this holy one
when there should be angels sitting at his door.

Cavernous Mouths

 Cavernous Mouths

(“Their eyes bulge out from eating so well; their hearts overflow with delusions.” Psalm 73:3)

And so the evening crashed upon the heads of those
sitting in the sun. The horses were weary,
the helicopters queried the air like locusts sawing
the late autumn corn.
Everything was torn by cavernous mouths opened
to consume the meals set for the upper crust. Wine flowed
even after the rusted plumbing creaked in pain.
The aristocracy lived on cream and strawberry liqueur.

It was all too common to watch the working class
buy barley desert at a day’s wages a pound.

And so the walls of the palaces, stone-washed and
monolithic, rose like steeples, soared like crossbows,
imitated fighter jets and
stood like armament. Outside the gardeners sweat to
keep the imported shrubs shorn;
inside nothing was gained, nothing was created, nothing
was born.
Only richer recipes to keep the opulence pop-eyed,
the dining hall stocked with exotic past-times. But the

Future prophecies reversal. The
magnificat sings of leveling. The meek inherit
what the mansion dwellers only rented.

And then, in one final display of grace,
the playful poor will invite the rich
to dine with them,

Once they have checked their waistcoats at the door.

Pleading Behind Old Eyes

 

Pleading Behind Old Eyes

(“The purpose of my instruction is that all believers would be filled with love that comes from a pure heart, a clear conscience, and genuine faith.” 1 Timothy 1:5)

I wonder when the door will open,
I fear the day when one comes.
I remember I was with my son on New Year’s Eve,
I have no idea who was not there.

But this transition reminds me of
Every absence that split open my heart.
While I grabbed my head in pain,
filled my cranium with ice to meet my
obligations,
too many relations waited in office
or alleys,
never venturing in to wrap me in
arms of skin.

For a decade my temples throbbed as I went about
my job, my call, my vocation that
I always thought
had chosen me. I dreamed of family,
of circles of tears, mists of laughter,
a band of brothers and sisters
who only aimed to love better than the day before.

I hobbled to my duty, held on to the rails as I
walked down the hospital steps. I phoned because
I could not leave the couch that day. I phoned those
who needed soulful eyes and a hand on their hurt.

Finally, I stopped. Full-on dead end, no turning around,
no U-turn. They deserved a shepherd who could care for
the sheep. In the end the pain emptied me. Hollow,
I knew I must leave. And yet, for a dozen years
I dreamed of comrades, I imagined playful affection;
all kidding aside, I hoped we could hide inside the sanctuary
that giggles provide. Some of us were too serious, others too
hurt. Some were stone, wanting to be softer. Some were
oblivious, and some had their own lives contracted
by needles in their body, brain or heart. We used to touch,
but with some of them and
some of me
subtracted, the distance grew apart.

I retired far too early. The pain would not negotiate
with my heart. But I never loved less. I think I may
have loved more.

Two and a half years ago I walked out the door
of the place we met to wonder about wonder,
to feel Spirit sing through human things,
and to watch the children dance noisily before
the meetings ever began. Perhaps disorder is the
way of the Spirit
when we prefer that little voices pipe down
so adults can hear the word of the Lord.

And we aimed South for a year and a half,
then returned to the beautiful hamlet we left.
Out my back door is wilderness and a couple
of rabbits that visit in the Spring. Out the front
are fruit trees and flowers that paint our windows
and, if I let them, spill their aromas inside my dreams.

But still,
I wonder when the door will open,
I fear every day when no one comes.
I remember I was at someone’s bedside,
I remember weddings and babies,
baptisms and weeping,
children and jellybeans,
and the wonder that God was in it all.

But now,
I wonder,
when is it my turn,
(my head hurts like hell today),
when is it my turn
for the human touch
now for me?

The house is empty except for
my chihuahua and me.
My music plays constantly, keeping
my worst notions at bay.

Please, take one long look in my face and
see the pleading behind old eyes that have always
smiled for those who could not find their own.

To Answer the Door

 

To Answer the Door

(“The Lord said to Gideon, “The men you have are too many for me to give them victory…They might think that they had won by themselves, and so give me no credit.” Judges 7:2)

Some days I am one, occasionally I am two,
but most days I simply am none.
On holidays maybe two to five;
Most days I have less than I want,
All days I have more than I need.

My doors are unlocked, my phone is not blocked,
why don’t you leave a coffee at my door?
Why don’t I hear your voice the way I did before?
Is my address obscured, have absurd notions about
my mosaic faith made you lose my number?

Did you think I could muscle through this impossible etude,
did you expect me to refuse your offer of lunch or conversation
upon the wandering hills? What exactly have I spilled that makes
you see such a stain modifying me?

I was never the strong one, even when I needed to be.
I was never the rock, the tower, the fascinating power
emitted from ministerial license or prophetic indulgence.
I cried more than I slept; even when friends faced me,
warm words faded, erased by the time they turned around.

By now I’ve learned the routine, I settle into the shadows unseen.
By now I expect nothing, though my heart feels like rain and
a flash flood warning has been issued for the tears in my eyes.

I love you unguarded, but now disheartened,
I sit with the slow-motion collage of letters and words
that spring from my mind unheard by anyone besides
the god who says he has heard it all before. But, if I
hope for anything,
I hope he does not ignore the repeats so incomplete
that track through my days and punctuate my nights.

Some days I have won, most days I have lost,
today I would jump out of my chair and cross the
room to answer the door…to see if anyone is there.

All Anyone Wanted

All Anyone Wanted

(“Feast there in the Presence of God, your God. Celebrate everything that you and your families have accomplished under the blessing of God, your God.” Deuteronomy 12:7 [The Message])

 

His choices once were boundless, the wideness of time and
the land spread before him like a queen’s banquet on her
coronation day.

There was nothing to hint in the air or the sky
or the pizza late night games with a dozen young dreamers
and their children fast asleep--
there was nothing to hint that many would not see him again until
he finally was on the ground.

 

How had he fallen among the dark shadows begging for longer hours
and brand new bread? Why was the daylight so slanted,
the help he was handed so ghostly, the glances interpreted
as holes in his shirts and acne in his soul?

 

From the time he hit the dirt until he accepted his
next invitation,
he only sat with children whose sense of invention
held him steady in the embarrassment that his poetry
no longer rhymed. The adults spread out in tables of eight
and he laughed with babies with deviled egg on their faces.

 

There was a cradle that held parts of him
he could not explain. There was a toddler in a playpen
babbling his name. And so he knelt in the corner,
eye to eye with one
who knew the ground as well as he.
He never knew what to say when the one adult
across from him made it two at the table. Words
were stumbling and sometimes stuck sideways
in his throat.

 

But still he craved the fire, still he wanted to go where
the flames wrapped each word with smoked goodness
and the embers never died until well after dawn.

 

He never knew what to say when it was only two
at the table,
but the food they offered, the drink they poured
opened portals of the spirit. The babies and children
laughed harder and the adults did not mind.

 

Eventually he discovered a real live giver,
another breather with his same misgivings and
realized
all anyone wanted was a meal on a paper plate
beside the kitchen door.

The Keys Please

The Keys Please

(“Meanwhile the earth fills up with awareness of God’s glory as the waters cover the sea.” Habakkuk 2:14 [The Message])

Don’t laugh, but it is time to turn in your keys.
Your rent is due, the lease is undone.
You argue your points with derision,
you settle your scores with scorn.
The owner is knocking, answer the door,
and face the eyes you thought you knew
while you squandered the minutes parading
the poor as your trophies,
scaping the land to the bone,
and intoning your personal freedom as if
your life was yours and yours alone.

Please. The keys. Now.
Or else meet the gaze that has risen
to greet you before the sun lit the skies.
Meet the first cause, not simply the effects that
you screened through your own wrinkle in time.
You moan there is no more preaching about
fiery hell and judgment,
while you know for sure you have escaped with
rapturous pleasure. You have forgotten to measure
the dimensions that extend beyond the
plot which you have rented.
You cry, “liberty”, as if it is a call to prayer.
You pray as if it is your civic duty to call out the
worst of these when you were formed to
help the least of these.

So, the keys. They are in your front pocket and
the lease is clear...unless
you are willing to hear the voice
that invited you to stay here in the first place.

Look at the window, shattered by the hurled limb
powered by the gale. It was sent to awaken your
perception that a miniscule world conforms
to your expectations.
The window is not your responsibility, but what
you see now is up to you.
Look through the jagged remains, feel the wind
stroke your face. Touch the shards with your finger
and let the capillaries bleed only enough to remind you
what you are made of.

Then answer the door because the lease is overdue.
See the face that is in every face; hear the voice
that gave the storm its name. You are not being evicted;
but the keys please. The window shall remain shattered
and the door never locked again.

The Doorway of Suffering

“It was certainly our sickness that he carried, and our sufferings that he bore, but we thought him afflicted, struck down by God and tormented.” Isaiah 53:4

Suffering is one of those issues that makes it difficult to accept a loving God. The conundrum goes: If God is all-powerful, but He does not relieve suffering, then He cannot be all-loving. If He is all-loving, but cannot relieve suffering, then He cannot be all-powerful. But what if there is a different way to look at suffering and God’s involvement with pain?

First, it should be observed that we live in a world where suffering is possible. I just finished taking a walk. If I trip over a boulder and sprain my ankle, I will be in pain. God could have created a world without gravity, or boulders, or pain receptors. And, next universe, if you want to create one, give that some thought. But this is the universe in which we dwell.

My sprained ankle will heal, and the immediate pain tells me something is wrong and to tend to it. But what about meaningless pain? What about suffering that appears to have no purpose?

That, I believe, is the real question when we deal with suffering and God. For over ten years I have endured a daily headache that averages a pain level of six or seven out of 10. After numerous doctor’s appointments, tests and medications, I was diagnosed with a rare malady called New Daily Persistent Headache. You wake up one day with a headache that never goes away. Experts have little idea what causes it and it is extremely rare. So, I have wrestled with God over this “meaningless” pain.

Not only does it appear meaningless, it also has stripped significance and purpose from my life. I recently retired from active ministry nearly 10 years before I had planned. I simply could not continue conducting the duties of a pastor, manage the pain, and, well, remain somewhat sane.

What do we do when our suffering has no answer? How do we deal with afflictions that seem to have no purpose? I can reason that my suffering is still the result of a world where suffering is possible. My parents’ DNA combined in such a way to make me susceptible to this particular illness. I am not the only one to have a body that doesn’t work at its optimal level.

What if God, instead of relieving our pain, actually enters into it personally with us? How is this possible? The prophet Isaiah hints at it when, envisioning Jesus’ suffering, he says that He carried our sicknesses and bore our sufferings. Here we have a God who, no matter how else He deals with suffering, is not absent in it.

He does not come to us as if on a mission trip, visits our poor country of pain, holds a Vacation Bible School, bandages our scrapes, and then goes back home. He is not even a missionary from a privileged country going to live among the poor in another land. No, He becomes the poor, He carries the suffering of this world in His own being.

This is portrayed for us in the cross. Jesus was not some stoic that marched resolutely toward his destiny without thought or emotion. The night before his crucifixion he prayed three times that the cruelty of the cross would be taken from him. His distaste for the bitter cup caused him to sweat “drops of blood”. His agony began before the first whip sliced his back, the thorns pierced his head, the beam scraped across his open wounds or the first nail was driven into his hands and feet.

The desire to withdraw from taking our pain was so intense he invited his three closest friends to be with him in those final hours. “Please, stay with me, guys. Stay here. Stay awake. Pray for me.” Today he might have left them behind in the living room while he went to wrestle alone in the den. Solitary there, pleading with Father God, he asked that the awful moment could be taken away. And yet, because of the love between Jesus and the Father, he acquiesced, saying, “But, your will be done.” And, because of His love for all who suffer, he said, “Your will be done.”

His sorrow must have only increased when he went back to the living room to see his three friends snoring away on the couch and recliner. Three times he asked them, he needed them, he wanted the companionship of those who would simply wait with him in his darkest hour; and they took a nap.

Over the next twenty-four hours Jesus would suffer excruciating pain, emotional abandonment and a true spiritual suffering so intense that he would quote the Psalms, “My God, My God, why have you left me all alone?” Though the Father never left him, the intensity of suffering caused him to experience the same black void that pain creates for every human.

I do not understand all of this mystery, believe me. And, it needs to be said that “suffering” and “sin” are not meant to be equated. People suffer for a myriad of reasons, and one should never assume it is the result of some lack of faith, wrongdoing, or curse.

But I do know that Jesus is in this suffering with me. He has not alleviated it. Being a Jesus-follower has not lowered my pain level. But it has heightened my empathy level. When Jesus took the suffering of the world on himself, that became the entryway into every individual’s pain. So, what if my pain is meant to be an entry into other people’s pain?

Notice that the Scripture says he took our suffering upon himself. If I only find solace for myself in this truth, then I think I am missing the entire point. Jesus did not simply take my pain; he took the world’s pain as his own.

So, as his follower, as part of what is called the “Body of Christ”, my pain calls me to use it as an entryway into the suffering of others. Once Jesus took the suffering of “us”, he eliminated “them”.

To be like him, my suffering should allow me to enter the pain of a refugee family at a foreign country’s border. It should be the door into the suffering of a friend fighting cancer, a homeless woman on the street, a gay high schooler who feels rejected by peers and perhaps by his own family. To be like Jesus means I feel the affliction when three Louisiana Black Churches are burned. I feel the sorrow of those who want to follow Jesus but have been hurt by those who carry his name. To be like Jesus means I run that chance of being misunderstood.

Suffering is hard enough. But, to allow yourself to empathize, to feel the pain of any and all groups, no matter who they are, may cause people to question who you are. It made them question Jesus’ identity, didn’t it? Isaiah says that we though “he was afflicted by God”!

I may not understand suffering. And, I get depressed plenty of times, feeling the hope drain from my being. I yell at God; I tell Him he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But, in the small, quiet corners when my brain is not on fire, I know suffering is a door. It is the very entryway for God’s love to me in Christ, and it is the passageway for my empathy toward others as his follower.

A Door in Front

A Door in Front

(“I know that you have a little power; you have followed my teaching and have been faithful to me. I have opened a door in front of you, which no one can close.” Revelation 3:8)

As the quicksand pulls upon your waking and
the ache of another day plainly drains your greater strength
before starting out the door;
once more
you remember the days limber and pliant
when a change in plans was as good
as
a change of scenery on the nth day of rain.

But the pain has laid down pathways,
dog trails in the backyard, from doghouse to
neighbor fence to
food dish and
back again;
her needs are habit and predictable.

So the pain has kept you within its leashed radius,
a few blocks perhaps, a few miles on the better days,
and few visits with friends, no dinner dates (even
laughter wears you down faster than shotgun rounds
piercing the fog in autumn). From the bed to
the couch to
the office and
back again;
your strength has all been borrowed before
you’ve had time to devise more elegant plans.

Believe me, I know the dark silence and how it
screams loudly. I’ve worn the guilty collar that
won’t let you off the hook. So much more you could
do,
so little done before another round of uneasy sleep
and treading the careless circle again.

But friend, there is another standard, an embrace
more certain that first place or captain of frontrunners
who win the race hands down question from any short-sighted
eye in the stands. There is another standard,
another measure of the love you feel has leaked and spilled
and ignited and frightened its capacity away. There is
the open door,
the wonder of One who does not care you cannot stay
for more than an hour. He will make up the rest of
the day
you long to complete. There is One Standard,
who endured and knows the tears you’ve hidden.
Hears the anguish unbidden, and exchanges them
(it is more than true) for prayer and answers more
than when, healthy as a bear, you thought you would
set the pace longer, much longer, than you have.

The open door is Father and He enters your pain,
your disdain of the half-life you feel has devalued your soul.
You, my sufferer and friend, are whole even while
you lay unmovable in shallow breaths and sacred pleas.