Come Out of the Shadow

Come Out of the Shadow

(“I’m giving you a new commandment, and it’s this: love one another! Just as I have loved you, so you must love one another.” John 13:33)

Come out of the shadow, into the light
that bathes the corner shining like an unmined diamond.
Once more you will see, if you drink it slowly,
that the darkness has no hold on you.
The darkness is so untrue that only the
brightness can show you the truth.
Peace has been chasing you; hope, it’s instinctive double.

These days the silence has been playing tricks on you,
the hum of nothing makes you beg for bricks to build
another level over the brackish air beneath.
Conversation made you nervous,
performance left you shaking outside the stage.
Dreams were cut short before the gavel came down.

It wasn’t your fault; you were forced into hiding because
no one showed up when all you needed was
a drink from the spring that everyone else bragged about.
They thought you made so much money that there was
nowhere in the universe you would feel alone.

If you feel the shadow is all you can take, I’ll
join you and we may see the sun rise if we keep
our eyes open. We found our passage slowly,
we walked out the door mostly to breathe the
reborn air. Some moments it only takes
two people breathing at the same time.

I’ll walk with you to Mars or to the moon,
I’ll steer the light with my fingers. I’ll train your
eyes if I must. I’ll help them listen behind me and
look before me and know
we’ll find the diamonds of crystal carbon that
illumine our way.

Cenotes & Dreams

Cenotes & Dreams

(“The sun will no longer be your light during the day, nor will the brightness of the moon give you light, but the Lord will be your everlasting light. Your God will be your glory.” Isaiah 60:19)

There are darkened dreams in the depths
of us like
cenotes in the Yucatan.
We dive until our oxygen runs out,
our eyes unmasked see forms and shadows,
and we awake to misinterpret them.
We saunter halfway through our day
trying to remember at noontime
the swirling plot from midnight. We make
sense
of so little during the day.

Sometimes we compose our own understanding,
we narrate the dialogue, but never write it down.
We practice it well into the afternoon until it
morphs into something
that sounds like the first song we heard
on the radio, the first song of the summer,
and interpret it until evening.

We pass it around like pieces of pie,
we insist we have salvaged the story from the
bottom of our muddy dream.
It becomes our banner. It is wrapped around
every breath like Christmas bows until
it defines us like labels on
tin cans full of vegetables.

And when we hear only silence,
(may the reader beware)
we pretend we have heard announcements
from the sky.

We take to our blankets, close our eyes,
ache for rest,
while meaning slips through our fingers.
Perhaps the snow will cover everything
we thought we knew. Perhaps tomorrow
will be a day
without shadows. Perhaps we will see
the unseeable then.

The Doves Have Returned

The Doves Have Returned

(“Bring balm for her wounds, in case she can be healed.” Jeremiah 51:8b)

Perhaps our distractions can soothe us,
a butterfly interrupting our train of thought.
The doves have returned to their favorite tree which stands
still naked until the spring clothes it in green.
We nailed houses to our eaves in December in hopes
they would take up residence there.
For now they pierce the sod, soft from the snow that
is melting. Surrounded by robins they share the square of land,
a mound of weeds and grass and mud where the worms
have dug a home.

Perhaps we could watch it together, no bother if they
finish their meal, there will still be more silence to share.
I know I am clubbed overnight by misshapen dreams and giants
of my past, threatening to break bonds that I thought
would cover me until winter had passed. I don’t do much
these days. I used to talk to pay for life. I don’t do much
speaking these days. And, in my dreams, I am nearly silenced
as well.

Here the snow is an attraction. I know for you it is a chore.
Still, I would rather be soaking in crystal waters with the
sun healing all my backward thinking; healing all our
shivering and hidden tears.

It seems to me, in miniature lucid moments,
that there is warmth within. And yet my skin still
yearns for sun to cloak my body and drink summer’s
full spectrum of light.

Could two friends in silence reheat the day? Would we
send the frost away? Could we slay those giants that grabbed us
like puppets and slung us, forgotten toys, behind the furniture?
Could two friends restore, even sadly, the smiles that
first graced our faces as children?

I used to speak of life. A hand, a wink, or a graceful look
would suffice these days.

Perhaps I Will Hear a Voice

 

Perhaps I Will Hear a Voice

(“Then she stood behind Jesus’ feet, crying, and began to wet his feet with her tears. She wiped them with her hair, kissed his feet, and anointed them with the ointment.” Luke 7:38)

I.

What no one knew is that I would
have stayed there all afternoon.
Perhaps they assumed I had grown weary
of mud on my feet; so very tired that I
had thrown everything away they though I believed.

II.

I heard your voice in a dream last night,
a voice I had not heard in forty years.
It sounded just the same as I remember,
only it was me-in-the-dream that heard the words
and not my waking ears. Still,
something was broken and
something healed
at careless sentences and curious
memories. There were fevers and living room corners,
my brother and the one high school class we shared;
was it world history?

So many question my departure; so many minimize my pain.
I am sorry that I had to dig so deeply into the archaeology of
my dreams
to hear easy laughter from the wrong side of religion.
I have no idea where you have gone, but I can find others
without trying
who have dismissed the crying in my soul. And, as in
all dreams, you were not you,
you were me,
and met my ache with simplicity.

III.

What no one knew is that I could
stay here forever.
Though they cleverly reeled me in to
their angry godless Jesus,
I can only fall awake-asleep,
and weep,
and repent for salting his feet
with my tears.

And now my heresy grows
as I stay where I can never leave.
He has reduced me to essence only.
It is lonely here. Perhaps I will hear a voice
awake I recognize from down the years
tomorrow or today. I still break,
I still heal,
I still have stories I am not allowed
to tell.

But I have stayed in the place where
my stories are safe, my proofs are optional,
and the voice I hear is spoken in things
more solid than

Dreams

or

Doctrines.

Barely Awake

 

Barely Awake

(“Then Jesus said to him, ‘Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.’” Matthew 26:52)

 

In our dreams we move faster than light,
and barely awake we sludge so slowly we dare not move
from right to maybe so. What miracles of fear
and cold sweat escort you 500 miles and 30 years ago
waking cements our ego within its four walls?

And so we draw swords because evil men are demonic,
though we’ve never seen a devil bleed before.
And so we label them Jezebel and Satanic, cast our unholy spells
we call prayers
while love looks on, divesting us of its name.

Did you see the sweat like blood,
did you hear the cry of perfect love,
did you consider the cup he drank,
did you consider staying awake?

Those with heavy eyes wield the swords,
those with light in their soul heal the slain.

The most profound product of this world

Is

Tears.

Around the Greening Campfire

 

Around the Greening Campfire

(“But God has shown me that I must not call any person common or unclean.” Acts 10:28b)

Dreams come cleaner around the greening campfire;
splayed out in a dozen sleeping bags, our heads a ring around
the waning embers
and our legs the rays of a star being born.

We told our stories round-robin, past midnight till dawn.
Some of us knew each other since childhood,
some we had met only hours ago.
Some were impatient to sleep with day-sting in their eyes,
the rest insisted the night couldn’t end until we saw the sunrise.

All we knew was this moment would never come again;
these twelve never gathered, this fire a different color on
another planet or
another day.
We were attached to each other by the web of our voices,
the stories a silken thread stitching us like a firefly’s smoking jacket.

Some of us had seen the aurora borealis just the night before,
and swore
God was speaking on the mountain trail we snuck upon
well after curfew. We smoked cigarettes and held them in
the air like votive candles.

But the breathing fire that was our center; the mass that was
equidistant from each of us seemed touchable that night (though
none of us thought to hold an ember in our hand.) We were
baby birds learning each other’s languages, a tired menagerie
in the Sierra Nevadas, just a handful of whelps from the East Bay.

We have flared from there in every direction, as different as
we were the same that night. But the threads still contain us,
the night still calls us, and the stories are written upon the sky
in the hearts of stars that hid our chatter and occasional tears
in eternal vaults. No one is ever unmet.

Monks and Beautiful Gates

Monks and Beautiful Gates

So the lame man paid attention to them, expecting to receive something from them. Acts 3:5

Our dreams can often be a rich reservoir of insight into the needs of our soul and how to care for it. I am not talking about interpreting dreams and applying symbolism to everything within them. But there can be general themes that seep up while we sleep that we may be unaware of in our waking hours. Also, as we all know, some dreams are simply a result of too much pepperoni pizza the night before.

I recently had quite a complex dream that stayed with me for days. I want to share it here, then move to the story of the lame man who was healed at the temple.

I was on a tour bus, though it was designed more like one for mass transit. It had one seat near the front behind the driver that was perpendicular to the other seats. I rode in that seat alone with the rest of the passengers filling the seats on either side of the center aisle.

At first, I was not aware of our destination, but as we crossed a long narrow bridge, I became aware that we were entering the city of Munich in Germany. I have never been to Munich, or the European continent for that matter, but in the dream, I understood where we were going. The bus was filled with 60 to 70 passengers.

The bus pulled into a parking area about 1 pm. The itinerary included about six hours of exploring the city with our guide. Though it was early afternoon, there was very little light. The whole landscape was dusky and dark, muting the colors, washing the scene in grays and a dull green.

Within moments of exiting the tour bus the group walked to a downtown area of Munich. The buildings where old stone on narrow streets. Almost immediately I found myself separated from the group. I could not find them anywhere. I looked about anxiously. I feared I would miss the sites and my ride home. It did not occur to me in the dream that I knew where the bus was parked.

Then I thought I saw our group in a restaurant. I opened the door quickly to a barely lit establishment with dark brown paneled walls. Several 80s style video games were in an alcove to the right of the entrance; a small arcade. As I stepped into the restaurant proper, I saw only three or four tables and about as many people. They were putting away the chair and tables. I was deeply disappointed; I had not found my group and had missed a meal.

I wandered through the town looking for the others when I came upon a park with a small lake. I remember walking near the lake, in a hollow, ambling around its shore, still wondering at the darkness in the middle of the afternoon. At one point I turned away from the lake, looked up from the small basin, and saw a group of figures on a hill.

They were shadowy because it was dark, but I was certain they were my group. Perhaps 100 to 200 yards away, they appeared as silhouettes at the hill’s crest. Happy I had found them; I began to walk up the hill toward the group. But, as I walked, I got no nearer. It was as if I was either walking in place or they were fading backwards away from me. It was not as if their limbs were moving, I just never covered any distance. No matter how much effort I expended the distance between us stayed the same.

I don’t know if I ever got home, because that was the last scene in the dream. It really stayed with me throughout the next day. It was strange that I would dream about Munich, and the whole feeling of being lost and separated from others permeated every scene. I thought I would look up the derivation of the word “Munich”.

The name of the city is derived from the Old/Middle High German term Munichen, meaning “by the monks.” Monks of the Benedictine order ran a monastery that was later to become the Old Town of Munich.

Then the general theme of the dream began to show itself to me. I was on a trip to a place founded on Christian spiritual practice. It was literally “by the monks.” I was on a journey, perhaps a pilgrimage, to find a deeper place of devotion. But, upon arriving I was separated from my group. The whole atmosphere was dark and foreboding. And, every time I did find my group places were closing down, or I could not get close to them. The city of “professional” Christians would not have me. I felt isolated and alone in the very place I was searching for something to nourish my soul.

For me, that theme was not surprising. Most of my life, even after following Christ in 1972, I have felt like I did not quite belong to any group. Maybe I’m too independent. Maybe my soul is fed in different ways that some of the established religious expressions I’ve been associated with. Maybe the acceptance I’ve sought isn’t actually that important for the nourishment of my soul.

What does this have to do with Acts chapter 3 where a lame man is healed in the front of the temple? Let’s review quickly. Jesus was crucified, buried and rose from the grave several weeks before. The Holy Spirit and been poured out on the day of Pentecost, forty days after His resurrection and over 3,000 people were added to those who followed Christ.

Peter and John are on their way to afternoon prayer at the temple. A man who is lame from birth had been carried and placed at the “Beautiful Gate” at the temple to beg for money each day. This was accepted practice. Those who were unable to work often begged alms in populated areas. In some ways, it was considered their “occupation” since there were so few ways they could earn a living.

When Peter and John arrive at the temple, he asks them for money. Notice that man is not in the temple, he is outside of it. No matter how much this lame man desired to worship in the temple, he was prohibited. It was not simply the organization of priests at the time who kept him out, it was the recorded words of Holy Scripture! No one with a “defect” was allowed within the temple precincts.

(Do you begin to see the tie-in to my dream?) He stares at Peter and John. To him, they are just two Jewish worshipers coming for afternoon prayer. When he asks them for money Peter and John look directly at him and say, “Look at us!” He perked up, met their eyes and expected money.

Peter says, “I don’t have any silver or gold, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ the Nazarene, stand up and walk!” Peter takes him by the right hand, lifts him up and the man’s feet and ankles are made new again!

The man jumps and leaps. No money, but new legs! Now get ready for the next phrase in verse 8: “and he entered the temple courts with them” where he continued walking and leaping and praising God.

We must understand the reason for this story. Yes, a man is healed. But look a little closer. What did that man really want? He wanted to be accepted. He wanted access to God. He wanted to worship “with” not “alone”. But everything that Scripture seemed to say kept him on the outside. The religious professional were the enforcers of that Scripture. Everyone accepted that lame folks could not enter the temple. God said it, that was enough. Everything about the religious thought at the time put him outside of the inner circle of God’s love.

But Peter and John come along, who had no professional theologically training. Remember, just three years previous they had left a good fishing gig to follow a roaming teacher named Jesus. The lame man didn’t know anything about Peter and John. He knew the priests, Pharisees, Sadducees and scribes had the power to keep him out of the temple. But who had the power to make him no longer the “other”?

That is the point of this story. “Jesus Christ the Nazarene.” Paul expands on the idea by saying the dividing wall between Jew and Gentile were also torn down by Christ.

Do you understand, there are no longer “defects” that can keep you from God? Christ has destroyed every wall that divides. He has taken down the fences between “worthy” and “unworthy”. The first miracle after Pentecost is the great announcement that the Beautiful has come. We can come limping, wounded, bleeding, without a plea to our name; and we are no longer excluded. (My take on Scripture is that we were never excluded. Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross doesn’t change God’s mind, it reveals His nature from all eternity.)

God in Christ has announced that your soul has a home. Though you may feel out of step with some of the organized religious movements around you, you do not have to feel out of step with God. What my soul was searching for in Munich it found in Christ alone.

Peter and John gave the lame man what the professional religious leaders could not. They gave the lame man, not what he asked for (money), nor what was his perceived need (new legs) but met his real need: access and acceptance by God.

The Air is Azure

The Air is Azure

(“So if the Son sets you free, you are free through and through.” John 8:36 [The Message]

I cannot speak of dreams and visions,
my prophecy rate is subpar at best.
I cannot prove the existence of peace,
or tell you I’ve witnessed the rainbow’s source.

My feet are swollen from the stumbling blocks
and my knees are scraped, not from praying,
but from falling where others walked so well.

And today my only wish is to see you wrapped in love,
embraced by the sun, aglow like the moon, a perfect child,
a well-crafted crystal pitcher handed down from generation
to generation. The tiny cracks from use only serve
to bend the light more beautifully when the light comes through
the window. The spectrum is painted across the room
and no one complains about its spidery flaws.

Eternity is such a long time, and some days seem
alpha to omega slow. Those days, full of waiting;

No, I mean, empty while we wait the unknowable,

Those days we wait we sometime tremble and wish
our heartbeat was slower, our thoughts blue like the sky,
not gray like puddles, and more permanent. Those days
waiting is our crucifix, only we will not use the word and
desecrate the bleeding hands and feet, the cry of abandonment,
or the grace of the one who suffered so fully for our empty days.

Today, though my own thoughts race, I would wrap up the world for you,
tie ribbons, hang balloons, walk your walk, not my walk,
to see you smile again. To see you smile.

I would sit with you in the empty tomb and we would not
disturb the moment with pious talk. All we would know,
the place of death has been voided, the cruel nails disintegrated
into stardust and the air left behind is azure and summer oxygen.

I would sit with you until the stillness proved
freedom is finished, suffering is vanquished,
and yet our tears are just as painful; the fears as frightful,

But love is now above and below, within, without, inhaling
and exhaling
it all. I wish you the peace I still pursue
and the freedom to feel sapphire days instead
of steel blue.

Of Rivers, Dreams, and Kisses

Of Rivers, Dreams, and Kisses

“If a person believes in me, rivers of living water will flow out from his heart. This is what the Scripture says.” John 7:38

I have lived along two large rivers in my life; the Columbia and the Missouri. Rivers are almost always evocative of life. Below the surface are fish in abundance. Even when the Missouri freezes over in the North Country people drill holes in the ice and fish for Northern Pike and Walleye.

I prefer smaller rivers like the Elochoman that feeds into the Columbia from the surrounding hills in Southwest Washington. As it winds its way through the twists and turns of hills and valleys the water is clear and cold. This is where many go to fish for salmon or steelhead. During the summer another kind of life splashes in the inviting coolness. Wages’ swimming hole, a slow wide spot in the river, is a favorite place for teenagers and families with children to swim, play and splash.

Jesus promised life to all who believed in Him. In this passage He describes it as “rivers of living water.” “Living water” was usually a term used to mean a spring as opposed to a river or stream. The water bubbled up from the rocks below; clean and fresh. Springs are not as dependent on the vagaries of weather, many still running even during drought.

Jesus uses a spring to describe the life we experience as we trust in Him. But notice, the source is not from Him to us. The spring flows out of our own hearts! This is remarkable, and I think, sometimes overlooked. As a pastor I have watched so many Christians seek an experience with God by attending conferences, leaving one church for another, insisting on a certain worship format, or, well, add your own. The point is, we often look to something outside ourselves for our experience with God.

Instead, Jesus says the experience is within our own hearts! In fact, in verse 39 John says that “Jesus was talking about the Holy Spirit.” The moment you trust Jesus, the Holy Spirit comes to dwell in you and is as reliably available as a spring of living water.

If you are trusting Jesus now, that spring of water, namely, the Spirit herself, is already springing up within your being.

Note: (I shall be using the feminine for Spirit in this article. The Hebrew word for “spirit” is grammatically feminine and much of the Early Church, especially the early Syriac liturgies, referred to the Holy Spirit as feminine. Of course, God is neither male nor female, but in light of the Father/Son usage, which are male, I think it good to speak of the Spirit as female.)

What does it mean for us that the Holy Spirit is bubbling up from within our hearts like a spring? What especially does it mean when we are sensing nothing spiritual in our lives at all? How do we experience this “living water” when we feel dead inside from so many reasons? We may be going through a time of separation and loss from loved ones. We may be grieving the death of a dear friend. Chronic illness or constant poverty may occupy our minds day in and day out. Given those challenges, even the most faithful of us find ourselves seemingly disconnected from God.

But, if we stay the course, keeping our minds centered on Jesus, even when every nook and cranny of our being aches with sorrow, pain or loneliness, in time, we may find that living water bubbling to the surface again.

I am not one given to “spiritual” dreams. Mine are usually quite ordinary, and some are the type I prefer not to share. That makes me human, I think. But recently, in the middle of the most difficult struggle of my life, when I have felt God fled the country and left me behind to fend on my own, I had a dream; one with great significance. I had a dream that I believe was watered by the spring of the Holy Spirit within.

First, some background. I pastored an Assembly of God church in Harvey, N.D. The original building was tiny, perhaps holding 50 in the sanctuary, and was on a postage stamp of a lot. There was not parking and very little space for fellowship. We were looking for both a place and a way to erect a new building.

Eventually we did exactly that. The city “sold” us some acreage on the edge of town for one dollar. Hoping to spur development there, they offered us a prime piece of property. Over two summers, spanning about 18 months, members of the congregation and volunteers from all over the country came to help us build the new site for Harvey Assembly of God.

I had no experience in construction at all and was quite apprehensive about the project. But God gifted us with two men who had construction backgrounds, and they oversaw the work. We held our first service in the fall of 2005.

In 2007 I accepted the pastorate of a church in Washington state, and served there for almost 12 years before I was forced to retire due to health reasons. Patti and I now live with my sister near Dallas, Tex. It has been an extremely painful transition for me.

We have been here about six months now and I sunk into the deepest depression I have known a couple of weeks ago. Everything seemed desperate, God seemed absent, prayer was agony, and tears flowed daily. I continue to be in constant physical pain, but now I was suffering deep inside my heart. I felt that God had cornered me, then walked out the door and left me behind in a locked cell.

It was during this time that I had the dream.

I was back in North Dakota and entered the glass doors of the church we built in Harvey. Yet, upon entering the building I was immediately outside. It still felt like "church", but the entrance led to an outdoors scene rather than walls and a ceiling.

The doors faded behind me and above me was a dusky sky, blue-gray and murky; the kind of beauty that only occurs just before dark. Stars were slowly becoming visible and a few clouds were commas floating above us. I looked up and out at the horizon and said, "I forgot how beautiful the North Dakota sky is."

Then someone beside me said, "Yes, but look," and immediately in front of me was a craggy mountain rising out of the earth. It was as steep in its ascent as the Grand Canyon is deep. The mountain, earth and sky felt as one.

That was it, that was the dream. This little building project is one of my proudest moments, but it also was accompanied by some of my biggest failures. That is important for the reader to know. At the end of the dream I was in awe; total wonder.

For me, the Spirit was saying, “You worked for Me, and I am still working. I was always working.” But She also was saying, “And, I know the sort of sanctuary you deeply desire. I know your love for beauty, your love for the people you ministered to, and your aching heart. Here, for a moment, I shall give you the sanctuary your desire.”

Don’t misunderstand. I’m not suddenly “all better”. I’ve even cried today. And maybe the Spirit will bubble up through another dream, or maybe she will bubble up through another person like She did this Sunday.

I hadn’t been to church in 10 weeks because of my constant pain. I finally awoke well enough to shower and get ready this week. Our church is a small gathering of around a dozen people. There is one dear couple, a black man and his wife who are about 10 years younger than I am. They are both quite tall and very engaging. We’ve struck up as much of a friendship as possible with seeing each other an hour every 4 or 5 weeks.

As soon as I walked in, the husband buried me in a huge bear hug, laughed and said how much he had missed me, then (I am not lying), he kissed me on the cheek. I have never been kissed by a man in church before. And, besides my wife, I think, I have never enjoyed a kiss more. The best word to describe him is effusive. He did quickly say, “I hope it was alright to kiss you.” I’m giggling as I write.

The Holy Spirit bubbled up right from his heart, wrapped me in a hug and gave me a kiss! I don’t know about you, but I think it’s about time we start letting a little of that living water flow. I now I need it, how about you?

The Eternal Value of Love

The Eternal Value of Love

“The world and the desires it causes are disappearing. But if we obey God, we will live forever.” 1 John 2:17

My first car is certainly recycled by now, its rusting exterior either melted and used elsewhere or degrading at the bottom of a landfill. Perhaps the rubber from the tires are now part of the asphalt I travel on with my new vehicle. That 1967 Volkswagen van was decorated with tie-dyed curtains and the spare tire cover was painted with an alpine scene. Since then I have gone through at least a dozen vehicles.

You Know the Grace

You Know the Grace

(“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ: Though He was rich, for your sake He became poor, so that by His poverty you might become rich.” 2 Corinthians 8:9)

Clothed in gold, washed in spring rain,
the grass is thick, the streams parade life
and young men’s dreams from foothills
to the pregnant river of long poetry;
creation’s own form of praise.

Surrounded by breeze, underneath these old
feet each day is cool with dew that never
dropped upon the soft green blades
of this playful morning before.

We wore our castoff clothing like
princes;
Our half-scales and jazz chords like
incense.
The music we hear, though
assembled before a not ever was played,
is beyond our talents; the gift is
in the singing;
what we never dreamed of before.

And yet, the key can sour with time,
the odes and dirges overtake our jubilant hymns.
And yet, the day can bristle with age,
the plush rose petals brittle and late.

Rich with melody, yet faded with age
we may forget the sun on our faces,
the soft earth’s carpet on our back,
and the words that sent us leaping may
fashion weeping instead.

What, day of joy and night so old,
how may I find, discover, define,
and hold forever
the single afternoon memory of a
meadow spring—unvisited for decades.

How old is Your gift; the music, the rain,
the warm, the same thoughts that
once coaxed love from uncertainty?
But ageless is not old; but ever.
And the song; redemption’s dialogue of
God and man

Will remain the tune I whistle
half-forgetting its title.

Changing Direction

“But when they returned to their own land, they didn’t go through Jerusalem to report to Herod, for God had warned them in a dream to go home another way.” Matthew 10:12

I know my blog is not meant to be a critique of television or cinema, but one new show this year has caught my interest. “Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.” (Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division) combines Josh Whedon’s brilliant writing and direction with characters and situations from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. It is a fun mix of new super humans and futuristic gadgetry.

Sometimes we Dream ...to Live in a Space Which, Though Committed to Truth, Accepts all Variations in the Attempts to Understand it

Sometimes we Dream
…to Live in a Space Which, Though Committed to Truth, Accepts all Variations in the Attempts to Understand it

(“O Lord, you are my God; I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done marvelous things, things planned long ago.” Isaiah 25:1)

Without hiding a single intention, I would like to share
indented inventions and the hopes I wrote down on the back page
of a red covered Bible so many years ago.

So far behind me now, I live in my future, I sit outside the circle I envisioned;
Adobes and an artistic community, Georgia O’ Keeffe and New Mexico,
Toas and Santa Fe and Albuquerque snow.

Or somewhere like it all; Santa Cruz or Sausalito would do,
to spin my gadgets like unwinding yoyos flying in the sky,
dancing over the bay, and, for every observation, there would be
twice as many weblog reports of unusual phenomena sighted
and dated
and photographed

While I shared pie at the coffee shop on the way
to Santa Fe
or up the bay
to Strawberry.

If I had the time I would write my rhymes like
Ansel Adams loved his wilderness; mimes
silently speaking the red filtered shutter God
had prepared for just that day.

I hate museums, unless I live near one,
and rarely visit zoos (there is no on there
to talk to).

I am charmed by beauty, the green and the grandeur,
I am grateful for vision, the shadows and the yellow.

My dream, my scheme for my pinnacle pronouncement,
was a local consort where minds were applauded and
thinking was as welcome as the next cup of coffee poured
by a waitress with a wink who knew we did not, did never,
know it all.

When will we (You know who) ever learn, faithful as You are,
You leave us freer than liberals to examine the facets of diamonds
just discovered,
to bounce the ball of interpretation higher than the boys in grade school.

It is not heresy to say
“I do not yet know it all; symbols or prosaic arcanity.”

Here and Now

“So the chief of the butlers told Joseph his dream…Joseph told him, ‘This is its interpretation.’” Genesis 40:9, 12a

Many very sincere Christians get frustrated because they want to do something significant for God, but feel their circumstances prevent it. Some may think their lack of schooling keeps them from being taken seriously when they talk about Christ, or maybe others imagined hosting Bible studies that grew into the hundreds, only to have just two or three friends gathering around their kitchen table.

Last Night's Reverie

Last Night’s Reverie

(“Naaman walked down to the Jordan; he waded out into the water and stooped down in it seven times, just as Elisha had told him. Right away, he was cured, and his skin became as smooth as a child’s.” 2 Kings 5:14)

I know you said your dreams never live up to their billing,
promising you neon and pastels well into October;
I heard you describe the him and the her who stroked your forehead
at just the right time.

I know you awoke with no hand on your brow,
I know you remembered only the introduction to
words that spun silk around the span from your hands
to the offers of help.
By the time the last act opened, the moments just before
your eyes made it morning,
the offer was withheld and someone was pulling you from behind,
grabbing the loop on the back of your favorite denim jacket.

Waiting to understand the meaning of the dream,
I remember you couldn’t decide to cry or arise to
wash your face. So you wasted the morning (your words, not mine)
on the couch and holding last night’s dream
wishing the hand that touched your nighttime would
knock on the door and offer something more than
you’ve been waiting inside and outside for.

I know you think it’s creased and masked,
a latex buffoon of who you used to be. A caricature
with a bigger nose and open pores, while you spent your morning
wishing for the relief that dreams recited like
serenades on a back porch summer.

So here are words to tell you, after last night’s reverie,
I am here, always; late or early, smooth or wrinkle,
some or every; to say or silent the time when
waking seems sadder than last night’s dream.

After the Rain

After the Rain

(“In times past, God let each nation go its own way.” Acts 14:16)

After the rain has washed the summer dust
from the crop-lines,
and
after the day and night are divided, half and half,
12 dark, 12 light,
and
after the morning bell tolls in digital tones
I may wake refreshed again, without lying on the
couch again,
wishing the night was longer until morning and
morning washed lasting the dog-eared vellum from
my dreams.

After the snow has melted the winter ice
from the curbstops,
and
after the day and night are divided, even steven,
12 dark, 12 light,
and
after the morning bell buzzes battery powered,
I may swing my feet onto the floor, without much more
than the normal last photograph of a dream that took me
on vacation where friends remained as they were since
30 spring and autumn changes.

After the light opens the very last flavor,
whether pumpkin pie or watermelon ices,
after the light has closed and locked the doors for the night
I may sleep in peace with the rest who
have taken up the offer of grace beyond measure,
(it has been His pleasure to wait until we all could hear)
and press my feet upon the warm floor, into the
the dream that puts pain in its place and leaves every
reverie right.

Unaccomplished Dreams

“He (God) told me, moreover: ‘Your son Solomon, he will build My house and my courts—for I have chosen that one to be My son, and I will be his Father.’” 1 Chronicles 28:6

It is amazing the grace and elegance with which King David turns over the dream of building the Lord’s Temple to his son. David had desired to build it after realizing he lived in a palace and God’s “dwelling place” was still the Tabernacle, a tent.