With His Own Scars (An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

With His Own Scars
(An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

(“If I must boast, I will boast about the things that show how weak I am.” 2 Corinthians 11:30)

Why the strong-arm when the powers have been broken?
Why the military parade when the victory is spoken?
Power has entered through the dusty sound of love;
Rusty swords and shields are piled to be burned, demons drowned,
soldiers bowed, and laughter from heaven plowed the ashes of
war under the door of a tomb left open; wide open for
round-eyed Sunday drive wonder that peace could be won in
such humiliation.

Power is empty. Weakness is null. Art and love
are etched on eternity’s walls. Empires are vanquished,
poverty canceled. Grace and hymns echo from throats
satisfied after all.

What boasting remains once the King’s refrain is the same
sorrowful tune we’ve sung since invention? What army conquers
when its best proffer is easier ways to make people dead? Instead

The King sang it for us; took the needle, hung by the rope,
enveloped the sword, inhaled the gas, and took the last bite of the apple
every witch ever offered in fairy tales from before time. And so He
won by losing, lived by dying, rules by serving

And dances from sad to pain, from depressed to fame,
the love so unframed it bleeds off the edges of the canvas.
And runs in colors from crimson to snow,
and bandages the trauma of a world in shock
having owned the mocking of immigrants and strangers;
he binds the wounds with his own scars so visible there can
be no mistake;

Boasting is not forbidden; it has simply been forsaken.

All I Want

All I Want

“All I want is to know Christ and the power that raised him from death. I want to share in his sufferings and be like him even in his death. Then there is hope that I myself will somehow be raised from death.” Philippians 3:10, 11

“All I want...”. It makes me think of the silly Christmas song, “All I Want for Christmas are My Two Front Teeth.” When the bite of winter is in the air and people are log-jamming their way through retail store aisles, we ask “What do you want?” Our middle son, Jonathan, is great at putting a very specific list together for us each year. I’m the worst. “Could I have a two-week vacation in Paris, please?” Of course, no one passing out gifts in my house has the resources to provide such a gift. I usually say, “You know, I’m not really sure.” So, our daughter buys me fashion, our oldest son; books or music, and Jonathan, well, I never know what he will give; but I’m always pleasantly surprised.

Holy Week

Holy Week
(this month's newsletter article for our local church)

(“He [Jesus] is the head of his body, the church.” Colossian 1:18a)

A friend of mine recently tagged me in a Facebook post called “Why I Hate Religion, but Love Jesus.” If I had the space I would quote the entire spoken word recording for you. Suffice it to say, there are more and more people who are discouraged with church, who may even have been harmed by religion, but still deeply love Jesus. I am not talking about the type who simply add Jesus to a long list of happy philosophers, hand picked and place on a shelf along with other favorites of literature, movies and music. The people I hope read this are those who truly do love Jesus Himself, but are very weary of an institution called “The Church” which seems to represent Him so poorly.

A Monday Following a Certain Sunday

A Monday Following a Certain Sunday

(“The Lord has done it on this day. Let us be joyful and glad in it.” Psalm 118:24)

Inviting the stories of a million days, the morning dried the dew
beaded upon blades rich and thick as heaven’s carpet. One or two
halves of plastic easter eggs fool the eye with manmade purple
and synthetic shine. No one minds.

Life’s carousel rounds the days; from the unseen side, the observer
watches the turn of sun fade behind treelines on the left
and, as time compresses its waves and particles,
the same observer sees the return above hills on the right.

Yet the rider on the sun sees all, even while earth’s observer is blind.

Outside the morning is full of play, and the light displays it invisibility
on tiny prisms dotting the green leaves, the leftover mist two hours
dawn. In another month the rainbows will dance in spray as
neighbors up the street water their lawns. The light reveals
its unity in couture of diversity. The music of heaven
answers in kind.

We know the life today will find its way, in weeks, or months,
years, yes centuries, depending upon its species, to a final decay.
Yet, observant as we are, it takes the panoramic scan or
volcanic interruption to remind us for certain of this long crawl
of life to dying. Man observes, green underfoot and
warm breath on the chill breeze; and believes against belief
that this day is wider than horizon to horizon.

Like Sundays when, against all hope and following the
hill of nailed crucifixion, it is not the expected death,
but startling life we find.

Never too Late

Never Too Late

(“Then Joseph put the body in his own tomb that had been cut into solid rock and had never been used. He rolled a big stone against the entrance to the tomb and went away.” Matthew 27:60)

That was it. It was over. Everything was finished. Isn’t that what Jesus whispered from the cross, one last throaty groan: “It is finished!” Joseph of Arimathea wished he could have done more. His family tomb was nearby, which was a good thing. There were only three hours from the time Jesus died until the start of the Sabbath.

Light Like Wind

Light Like Wind

(“Some of them dismissed him (Paul) with sarcasm: ‘What an airhead!’ But others, listening to him go on about Jesus and the resurrection, were intrigued: ‘That’s a new slant on the gods. Tell us more.’” Acts 17:18b [The Message])

Poetry connects the dots from wishes to
heaven; the delicious passion that embraces
the hopes that few speak out loud for fear of
the intellectual’s scoff or the artist’s sarcasm.

Poetry switches the darkness taught by
reason and tilted culture; sending light like wind
that lifts our curious notebooks out the window and
leaves only frames behind, a way to rebuild our rhymes
with opened eyes; after our arguments unwind, torn
and scattered, new mulch upon the gardens.

Poetry passes as doctrine and massive mentality,
or eases under the baby’s naptime nursery,
and still names, before the revealing, the hope
that unspoken foes will not confess this side
of cursory lines of free versing.

There was no dress rehearsal, no quick change reversal
in case the stones would not budge as angels nudged it open
for a better look at the hints that misty prophecy left
like modern poetry.

Poetry embraces the phrases that pierce the First Morning
of the New Week’s fierce waking alarm. Death was empty
and the corpse missing. Ancient poets and current angels
created stanzas of Never Fear and Eyes unBlind.

Poetry pointed out truth’s anointed, led dead
upon the stone and wrapped, and bled, and alone. The
Laureate unleashed the Final Word that met no decay
but, to us akin, bloomed unpruned, the final Epic unforced,

Was the New Begin.