I Was Glad I Stayed

 I Was Glad I Stayed

(“In the middle of the night someone yelled out, ‘He’s here! The bridegroom’s here! Go out and greet him!’” Matthew 25:6)

 

How foolish I was, my light began to dim. The hour grew near
for the wedding to begin, and I needed somewhere to charge up
again.

Should I leave to find more energy, or stay with the party to
greet the groom? Would he face me down, disappointed that my
batteries nearly died? Or would he smile that I stayed, that I
waited to see if he would be happy with me.

I admit, I was so anxious to arrive I did not think through all
the possibilities. Half the party thought ahead and brought extra
lights in case theirs faded like mine. I had hoped to borrow
an extra, but they looked at me like I was a fool, an idiot,
an infidel,
and told me to go to the store in town; after midnight; through
the alleys; to try to buy more shine. Some of my friends did and
I’m afraid the store was closed, or they paid double, or froze
in their tracks to be out so late in that part of town.

But the groom was already late (at least as we perceived it)
and I wanted to wait; I wanted to take my chances; I wanted to
see him in the first morning’s light.

Would he reject me if there was mud on my freshly shined shoes?
Would he turn away because my tie was askew?
Would he choose someone to take my place who had better sense,
who was more like the friends who splurged on batteries?

But as he walked into the room there was more light than
any of us needed. Regal, he swept us up in his robes.
Holy, he burned our hearts with love.
Humble, he slowly took our hands, gazed at us like peers,
cheered us like children.

And, though my light had failed, I was glad I stayed, bathed
at last in the cosmic romance of redemption.

To Let in The Light

To Let in The Light

(“When God seems foolish, he is more wise than men. When God seems weak, he is stronger than men.” 1 Corinthians 1:25)

It is the simplest thing to let in the light;
even one eye open would do the trick. But
tell me,
if you know,
does the light flow like violin strings,
or does it poke its way through the darkness
like a dog’s nose?

I never think about it until I sit down to
write about it,
until I remember I walk the same two miles every day,
but one house is now empty,
one field has been subdivided,
one dog no longer comes to greet me,
and the same hummingbird has focused my eyes
on things more microscopic than ever before.
Once, looking closely with these old eyes,
I saw a tiny stream of nectar sparkle from the
red-headed beak to the feeder.

Too often, like the birds mistake my windows for air,
I mistake the skies for empty. Pain sinks its
fangs into my head and deep into my mind. And
I, too,
lose sight of the light. It is a burden, a cauldron
of molten lead; and my eyes beg to close again,
and seek a shine within.
Too often, I mistake my tears for
atheism, while others mistake them for
why some days I do not make it out of bed.

It is the most difficult thing to let in the light;
with both eyes open it can break me like
open ice on a frozen lake.

Excuses and Abstractions

Excuses and Abstractions

(“David said to the Lord, “I have sinned greatly by doing this! Now, O Lord, please remove the guilt of your servant, for I have acted very foolishly.’” 2 Samuel 24:10b)

Call me foolish; but not like David. I have forgotten the numbers
and so, for now, write unabated.

The ink has not dried; the smoke still circles
the inkwell where the last shootout transpired.
We hoped emerging sounds, cries of the stricken,
prayers of the dying and pistols whipping up the air
like last year’s carousels would

Once

And over

Wake the lazy thinker snoozing in the clover
and turn his mask around to see, eyes properly adjusted,
that freedom is busted when everyone locks their doors and
electrifies their opinions. Let us be clear, the numbers are stronger
than Saturn’s rings; the answer clearer than Dylan sings:

The excuses were buried in the mud and come up
when the tide rises. Now Abel’s blood recites the latest
chorus to add the next verse to the blindman’s dirge.

We could offer freedom, if we were free;
we could save the water, if we would see
the blood on the streets, the blood upon the walls,
the blood upon the white tees, the blood upon the laws
and order, the hoarders and the spenders; if the next time

We see the menders binding wounds, owning slurs,
and spending dimes on candles to guide surgeon’s
hands; all
we ask, all we seek, today, this minute, not tomorrow and
next week;

Black Lives Matter (how many eyes does it
take to be opened, before we despise our own jealousies).

I am far too quiet, too far removed. I will not count
the numbers, fear the decaffeinated mood of anyone
(thus far in this bit of writing I’d say)
I will not steer clear of mental paradoxes used by
proper instructor meant to
steal younger minds from thinking if

Jesus appreciates our excuses and abstractions
to miss the opportunity in

The middle of the road.

False Projections

False Projections

(“And in their greed they will exploit you with deceptive words.” 2 Peter 2:3a)

You’ve made you words tools so slick
they mention “grace” and trick the ear to follow
your foolish ways that, discovered further and later,
alter the abundance called charis into a claustrophobic
closet of destruction.

You love so well, it would seem, that your words go
down sweetly, honey and cream,
and sell the love that smothers truth from young lungs
not yet learning to lie.

You give so well, it appears; charity of time and money,
cash and minutes…yet disappears at the first sign
the chosen few can see through your veiled morality.

Sometimes it takes years to dig deep enough to know
the truth you’ve been hearing
is no truth at all. And sometimes
it takes more light to come out of a cavern
than it did to be ushered within.

Be the beloved and leave the shovels of treasure seeking
behind the shed;
see the rain the waters the seed, that disturbs the earth,
moving clods aside to embrace the sun (along with
every other sprout planted with purpose or
scattered haphazard)

Share the coveted place inside the crowded spaces
where finally the light has broken the voices that
vanish like the morning fog near noon. They
held nothing and offered less; their smiles
were aliases for minds waiting to deploy their
final appeal. Padding their philosophy with
references to karma or “sowing and reaping”
they live in style until

The light dispels their false projection on old barn doors.