Freedom is Nothing

Freedom is Nothing

(“And if the same person sins against you seven times a day and turns back to you seven times and says, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive.” Luke 17:4)

Freedom is nothing like the fortresses we build,
it is an open plain,
it is streams winding,
it is easy moments between noon and afternoon’s
breeze.
I’ll never excuse the hurts,
but I’ll forgive them.
And we can talk this Thursday evening
on the phone or on my deck.
We can unload the shipments of sludge
we’ve dug up from the past and
joke that we ever were all that serious.
Freedom is nothing like the theology we float,
it is God-in-us,
it is Christ forgiving,
it is the hardest labor between scars and therapy’s
change.
Nobody told us we could bottom out
so we didn’t talk for years.

I tried to revise the history,
I tried to say it never happened.
I wanted the day to transform the
memories that held my brain hostage.
You wanted to know there was nothing
left to be upset about. We wanted
freedom;

We wanted nothing more than untitled poetry
to hold us up between the storms. We could
laugh for ages
once we understood how mistaken we both had
been.

Freedom is nothing like the chronicles we read,
it is unrhymed poetry,
it is words waving,
it is written so well that the future can read it
like cuneiform characters in stone.

Let Me Begin Again

Let Me Begin Again

(“The Lord is the Spirit, and where the Lord’s Spirit is, there is freedom.” 2 Corinthians 3:17)

The curtain closed on one more day
of the part I’ve been playing. I could
read the lines
time and time again.
I used to think about fences, like words,
like scripts,
that kept me in line.

Preoccupied with getting things right,
I feared missing a step or forgetting a line.
I tread the boards so carefully
I tripped over the first crack in the wood.

Without an audience or with limited applause,
the fault fell at my feet. It is not
that improvisation was disallowed or
frowned upon,
it was my fear of diving headfirst into
the deep end.

But you, gentle one, danced with me instead.
Your words were unrehearsed,
your eyes an invitation to swing around the moon,
pick daisies on Mars and
tour the stars one by one.

I was not as broken as I supposed,
I was born with atoms in my skin
that existed before the rivers, before the
globes and spheres,
before the sun we both felt on our faces.

You taught me to dance and sometimes cry…

Let me begin again:

I intended to use the stage, scripts, blocking,
props, sets, and lighting
as a metaphor
for
constraints.

I intended to describe the freedom of ad libs
in a culture of carefully drawn lines. I
intended
to write about sweet freedom,
complete with descriptions of ecstatic
experiences with the
God of words and the
Lord of dance.

Instead:

Today freedom means…

I can tell you honestly,
directly,
soliloquy,
that I am of more than one mind.

The theater never hindered me,
though another culture nearly did.
I am free to tell you
I never had a divine encounter

Unless it was in the presence of my cast
mates.

Freedom Lives in the Fence Slats

 

Freedom Lives in the Fence Slats

(“So if the son sets you free, you will be really free.” John 8:36)

Today all I hoped for was meaning
alongside my mistaken humanity.
I barely can proofread my own work,
let alone edit soft sell and
hardheaded opinions boiling over
on the page.

And yet,
words I meant as love
have squeezed some wounds I did
not anticipate. The rain fell like
a sandstorm instead.

Here I am, lonely again,
wishing words were more transparent.
But some dots and commas tripped
a person up again
and I must remove them before
the meaning is lost forever.

Freedom lives in the fence slats
that let us see the garden next door
cultivated by spotted hands breathing
the roses.

Freedom lives in the offenses
dropped like guns turned into
garden rakes. The hands dropped loosely
to the side, we advance only in
surrender and silence.

We hope that our folly will
be only a printer’s error in this
loose-leaf attempt at

Getting through the day.

A Short Bending on a Long Path

A Short Bending on a Long Path

(“Hear this, O foolish and senseless people, who have eyes, but see not, who have ears, but hear not. Do you not fear me? says the Lord; Do you not tremble before me?” Jeremiah 5:21,22a)

Her life, now, and final, and at last,
is sadly, after all the trying, completely half-mast.
At first she sang out loud, memorized the words,
went with the crowd. She raised the roof and danced
barefoot while new bands sang ancients psalms. She was
first, and primarily, free.

But the songs passed her by, the beaches dried up while
all her barefoot friends went inside. The earned title and
wore silk ties; they were careful not to traipse around the pew
and carpets
with the sand from previous sandals. She settled in,
learned the new songs, and learned to fall at the touch of
the anointed ones who never struck the multitudes as, well,

Odd.

She tried, she did. She squeezed visions from her head, and
forced meaning to the dreams she sometimes remembered wrestling
with tangled sheets on her bed. She upped the ante, she gave more than most.
She spent her mighty mind internal; and locked her lips as she had
learned was her best beauty and wisdom.

She cried, but hid. She bought the newest music, chose the latest flavors,
and lit candles for every relative still residing outside the chosen
neighborhood. If only the world would stop careening (we know
it is time for judgment and wrath). If only they would come inside
and join the unblemished who stopped sinning ages ago.

She refused to lie, any longer. Their songs were sweet, but the singers
vied for the front seats and first class passes. Their dance was unique,
but the steps were judged and scrutinized; freedom died. Their words
were true, and deeds mostly good, but what so many misunderstood when

She pried upon her heart. Some fled in fear. Some stayed to clean up the mess.
Some could not turn away, but refused to hear. Some fainted and insisted the
Holy Ghost
had fallen right then and there.

She relied, finally, only, a little sadly, upon the Only Love she had ever known.
Let her life flutter low on the pole, let others consider her a mistake, semi-whole,
let the tongues like blades continue to touch the fading scars. Never mind every
stark star stripped of its shining.

She relied, finally, fully and surrendered to Love renewed.

I Never Counted

I Never Counted

(“Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” 2 Corinthians 3:17)

How long will you try to control my trajectory,
keep my like a kite on a line, telling me I cannot fly unless
held back by your length of twine.

How short is your far. How near is your goodbye?
You feign interest in helping, and turn backwards speaking
in unholy tongues
to the same ones and said I was troubled in the head while
handing me your own letter and unforged signature to introduce me
as a capable candidate for any who might inquire.

How long are your lies, and how short is your memory?
How broad are your definitions, and how narrow your expectations?
How long will you torment me, with such a velocity that while you lie to me
the opposite words flee to tidy the mess within moments of breaking
it in pieces? My own words were chards at your feet. My friends’ words
are probably burned while the enemies’ preserved for posterity.

These ten times, and seven years, you reproach and not once
would you allow
a single confrontation with the cows of Bashan.
And finally, I wonder why they call gentleman, one who
takes my precious one, the innocent one, the one with more Grace
than Boldness; when they take her and throw darts at her simple words
and make her the newest target of their quackery.

What I never counted on was freedom for every step I had fallen upon.
What is stranger yet, it seems, they still are redeemed, though my breath
gets caught at the back of my tongue to consider it.

Oh liberty, Oh freedom, misery that dies where sins are crucified,
and life wider than the reaches of noon-day eyes is the constant surprise
for those who do not trip over the Rock of redemption just because they
pursued perfection too impeccably.

Of Two Kingdoms

Of Two Kingdoms

(“God has freed us from the power of darkness, and he brought us into the kingdom of his dear Son.” Colossians 1:13)

And we dance at dark, choosing partners we barely know;
and we dance at dark, chasing music we barely see.
And we make up words to songs we’ve never learned;
and we dance at dark and scurry away at dawn.

Come the light of day faces we knew in the shadows
have disappeared. Once the music ends, we hear our own
words again,
and search the riverbanks for forgotten conversations we
thought we enjoyed
dancing at dark.

We do not destroy because we are wicked; we are sinners, sick
and gray. We harm the very ones who would hold us, but we
deny we lost anything along the way. We explode with invectives,
we spit shrapnel and curse each other with body parts. The beauty
of reproduction is a schoolyard cuss-word. We cannot stand
the intimacy so turn it on its head

Wait for the next moonless night to grab the fastfood imitation.

One time

Let the night pass slowly, like genuine maple syrup on
the biggest stack of pancakes; butter dribbling in rivulets
and the breakfast aroma filling the house. Let the night
pass quietly, like a midnight meadow when the stars’
glimmers are the only sounds.

Let the morning rise warmly, like summer days
and crepe myrtles. Let the full light dawn and
without a single word, crass or creative, do one simple thing:

Stare at a face, any face, fully lit; let the light and shadow
dance across each beauty mark and each imperfection. Stay!
Do not turn away. Memorize the face and be memorized;
and think about a kingdom filled with light unafraid of
the dark.

What Did You Buy?

What Did You Buy?

(“You must let a Hebrew slave go free after six years of service. Your ancestors did not obey me.” Jeremiah 34:14)

What did you buy today, and how much did you pay?
Was it guaranteed? Did you pay retail? Clearance?
Or was it a fire sale?

Who did you buy today? Who set the price? Good
pedigree? Did you get a second opinion, more than one
person’s advice? Where will you store your purchase?
Was it a bargain, a steal? And, once you have used it up,
how will you dispose of the remains?

“I am weary of possessions and stockpiles. Amassed
above beams in the garage, top of the ladder unbalanced
reaches to scrape my fingernails on the cobwebs coating
the bottom of the boxes.”

“I have lost count. I have tossed dice. Disrepair and
newly vacuumed air combine to announce I’m worth
more than my first year transport: all my goods in
two cardboard boxes.”

I’ve returned (without refund) every person I purchased,
and yet I find in my twisted mind, I still play with them
like they are my own. I’ve returned (without exchange)
every friend I owned from birthdays and Christmas,
and yet I know, they own me with no money ever exchanged.

The world spins and we only feel the wind,
we buy dirt and defend it with fences and property lines.
The world swims in space, we gaze past the places
we first grew up and wonder where our first acquisitions
have outgrown their pricetags.

Next time I shake your hand it will not be like
a shopper squeezing the cantaloupe to discover whether
it is worth the price.

Narrow Trails and Soft Landings

“Some of you say, ‘We can do whatever we want to!’ But I tell you that not everything may be good or helpful.” 1 Corinthians 10:23)

We hiked the rocky red crags of Zion National Park. Growing up, my family did a lot of camping, hiking and site-seeing. This day we started near the bottom of a beautiful outcropping that began in the shade and wound a shallow trail toward the top. Close to the summit the trail narrowed quite a bit. I was 12 and my brother Joel was 10 at the time.

Every Year or Two

Every Year or Two

(“Christ ended the law so that everyone who believes in him may be right with God.” Romans 10:4)

Obsolete. Stuck in a snow globe with tinted glass,
all I’ve seen for a quarter century past are the gray arcs
of a home without corners to stash new thoughts. Left
with no filing system and trusting the handlers who shake
my occupation, I trust the simulations of winter.

Guarded: Within my residence I keep my thoughts to myself,
(heaven knows spokes are heard around the block and back)
and search every angle for another misdemeanor
in hopes my doctrine will not go missing.

(for the astute reader who is about to point out that my metaphor began with a globe and now describes searching every angle, you are to be saluted)

Incomplete. A closed system with nothing new to think,
nothing novel to drink, and memories of shrinking back
if a theory insisted freedom beyond my well-ordered turn.
Well-orbed living means, no matter which route I choose,
I will arrive. The paths are infinite, the destination prefabricated.

Artifacts. If you find my several parts under glass at the museum,
you may construct, with reasonable certainty, the square meter of space
I occupied. One pristine piece, briefly used and sadly set aside;
the Though Generator has been replaced by a turbine which keeps
every word in line, at its proper time, spaced apart to appear,
new

Every year or two.

Transformed. The lovely art I thought had freed me, deceived me;
the walls curved inward reflecting brief light back into a man-sized
follow spot upon a tiny stage. Centered, I was handcuffed by certainty.
Until the infinite touched my single-set theory and burst the walls
from the crystal ball I inhabited.

(for the previous travelers who have arrived here before me,
I will remember I may reside, even yet, in
a larger version of the globe from which I have been redeemed.)

An Indifferent Start

An Indifferent Start

(“For sound advice is a beacon, good teaching is a light, moral discipline is a life path.” Proverbs 6:23 [The Message])

He broke free without shattering; the first time,

after many times; trying times and crumbling before

he even began.

But this time he burst up the scene, without breaking,

and the same sun which shone upon every failure until then

Shone this time as well.

(Don't) Follow the Leader

(Don’t) Follow The Leader

(“Balak did what Balaam told him, and the two of them offered a bull and a ram on each altar.” Numbers 23:2)

Do what the soothsayer tells you, the fortune-teller with cardboard credentials;
I know it resembles (with incense and candles) every prayer you’ve observed
on better days from behind the oaken pews. And what do you get for your
credit-card donation? What return for the best guess your private guru made
about your future abounding in words sounding like the litanies you chanted
from the back of the hymnal.

For another fifty dollar donation they will throw in the last known location
of Noah’s ark, just in case you’re ready to fund an expedition. The holy grail
is a steal at 150. For half a thousand the mystic pretender will whisper the
exact date of the Final Judgment, throwing in for free a well-worn map
(a cousin bought it from a pawn store in Kentucky) showing the address
of a brother, another seer, who almost had his hands upon the Ark
of
the
Covenant.

Buy a subscription and your religion will be complete; a monthly chant, scratch-and-sniff
aromas from Bible Land plants, water from the source of your choosing (Jordan, Nile, Dead or Red Sea), anointing oil just like the oil from Christ’s burial pad. Trinkets to line your
bookcase. Talismans to line your sweaters while you eat your Lucky Charms
for breakfast.

How fast we are swindled. How slow we adopt freedom’s offering. Grace is greater than
a piece of wood that contributed to Jesus’ crucifixion tree. We explode so shallow,
we reason in the shadows and carry our fellow sufferers down the silly trail
marked with sleight-of-hand tricks every quarter mile.

Oh, Love of the soul’s best songs, mercy which echoes the Name above All.
All
is
paid.

The band plays like babies pounding primary color xylophones to impress
each visitor with joy and liberty freely met.

"From Different Places"

“But we hear them in our own languages. How is this possible? We are from all these different places…We are from these different countries, but we can hear these men in our own languages! We can all understand the great things they are saying about God.” Acts 2:8, 11b

The story is amazing. Jesus told his disciples to wait in Jerusalem until they received the power they needed to share the good news throughout the world. For 10 days the wait and pray together and on the tenth day they are all filled with the Holy Spirit. A sound of a mighty wind fills the room and what looks like tongues of fire stood over each person there.

No More Drama

“Now Esau hated Jacob because of the blessing with which his father had blessed him, and Esau said to himself, ‘The days of mourning for my father are approaching; then I will kill my brother Jacob.’” Genesis 27:41

Jealousy can mess with our attitude so badly that we forget the blessings we may already have. Our next door neighbor buys a brand new SUV and suddenly our well-running minivan looks like a piece of junk in the driveway. Our best buddy gets the newest Xbox 720 gaming system for Christmas and now our Nintendo Wii looks like something out of the Stone Age. A co-worker receives a promotion, we are overlooked for a raise, or someone accuses us of inappropriate behavior when we are innocent.

Untangled

“Christ has liberated us to be free. Stand firm then and don't submit again to a yoke of slavery." Galatians 5:1

I love Christmas. I hate the strings of Christmas lights. I am completely convinced that demons haunt the boxes of Christmas decorations from mid-January until sometime after Thanksgiving when families drag them down from the attic. Having made every effort to neatly store the cords with their tiny bulbs, they are invariably found tangled together like a nest of snakes.

Cut the Strings

Cut the Strings

(“Yet God knows every step I take; if he tests me, he will find me pure.” Job 23:10)

I should have researched this bit before I wrote, and, if I rewrite,
perhaps I will;
but what is it they call the strings by which they machine marionettes,
and what are they made of; what fiber, what source? Plant, like hemp
or linen?
Animal, like sheep gut? Or a manufactured blend, rayon, cotton and
spandex for stretch?

It does not matter much, except for the words I might have used
to describe
the life
of the girl with strings attached to every joint, every limb, her
several fingers and several toes. Without the slightest knowledge,
no hints or shadows upon the wall, her moves were less human
than she ever imagined. Yet, human to the core, the subtle
resistance of muscle against the tugging of string
produced the tiniest blisters, imperceptible stings over
years of performing the dance of the puppeteer’s perfection.

Once or twice, looking over her shoulder, she thought she caught
a breath, a change of wind from outside her body. Most assured her,
some remonstrated her hallucination, most carried on the
dance of the puppeteer’s perfection.

Days were tossed without second thoughts, nights were slept
with annoying plots that seeped into sundial perception;
a slow blend of reverie and real. She put up with what
she never saw.

Until she was set aside, strings untied and hanging on the wall,
dark and light were just the same, night and day were unacquainted.
Ashamed and cast off in the attic above the garage, her dreams
and her daytime reflections tugged for power over which
would oversee an
unfeigned sanity.

That is when, between dream and waking, she heard the crack,
the boxed thunder of a mighty limb, old and weighed down,
finally falling from tree to ground. She knew the truth,
sorely hidden, that was the moment, her brain broke
literally.

She ran the race of paranoia, seeing puppeteers in each
grain of sand. She grabbed only one hand, her own, with
thoughts still vying for competence.

Slowing as she ran, as she ran out, as she ran out of breath,
the knots which were knit upon each joint and limb
were more familiar than her own name. They were
her making,
puppet and puppeteer, she ran, and ran herself down
the same.

The strings we hate; attached to people’s words now gone,
are strings we tied to a passing glance on one day,
a smiling invitation the next, a trial, a conviction,
an inscription on our skin left by leather applied
when our conniption fits would not subside. The strings
we hate

Are enough to write the definition across our brow.

With no sign of reliance, we can stand or dance,
unenhanced by performance or perfection,
the simple human dance, resurrected messy and late

We are better unstringed and sometimes unhinged.

Taken by Surprise

Taken by Surprise

(“You, my brothers, were called to be free. But do not take that to mean that you can do as you please. But work for each other because you love each other.” Galatians 5:13)

I was taken by surprise at the wild night and the demise
of floodlights pointing the way to the boarding house location.
I knew dozens who danced in abandon, waved at random faces
appearing in the crowd. They shout so loud that one man’s prayer
is swallowed by vocal improvisations, out of tune, out of time,
discarding rhyme, stepping over the swooned on the concrete floor.
Freedom was a dancer who mollified mentors while untying the knots
that taught apprentices the steps.

Turn up the volume, vibrate the walls,
let God pick up one end of the earth, if it please, and whip it like a
locker-room towel until the seas reach peaks and mountains flow
low beneath the feet of unreachable depths. God is not hindered
by social norms or costume codes on the walls of institutions of
higher learning.

So we, free as He, vacate every convention, except our personal inventions;
the cures that medicate loneliness every time we turn down the lights
and leave the dance abandoned on the floor, concrete cold once every
body has left alone, home, rays extending from a fixed center,
and the farther we fly, the farther our neighbor.

I was taken by surprise at the handful who, though free as God Himself,
wandered the after-streets, checked the littered corners, sleep in their
eyes, cramps in their calf and thighs. They were sad and smile complete,
these few of freedom’s elite who knew when the carnival shuts down
there must be a few around to be just one degree freer.

I was taken by surprise by the looks in the eyes of those whose freedom
let them linger, renewing the wounded and enjoying the gravity that
pushed them closer to liberty’s labors of love.

Telling the Good News

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me. He has anointed me to tell the good news to poor people. He has sent me to announce freedom for prisoners. He has sent me so that the blind will see again. He wants me to free those who are beaten down.” Luke 4:18

Jesus returned to His hometown of Nazareth and attended synagogue as was His custom. He had been teaching at synagogues throughout the area. This time things were different. I do not know if He had quoted Scripture or spoken there before, but this Sabbath He made quite an impression. Quoting from Isaiah 61 about ultimate freedom God would bring to Israel, particularly through His Messiah, He put the scroll away and sat down.

Fill their Faces

"Fill their Faces"

(“Fill their faces with shame, and let them seek Thy name, O Lord.” Psalm 83:16)

Those who have filled the ditches with their opinions,
making the jobless into jokers begging;
Those who have filled the minds
with mythology
that the poor are riddled with lazy bathtub rings;

Those who have taken lives not belonging to them,
planted doubt in the corners where one once believed
and rose with the morning to conquer with joy,
and concur with mates who loved it like the sun,

Beaten with words that bestowed question marks where
exclamations once broke the dawn;
Those who spoke them
into the corners never noticed the
shivers that began, the tremors of their hands,
once the synapse was rewired to make them
prisoners of their intentions,
(kidnappers of their impressions)
and left them to lie upon the dictations of
black versus white typed upon vellum; narrow columns
of distrust. Dusty spellings, and tears smearing the
letters and colors others had impounded.

Fill their faces with red, (not from dread, like they
filled the faces before), but from personal shame,
let them take the paintings out of the frames,
run their fingers over the strokes, smell the fresh-paint
(the aroma of verity’s obsession),
until the infusion of laughter and tears,
red blood and blue notes, pink mayflower and
violet alfalfa convince the typeWriters the world

Is fuller of Godly creation than their
constitutions and bylaws can
ever contain.

I am Free

I

"I am Free"

(“Because I am innocent, and He would say, ‘I now set you free!’” Job 23:7)

They offered me freedom on a stick
held out in with hands that had dug their
ditches and planted their
wheat. Now those hands pointed away
to a country repeated on their nameplates
on oak desks stacked with travel vouchers.

You gave me freedom without reserve
embraced by hands punctured by the
listeners who heard nothing and by the
musicians who played only notes. Now those
hands still scarred showed me Your heart
with my name written, a signature of love
penned like it could never be wiped away.

I’m free, I cry, I cry,
I’m free, tell the sky, the sky.
Leave the curses behind,
the whispers unkind,
the bells peal, remind, remind.
I’m free, I cry, I’m free.