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.

Like Fairy Tales

 

Like Fairy Tales

(“But we should be glad and celebrate! Your brother was dead, but he is now alive. He was lost and has now been found.” Luke 15:32)

It’s like fairy tales with the ending that fixes everything,
like the carousels that promise gold while mixing horses
and unicorns and princesses and cardboard tickets.
It’s like the neighbor next door playing their music too loud,
like the ravens who rule from thirty feet high then soar toward
your head. You are not allowed so close to their home.

It’s like champagne before the wedding,
back pain after mending the treehouse for the grandkids.
It’s twirling like a top,

curling your toes when the raindrops break the summer heat.

It’s the interruption during the sermon,
the baby sticking his tongue out at the
man behind him,
and the man laughing and sticking his tongue out
too.
It’s the interruption during communion,
a paper airplane dive-bombing from the balcony,
and a note inside that makes her parents want to hide
but makes a teen boy blush when the wine is served.

It is every distraction, every absurd note played without
rehearsal.
It is every expansion, every blue note that dares to play
between the half steps decreed by convention. It is
every transaction that leaves less pocket money
but more time to love how funny random cloudbursts
feel on our skin.

It is each moment, another second of
trumpets and strings, caterpillars with wings,
exiting and entering; it is always (after all)
a moment of new beginnings.

Tell Us How Good We Are

Tell Us How Good We Are

(“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring glad tidings to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, and to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord." Luke 4:18-19)

Yes, please tell us how good we are, how deserving,
we've been observing your rules for decades now.
We've put down uprisings,
scolded the protestors;
Lord knows, we even prayed before we did.

Yes, please tell us about the new good news, how others refused,
but we who dust the pews in your house are you muses,
how we inspire your love and how you dote on us.
Look, we even brought the national flag into your house,
we sanctify, almost deify, the man in the big house who
most of us voted for.
(The others, finally, have walked out the door to some other
place they call church but which I'm sure you haven't frequented
in ages.)

Yes, we know your words are wonderful. They fill us with expectation.
We can't wait to tell more and more about this chosen generation,
this nation you saved, the country you chose above all others.

What? we have gone too far? Yes, it is true, some of our fathers
and mothers
crossed the invisible border. What? were they less blessed because
of it?

Yes, now I hear you questioning us, our standing, our unquestioned
place in prophecy? What? You do not feel welcome here where
the stars and stripes sit next to the communion table?

"I tell you, no prophet is accepted in his own native place. Do you remember the famine,
when Elijah was sent only to Mexico? Do you remember the lepers
during Elisha's time, yet only a leper from Iran was healed?"

Yes, now we hear your message. We hear it clearly. Leave now,
out the door. We nearly believed you were the Christ, but
now we know you are an imposter, for you love those who we hate,
and have spoken the harder words to us.

Yes, leave if you please. You have disrupted my angry religion,
you try to replace it with universal acceptance, and our God would
never put up with it.

You may think this word is apropos,
You may wish to have it disposed,
all I know
God helps those
who
need His help the most.

Note to the Reader

Note to the Reader

(Those whom the Lord has paid for and set free will return. They will come to Zion with singing. Joy that lasts forever will crown their heads. They will be glad and full of joy. Sorrow and sad voices will be gone. Isaiah 35:10)

A day and a half in bed,
the pain battered my body until it finally gave in
and would not move into the morning beams across the sheets.
Though I tried; brushed my teeth, combed my hair, my body
refused to rise longer than it took to put my toothbrush down.

Over ten years creeping to my office,
calling dear ones, reading with half my understanding
hiding behind my skull.
Writing sermons for a sunny Sunday,
and laying in bed on every Saturday,
I was cornered by the hammers that never relented,
that bulldozed the memories of the epoch

Before the pain.
Calls at 2 a.m. and racing to the hospital.
The homeless friends whose needs never end,
the hope that the next home I visited would laugh
at my mistakes.

But this time, this church, this pastor had no ease, forced humor,
and fewer friends because the moments he battled the pain were split
between the neediest,
and his need for naps. Vacations were spent on couches
with his children,
or in bed in the Caribbean. The beach could wait until the pain
might abate.

He burned more energy, saw fewer people, prayed fewer minutes,
left early and arrived late; all to conserve the quarter tank allotment of
every single day.

He cried more than he laughed. He stumbled more than he led.
He wanted someone to see him, see him as he was;
a brittle body with a head on fire and a soul thinner than onion skin.
He wanted a friend to simply take his hand, stroke his head,
sit in silence, offer him wine, bake him bread, not be offended
when he said

He wasn’t clear where his faith had gone these days. The more he
prayed
the more the pain
pulled the skin tighter over his head.

And so he left the only thing he ever loved. He resigned. He moved.
And spent this last weekend; Saturday and half of Sunday; in bed.

Note to the reader: Perhaps the Scripture and poem do not match. That is the point, I think. For my present experience belies my belief that my purpose has not diminished, though the disabling pain increases. I am not without hope. I am weary, torn, lonesome and no longer tempted to lie so people will not worry about my spiritual state. For this last season of my life, I shall be, attempt to be, attempt always to be, truly real.

The First Place

The First Place

I heard the first place we went was undiscoverable,
they were caverns I had never seen, fissures in the granite
where glaciers had retreated. But now we stood
halfway up the slope like the spine of a giant whale
and we whispered the world between the breaths we took.

I would go farther, see the summit, but the damage done
over years of abuse
and self-styled announcements
has left me panting far below the treeline.
New wounds only irritate old wounds
and now I doubt all will be smoothed over
by the time I’m asked to deliver my final address
on the state of the world
and my place in it.

If you could supply, by grant or by inheritance,
I would comply without counting the dangers.
You know how sad I’ve become, you know my fingers
are crooked and my throat is bare. You know best,
besides the one sweet harbor of my years,
how far the crest of the stars has fallen from me.

I wanted the first place I went was out to sea,
they were trenches deeper than mountains, the wounds in the planet
darker than soldiers’ tears. Now I want to last, please,
at least until
I see the fire fall just once more. Until hose crying for aid,
lie on the ground and watch stars dance like before.

I want to know You have walked through the door
in your humblest theophany (you are the poor, the sick,
the aging, the abused) and we have gladly welcomed
the glad parade from here to home.