Weak with Love

Weak With Love

“I charge you, young women of Jerusalem, ‘If you find my beloved, what are you to tell him? Tell him that I’m weak with love.’” Song of Solomon 5:8

It’s all well and good to tell Christians “You should fall deeper in love with Jesus.” But do you know how many times I have seen people who love to sing, who raise their hands swaying to “He Loves Me, Oh How He Loves Me”, who then go out and vilify people they do not like? What is wrong with this picture?

Fully 80% of white evangelical men still support a president who falsely claimed Obama was a Kenyan-born Muslim, who bragged about groping women and who cannot stop throwing accusations at people he views as “enemies”. While he gripes about “fake news” and calls other people names, he wants to change libel laws because journalists write things he does not like.

This is not a political post. Here is my experience: I have seen this behavior happen in the evangelical church decades before Trump campaigned for President. I see it on Facebook every day, and so do you. Good “loving” Christian post inflammatory articles about Muslims, gays, “liberals” and “atheists” and protesters. They leave churches or make it extremely uncomfortable for pastors who simply want to express the love of God in Christ.

I have seen worship leaders, who wanted extended times for people to “love on God”, who lie about other Christians, gossip about people they have come to disagree with, and make start division among God’s people. Anyone who is “other” is outside their circle of love.

Yet, they love to “love on Jesus”.  The time has come for me to no longer be subtle. I can no longer support an entire movement that says we “love God” all the while looking like we hate whole groups of His creation. It is time for a revolution; a revolution of love. It is time for revolt; a revolt against trying to religiously one-up everyone else. It is time for “repeal and replace”. Repeal the commitment to fighting “culture wars” and replace it with compassion of grace!

Sunday, I will begin a new series in the Gospel of Matthew. We often skip the genealogy in the first chapter. Would it surprise you to note that, included in the Son of God’s pedigree are prostitutes, adulterers and adulteresses, pagans and people “outside” the circle of faith? And, if you were a first century Jew, you would be highly offended that four women are included in that genealogy!

But, by the Spirit, Matthew will have none of our spiritual nose-turning. This is family dysfunction, and it is God’s family! It’s high time we stop talking about “loving on Jesus” if we cannot also “love on our neighbor” with the same passion.

So, if you find my Beloved, please tell Him I am weak with love. I am weak-kneed over every neighbor He has put in my life as well. The deeper I love Him, the deeper I love those who are also the objects of His love.

Father, I am so sorry for the times I have thought someone else needed my anger instead of Your grace. Deliver me from saying how much I love You if I won’t also be known as a lover of people.

Pure Expressions

Pure Expressions

Let my pure expressions be blameless before the
words of those who would discover wrong, rummaging through
the details in the dark or in the light. Let my spotless,
pure in sunshine white, speak better than my silence or
defense of intentions.

And yet, My Perfect Master, I find more to indict myself than
any picker through my life ever discovers. I fear I will never 
come clean enough to admit enough without
eyes popping open.

Oh my friend, where did you find such words to say?
And why, though my sores are nearly healed, do new
tortures show their teeth again? How can I plead innocent
to murder
when I've thought such angry ways to remove
the attacker’s influence completely? Come, walk with me
for an hour, and speak. I will listen to your complaint; I am 
ready to understand why your words 
paint me like dangerous quicksand.

And yet I am not a murderer, but still I am;
an imperfect follower, caught while fixing my wounds
and hoping to take the next challenge well.

So the tears fall again, the heart beats fast again,
and self-defense is foolish. But sadness tosses me
deeper and I will lie on the ground until sun sets tomorrow.

Did anyone see that my bandages finally were off?
And now another arrow to the heart, second hand ammunition;
though the words are untrue, I am never innocent, and feel the
burn of tears, the flush of nerves blooding my face.

I will love how I can; understand I would have stood by you
against every accusation thrown even when the evidence
was known all over town. And, still, I will sit by your pain
as friends do.

My words will be few.

My Misdemeanor

My Misdemeanor

(“David said…to Jonathan, ‘What have I done? What is my sin? What have I done wrong to your father, that he wants to kill me?’” 1 Samuel 20:1)

What is my misdemeanor and why do you indict me?
You should have been my friend across the foaming ocean,
but you cross-examined my intentions, took my words and
set them up like a canvas tent in other people’s mouths.

Lord, I am not a felon, or ever pulled a tongue-like-knife
upon the unsuspecting. Yet my back is riddled with
stabs and unhealed scabs from half a dozen righteous
who tried their best to shine.

I ate in your home and rooted for the Niners,
I visited you at work and saw you cry over lost love,
I voted for your sorrow, I laughed at your gags and puns
while you wrote secret notes and handed them out like candy.

Lord, I am not a criminal, but I’m a sinner, plain as can be;
Lord I’ve never stolen someone’s name or tried to replace their reputation;
I’ve sent sympathy cards, apology notes, and repentance letters
hand-signed and dated.

But with whispers, winks, and subtle nods that amounted to
hiring hit men, they knew the true, spanned grand jury decisions
but skipped the trial and sent their prey to detention straightaway.

Lord, I am not worthy, I am tar and feathers, ashes and sackcloth,
tears from the deception, and lonely from the inception of the plans
that left me homeless. My misdemeanor was not worth the
anger or the meaner side of justice. I laid down my musket
years ago

And will not take it up again.

Fabric so Thin

Fabric so Thin

(“Truly I tell you, the tax-gatherers and the prostitutes shall enter the kingdom of heaven ahead of you.” Matthew 21:31b)

Next time let us know what rules you are referencing
before you throw someone out of the game. Meant for
safety,
you were too hasty
in using them for exclusion.

Here I am, scratching my head over
the notices sent, phone calls spent
setting fire to feet and repeating tales
20 years old and crinkled around the edges,
a number that alleges, a word that stretches
fabric so thin we see through the attempt
to fabricate a hobo-sin; exempt from your
own temptations.

Here I watch the triumph band, stomping
lighter boots front of the parade-ground procession;
the torn dresses dance the breeze restitched we play;
the red eyelids speak stone sober day-end’s grace;
the forgotten fly with the beatified,
the tortured cry, now beautified,
the lame skip upon the hilltops
while the blind twirl like toddlers unwatched
hearing better than grownup ears.

Where will I march, come the day that poor
and lonely meet to celebrate down homely street
the rainbow once mere blood-red
that finished the world’s catalogue and
turned it on its edge.