UnMasked

UnMasked

(”For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that although he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that through his poverty you might become rich.” 2 Corinthians 8:9)

I hardly knew what to do when the gift was dropped off
outside my door. Should I open it; what was it there for?
I set it inside on top of a coffee table and went about my
day, making lunch, drinking wine, and wondering how much time
I had before I heard the famous voice that thundered everything
into place.

But the noises outside and the people who cried
that justice looked sad were in the streets today.
There was no peace from the camouflaged recruits who
pummeled observers of their over-privileged gunfire.
Hard on the way, they lay another one upon the concrete
as if they are simply punching bags for practice.

It was all on video, for those who would watch it.
It all was heard, though many refused it.
It was unlicensed aggravation and children kidnapped
from outside their schools. It was a nurse to veterans
being beaten for pointing his phone at the officers of fear.

But thousands showed up and broke the silence. Thousands
sang songs of resistance and beat their drums above the anguish
laying low and loud. They are trauma-breakers assisting the wounded.

And still the gift sits unopened, its contents hidden underneath
layers of paper and perforations. We have thrown away the wealth
of harmony paid at such a price the universe trembles. The estranged
are invited to join the sanity that is richer and offers reunion
to armies of boots on the ground. Unwrap the present and join
the mass apology for the pain created by the masked unrighteous
ways of hardened lawless masquerading as officers of the peace.

Upside-Down Echoes

Upside-Down Echoes

(“My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” 2 Corinthians 12:9a)

Where are the words that paint as lovely as
midnight blue? Where are they that describe
the corner the young warrior sits in thinking
she will never get the chance to make up for the
losses she faced?

Not everyone signs up to fight. Failing is so much
quicker than winning. But once you’ve lost, the
rope clenches your brain, suspends your hopes,
and convinces you it will all happen again.

There are notes written on each snowflake
lightly falling like white autumn leaves.
It is cold there in the corner, it is lonesome and
unavoidable.

If you’ll allow, I’ll climb in the corner with you,
we can count to three while we rehearse our losses,
our bottomless ability to flee from nothing.
Did you bring your ammunition? Let’s disarm
ourselves
from the echo that reverbs, wall to wall,
and turns us upside down.

I know you have a voice, you have a word,
you have a sentence, you have a book.
Are you afraid you’ve betrayed your oath?
Are you sitting here while we both rehearse
our failures?

I’ll see in you if you’ll see in me
just one more win than we have losses.

The Tempo Changes

The Tempo Changes

(“God is able to make all grace abound toward you, so that you, always having enough of everything, may abound to every good work.” 2 Corinthians 9:8)

Don’t worry about the tempo changes,
the tune will stay the same.
It’s the harmony of the springhead,
daylight running and nighttime
replying to the parting clouds. The
waters will rush, they will gurgle,
they will sometimes trickle,
but always seeking their own level,
overflow; capacity unlimited.
Would the river run to the sea where
the brackish meets the sweet? Would the
ecology change in a welcome flock of
fruit trees begging the rain with their leaves?

(I’m the sort of guy who notices when
someone’s glasses are askew. I know they can
afford
to have them leveled about their nose.)

With all the talk of mystic days along the
forest’s edge, the day invites further exploration.
But we hesitate, fretting we will find only mud;
we long to meet a doe who acts like she knows us.
Or a bluejay who is not frightened away by our clumsy
attempts at stealth. We would prefer to live more slowly,
if only the deceleration included a companion or two.
Nevertheless, the air is the same where the river touches
the sea,
and where the forest wraps itself around the village
on the river.

(I should admit, my glasses are crooked too. And to
my knowledge, no one has commented so far. The right
lens has been lower than the left for three years from yesterday.)

Don’t worry about the key change,
we will take it slowly. And if the day offers nothing but silence,
we will put it in the bank and bring it out the next time
the crowds are too deafening.

The Spaces Between the Letters

 The Spaces Between the Letters

(“For it was by God’s grace that he experienced death’s bitterness on behalf of everyone!” Hebrews 2:9b TPT)

How could I let them do all the thinking for me,
how could I take so long to use my mind again?
I pulled up to the first sign of life, the first certainty,
the elemental arguments that proved the doubters wrong;
and I parked there like a big rig overnight where
night can last a lifetime.
I left it in neutral, let the engine run,
let the heater keep me from the cold and frozen landscape
I thought I understood.
I left it in neutral because
I had let the ink speak for me,
think for me. The flat black and white
was cemented like a shrine; never mind it was
thousands of years before my time.

So, every time you sought me, every time
you needed help,
I searched the documents like dispensing prescriptions
and wrote them for your life.
“Don’t divorce” (though he hit you)
“Be in church” (though it caused you pain)
“Get a job” (there were none)
“Just abstain” (addiction bites)
“Pray some more” (mine was saccharine)
“Read this book” (parts made me cry)
“Bible study” (genealogies too)
“Plead the blood” (on my honor)
“Use the Name” (nothing stronger)
“Take more walks” (depression’s cure)
And I never told you that
the prescriptions I wrote
did nothing for me at all.

I know so much less now, yes, nearly agnostic.
I know the minus and the plus now, and how unforgiving
pen and paper become.
I know you better now, with my faith somewhat rarer;
I would learn the silence, I would learn the pauses,
I would memorize every tear on your face.
I would empty out my own doubts
(if you would receive them)
and simply walk beside you though
the world has gotten larger than either of us
imagined.
The spaces between the letters on the page,
scribbled on the yellow lines of my legal pad,
are greater than the sounds of the alphabet.
There is more air in the molecules,
more space in the universe,
more doubt in the certainty,
more quiet between hello and goodbye.

He tasted our pain. He let the bitterness that
brings us up short cover him like a veil.
I cannot explain it, but he wrapped himself in darkness,
and inhabited the spaces between our doubts and
our faith.
And still I am hollow, and still he dwells in
the echoes we wish would fade away.

Answers no longer satisfy me; I would be a traitor
to give them to you.
But, this open space where souls meet, and eyes,
is the only place I have felt alive.

I Need a Getaway

I Need a Getaway

(“I mean that you have been saved by grace because you believed. You did not save yourselves; it was a gift from God.” Ephesians 2:8)

Yes, it’s true; I need a getaway.
I need a gateway to another lane.
This one has become narrow and the end
is impossible to see.
I just need to get faraway.
I need a fairway with easy approach shots.
This one is hilly and constricts
my point of view.

Yes, it’s true: I have wandered far;
far beyond my better welfare (or so they say).
This globe has become slippery and my shoes
squeak like spaceboots on the moon.
Look how easily I’ve squandered
the content I acquired from garage to alley
and back. There is little room remaining
to add another point of view.

Yes, it’s true: I shouted:

“I don’t believe in God anymore.”

And if it is any solace to you, it was
at the tail end of a dream, but still,
everyone I’ve ever known could hear the
honest scream like it was streaming
through every device upon the planet.

I hope you will not fan it into flame,
I hope you will not forget my name,
I hope for one, maybe two, who will take the fall with me,
will let their life stall with me,
bent just like me, bent just like a question mark;
front and back. Oh, the mockingbirds on the lawn
have not inquired about my faith.

It was only a dream, but it pushed open the pressure valve
that I kept closed and sealed so no one could see the leak
and puddles
of my doubt.

But now you know; I need a vacation;
I’ve heard all the explanations;
They are imprinted on halfsheets of scratch paper
And in every synapse firing through my brain.
Just the same; I need a holiday.
I need a holy day that doesn’t make me
darker or stab me sharper than
than the lightning that stings my devoted
attempts at piety.

I need a getaway; a merciful respite where,
though unaware of the divine at all,
I am cared for personally hidden from those who
thought my gauzy revelation (my god, my god, why?)
was surely my downfall.

Flutes Upon the Hills

Flutes Upon the Hills

(“Circumcision and uncircumcision don’t mean anything. What really counts is that the new creation has come.” Galatians 6:15)

I don’t need to light another candle,
though I like the way they help me pray.
I don’t need a new amendment,
all things gleam in the eternal day.

I don’t need to study your words harder,
though they run through my mind anyway.
I don’t need a new translation,
all they do is get in my way.

I don’t need to smell all of the roses,
though I plan to plant some when I return.
I don’t need a new song to sing,
I have melodies yet to learn.

I’ll ride in a bus, I’ll ride on your bike,
I’ll pull you in a wagon, I’ll paint your tricycle red.
I’ll love my neighbor, I’ll love my enemy,
I’ll watch the wildflowers grow; breathlessly.

I’ll look toward the east, I’ll pray toward the west,
I walk northward for a while; in the south I’ll take my rest.
I’ll give you my time, and offer you a chair,
We’ll talk and talk with no notes to compare.

I’ll love you forever because that’s how you’ve loved me,
I’ll stumble in my promise, though I tried carefully
to be new when I am old, to be pure when I am soiled.
And all the time what mattered was that
all the time I belonged
in this new country; foggy or shine,
flutes upon the hills, fiddles on the plains,
all that has ever mattered (I’m finally resigned)
is the breath, the spirit, the mercy, the grace,
of Your life
in mine.

Both Fire and Water

Both Fire and Water

(“So the angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God!’” Luke 1:30)

Tell me what I do not know about you,
let me hear it from your lips and eyes;
wipe my assumptions, delete my unruly religion
and bring both fire and water
to burn and begin the
renewal within.

The future is frightening; and yet you are there.
The questions are lightning; but thunder is rare.
The answers are puzzling; but the favored air
imbues today’s suffering; and grace still dwells here.

Planted Before Time

(“For by the blood of Christ we are set free, that is, our sins are forgiven. How great is the grace of God.” Ephesians 1:7)

Though days begin with pain
and evenings reflect the same
the world still is filled with shapes
that sponge sorrow of its fears and take
us within the arms of forgiveness.

Oh to embrace that which has embraced me,
to be satisfied fully with such primordial love,
to walk from past to place, from there to when,
slip to fall, ache to ecstasy without a doubt creasing
my brow.

Like water to immigrants in the desert,
like beaches to a prisoner midcontinent,
like sky to the burrower, like pardon to the borrower,
how shall I spend what I never bought nor earned?

Though honesty demands a full accounting,
and hiding is simply insanity,
this day; aching, breaking, wishing, undefined,
and unbending to my best devotions,

Still cannot uproot the footings, the old growth tree
planted before time to remind me,
dancing is still allowed, though the brain
is a step out of time.

Mud and Roses

Mud and Roses

("What do you think about the Messiah? Whose son is he?")

The smell of mud and roses,
that is how the chosen perceive the world.
We cannot embrace perfection, but love the spaces between
earth and bud, bloom and dirt. First the rain leaves pockmarks upon
the garden bed,
then the earthworms sneak along the perimeter before light plays
upon the newly broken clods. Robins meet for morning breakfast
and coffee
and a little to go to feed their young.

The perfect green stems with new rubbery needles embrace
last year's old growth now gray and stiff, their thorns more apt
for a Messiah's crown.

You cannot work the ground alone. You cannot inhale the garden's perfume
in a florist's shop. One is rich, one is sterile. And yet in the garden they are
the prelude to the day, the annunciation of sun, the breeze's benediction at
the lowering of the afternoon.

The chosen do not consume doctrine devoid of mud nor roses apart from
the dusty hands that tended them.

Faith is the moment where earth and roses meet, where lotuses bloom on
muddy ponds, where divine and human see each other in the beloved space
of imperfection's grace.

Attractive

Attractive

“And everywhere he went the people brought the sick to the marketplaces. They begged him to let them touch just the edge of his coat, and all who touched it were healed.” Mark 6:56

I hope I never lose the wonder of the attractiveness of Jesus. He was always available, always approachable. And, those who were attracted to Him were often those on the “outside” of the acceptable society. Wherever He went people brought others to Him, laying their sick friends at His feet, knowing they would not be rejected.

It’s not that Jesus enjoyed crowds themselves. In fact, Jesus seems to avoid them most of the time, and never brags about them in the least. The gospel writers mentioned that Jesus fed several thousand with only a few fish and loaves of bread, but this was only to emphasize the greatness of the miracle. Jesus was always looking at people, not masses.

More than once, after healing someone, He would command them to keep quiet and tell no one about what He had done. That is a strange strategy if you want to be a famous religious leader, right? Jesus didn’t care about being “famous”, He cared about His Father’s mission. If people came crowding to because they thought He was going to take down Rome, they would be sorely disappointed. Or, they would be disappointed in His methods, to be sure.

Jesus did not whip crowds into a frenzy of excitement. He did not use the crowds to assess His own success. The crowds came to Him. He was the attraction, the lodestone that drew people with every sort of need to Him.

My favorite minister, J.R. Cissna, built a church of over 1,000 people in Tulsa, Okla and served there over 26 until the mid-1970s. But, when I knew him, he was the happy and content pastor of a congregation of under 200. He had been the target of a church “coup” when an assistant pastor, encouraged by a few folks, took over the Tulsa church. Cissna told me the story during the three years I served as his assistant in the smaller church. But he never blamed the young man and never longed for the “larger” congregation. All he ever did was love the people God gave to him; and I was one of them.

We kept up a phone relationship until he died in 2004. One of the last times we talked He said to me, “Mark, you’ll never guess where I am ministering now.” His voice was always full of laughter. “Sulphur, Oklahoma. The church has dwindled to eight people. But we’re working on it!” He was 86 years old and breathing life into a once thriving small-town church. And he did it the same way he always had: he loved the people God gave to him.

I think J.R. knew something about the attractiveness of Jesus. You see, when Jesus healed people, He didn’t give them a lecture, He didn’t ask if they deserved it, He didn’t ask if they were Roman or Jewish, poor or rich. Always, Jesus simply saw the need.

I hope the American Church can rediscover the attractiveness of Jesus. When we hear of thousands of high school kids walking out of their classes in response to the Parkland, Fla school shooting, will we give them a listening ear? Will we be like Jesus and allow them to bring their hurt to us, His church, who represent His healing, love and protection?

When men and women march because they feel their concerns about racism, equal pay, domestic violence, poverty or sexual harassment are not being heard, how will we, as representatives of Jesus respond? Will we learn to hear their stories? Will we learn to be just as attractive as Jesus to those who have been hurt?

People ran all over the countryside to find Jesus wherever He was. They did not hold back. They knew that they could even touch His garment, that they could literally beg for His attention and not be rejected.

Let us make our homes places where people are welcomed. Let our speech be seasoned with grace at all times. Let us find friends among the loneliest, the least likely, the ones who are begging to be heard. Let us be attractive. And, once people know they can be heard, we will probably see many also healed.

Mingle the Waters

Mingle the Waters

(“As Scripture says, ‘Not one person has God’s approval.’” Romans 4:29)

Crying on demand is easy; it’s the silent tears with no one to dry them
that hold on like babies in a lifeboat.

Pieces of sleet, pebbles of hail said their “hello” in late winter fashion. Their hints
of snowfall
were false that morning as the sun woke the sky. But

For a moment the tears were di
sguised by moisture from heaven
and a back that was turned from all observation.

The long walk from discovery to dysthymia deadened waking reverie,
the intentions of youth and the inventions of faith. The stones of judgement
carved from the quarry of grace
pelted hopes that the horizon would welcome my arrival. Quotes heard repeated,
turned glow into silence. Half a belief is worse than Gehenna’s fire.

So, where, water from the heavens, will you fall today? Will Father say
I am still unworthy? Will I hear only the shards of phrases? Will they stick
like slivers deep in my skin?

Will you evaporate before you reach my face, the better words of famous grace?
How shall I taste the snow upon my tongue, the mist clinging to my eyebrows
and sneaking down my cheeks? Will you

Mingle the waters of grace with my unseen tears until
the obscene betrayal is turned full-face into the Wind, the Rain,
the Snow and the Joy of one moment of knowing?

Will you mingle Your nature with my own?

The Sheep of My Pasture

The Sheep of My Pasture

“And you, my sheep, the sheep of my pasture, are my people, and I am your God, declares the sovereign Lord.” Ezekiel 34:31

Have you ever thought about what it is like to be a sheep? No? I suppose it is not one of those daydreams many of us have. If we were to imagine being an animal we might choose the stately lion, the majestic eagle or maybe a playful puppy. Sheep just don’t come to mind that often.

Yet God describes us as His sheep numerous times throughout Scripture and Jesus calls us as His “little flock”. Sheep are not solitary animals; they flourish in flocks. And domesticated sheep need a shepherd; a good shepherd. That is God’s primary message in Ezekiel 34. His people had been ruled by “shepherds” who had no cared for the people’s needs at all.

Instead of caring for and feeding the sheep, these rulers had fed themselves. “You eat the fat, you clothe yourselves with the wool, you slaughter the choice animals, but you do not feed the sheep!” God tells them (Ezekiel 34:3) They did not strengthen the weak, heal the sick, bandage the injured, bring back strays or seek the lost. Instead they were harsh and forcefully exerted their power over the people. (Ezekiel 34:4)

As a result, the people were scattered and were, like sheep, put at risk and became “food for every wild beast.” Leaders, whether religious, business or political, are called to look at the needs of those around them and be good shepherds. Instead of finding ways to exert personal power, a good leader seeks out the hurt and brings healing. A good leader finds ways to heal the sick and weak. A good leader refuses to hold back they good they can do for those who have suffered injury.

Think about the goodness of Jesus Himself. Matthew 12:20 say about Jesus: “He will not break a bruised reed or extinguish a smoldering wick, until he brings justice to victory.” Bruised reeds matter to Jesus! We must understand that first and foremost. When God sees our broken places He immediately sets out to heal them. When He sees the fire nearly going out He immediately acts to ignite the flame again. He does not blame, He does not condemn: He heals.

As His followers, we are called to be the same. We are Jesus in the world. Spirit-filled believers are the “flock” of this Good Shepherd. But, we also become shepherds ourselves. When we see injustice in the world, we should also say, “Bruised reeds matter.” We who have received the healing, strength and care of the Almighty are called to take that same compassion into the world.

It is easy to rely on people to gain what we think we need in life, but it is the care of Father-God that truly satisfies. We will make mistakes along the way. We will step forward when we should have waited. We will wait when we should have acted. But, if we are living in complete dependence on God’s loving care, we turn from those mistakes and reach out to the hurting once more.

As a church, I hope we at River of Life are creating a safe space for the flock of God. For a good shepherd, every new lamb is treated with the same care as any other. And, those that are weaker often receive more intimate care because they are more in need. I hope we are creating an environment where people can share the joys and the hurts they feel. I hope we are a place that people do not have to act like all the other sheep to fit in. We will go through ups and downs throughout life, but the love of God will always move us to greater compassion for others and less self-promotion. We love each other well when we point to the hope we have in Christ while never ignoring the painful circumstances that may be present. Remember, to follow Jesus means to be part of a flock. Don’t stay away from the sheep pen.

Let us throw the doors of our hearts wide open. Jesus was constantly stopping to heal those who the world had passed by. Jesus gave His time to despised tax-collectors and prostitutes. They mattered to Him. You matter to Him. And, sheep who have been excluded for one reason or another especially matter to Him.

Father, may we truly follow You as our Shepherd. Let us learn to rely on Your for Your personal care and healing of our lives. Create in us the same heart You have for all people and help us give the same grace we have received.

Grace Extended

Grace Extended

“For it is all for your sake, so that as grace extends to more and more people it may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God.” 2 Corinthians 4:15

It was the scariest day of the first twelve years on the planet. Greg, one of the three meanest playground bullies had “called me out” to fight after school. Barely 110 pounds, my slight frame rarely stayed upright in the face of the few fisticuffs I encountered in school. But, whether out of a momentary bravissimo or stupidity, I agreed to meet him.

Most times when I felt threatened I would recruit Don Irwin to walk home with me. Held back a year, Don was bigger and stronger than everyone in our class. Though he never actually fought anyone, we all knew the outcome of any attempted brawl with Don. But, for some reason, Don was unavailable on the day Greg insisted we meet around the block after school.

I bravely faced off across from him, hands somewhere hanging on the ends of my arms. Within the time it takes for a hummingbird to flap its wings twice a fist crashed into my left eye and across my nose. Immediately I started to cry. It was involuntary, but they were tears, nonetheless. (Do not try this at home, but a blow to your eye will bring the inevitable tears.) I couldn’t see, I was embarrassed and petrified. Not only had he caught me full force, I was blubbering in front of the school bully; a far worse shame than losing a fight.

Greg took a step back while my mind reeled. I wondered if I should take a wild swing while he watched me grimace. The he said, “Have you had enough?” I knew to say “Yes” meant to admit defeat. But, not wanting to lose two eyes, I said, “I guess.”

“Ok,” he responded, “It takes a big guy to admit he’s lost.” Then we had a couple of other words together, he walked off, I limped home, and we never fought again.

Grace, right? I was grateful for Greg’s grace. No! A thousand times “No!”

But I have met many Christians who see God’s grace much the same way. We do not go so far as to say God is a bully. But we do say things like “I deserve the punishment”. Or, even when things aren’t going quite right, “I must have messed up pretty bad for these things to be happening.” And so, we see God’s “grace” in terms of a God who occasionally lets us walk away from a black eye that He has inflicted.

The danger of this idea comes out in how we treat others. There seem to be two streams of “Christianity” in America: one which loves seeing God’s grace given to more and more people; and another which uses the word “grace” but seems to be slow in giving it. So, if we feel God was righteous to rough us up before he gave us grace, we also feel justified to speak and act in ways that are not fully grace-full.

You’ve seen it, I know you have. Christians who share ugly reports about politicians they disagree with; or who will not listen to the stories of those in untenable situations. Sometimes we make assumptions about the poor or the disadvantaged. We want to control what people do with their food stamps or disability.

But, here is what God did. Let’s suppose we actually deserved a black eye. The Greatest News of All is that Glen is not God. Glen would have given us our black eye, then backed off saying, “you learned your lesson.”

But Christ, in His Mighty Grace, suffered for us on the cruelty of the cross! He triumphed over the violence and the darkness of this world, not by fighting back, but by dying. He triumphed over the ungodly union of politics and religion in His own time by showing that God’s Kingdom is one of love and servitude.

Dear ones, perhaps you have never fully understood the great galaxy of God’s grace offered to you. Perhaps you feel you have deserved the hardships, and that, once you have suffered enough, God will be nice to you. In Christ, God is here now. He is the One who has spread the mercy and grace of God across the universe like a perfume that anoints our every sense.

Once you realize how great His grace truly is, you will never again speak harshly against the poor or spread falsehoods about opponents. Jesus, in His grace, offered His very life so that, according to this verse, “as grace extends to more and more people it may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God.”

Experience His grace today. And, experiencing it, let it extend from you to more and more people!

An Economy of Grace

An Economy of Grace

(“Heal the sick who are there and say to them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’” Luke 10:9)

It is a close-up in sepia with venetian red from chin to forehead;
Her eyes are halfway open as the lids slowly meet; the lashes are so long
they nearly preclude the closing created by history, fatigue and pain.

Back it up, rewind those mysterious eyes, and replay at half-speed the
cropped face with no context or place; perhaps it is a single frame, may two,
but the emerald glint is clear, two jewels hid between treasure chest lids;
she hides the beauty, for once the sadness is seen, our eyes can lie for us,
the gleam of turquoise, sapphire or aquamarine sent full-spectrum through our tears
betray our struggle with pain

Unless we look away at just the right moment, just the right angle,
and keep our eyelids resting upon the other until the observer takes leave,
distracted by some fully open eyes with every single ray of the sun finding
each natural facet in the iris speaking health to every spectator.

But, whether we think the eyes facing us
are the artwork of another fine cinematographer,
or message sent freely (to me) to us, we sense
one awake and one bored to sickness and we may often
leave them both alone.

Yet the two (who represent nearly all) may both be mourning,
hoping a new storehouse of pastels will renew the hues we’ve
allowed to disguise the pain we hardly let the spectators see
and, unhealed, we keep smiling with our eyes,
or sleeping with our lashes barely touching so we can
bit by bit take a slice of light in.

Let the watchers say, whether the light is lost or shining,
whether coasting or climbing; this ill-represented earthen
world
is not a kingdom with grace unfurled. There is another place
within this place, another answer that is Yes and Yes,
another jurisdiction without posts or fences or borders:

Just a healing fountain at every step you take toward
the King whose love pours in the light and ignites the colors
in fifth-world wonder. Waking, sleeping, hiding or weeping;

The kingdom is healing, its colors stream like repeater rainbows
opening the eyes alive and day-free, every-mercy. An economy
of grace that floods the red ledgers and destroys their discrepancies.

Church Return (this is not about gun control)

Church Return

(“You then, my child, be strengthened by the grace that is in Christ Jesus.” 2 Timothy 2:1)

“They are taking our guns,”
“They will confiscate our defenses,”
“We cannot wait,” “no time to sit on fences.”

And we arm our hearers with every alarm bell, call presidents poison,
government brazen and the rest of humanity, (the ones unaffiliated with
you and me)
will be frozen by ray-guns spraying icebergs on the deserts and churches.
It’s no wonder no one listens to us anymore.

“They only want to revel in sin,”
“They are redefining all our favorite definitions,”
“We must fire first,” “pound our admonitions.”

And we, who needed an arm on our shoulder, now arm much bolder
the askers with worlds of questions. We flinch, or disdain the
honest refrains of image-bearers who can’t understand our fatal divisions
of sin. We legislate some, ignore our own, inflame hell for others and
excuse our favorites. 

But grace. but Grace. One syllable. It should linger an entire stanza
upon the final “s” that sounds like the breeze erasing our burned out
efforts to please. And, having missed the mark so entirely, missing the
target completely, we minimize it for all others (the ones unaffiliated with
you and me)
making them miss by far what we missed by nature.

Church return. Church, lay down every earned privilege, every pillaged soul
who hears our famous word (whispers “g r a c e”) and waits to see the
love-of-enemy preachers and blessing-for-cursing teachers and 
second-mile business who ask no questions about the sins of its customers.

Church return, armed with grace. Church, lay down your fire and arms,
last and first, invite the scarred and scary into a new way, patient family;
Church return with the fires of love and, Church arise with the waters of mercy, and
Church sing out the songs of joy and, Church receive the bathing of the Spirit

And walk, and run, delightly undisguised; forgiveness the frontgaurd;
grace disallowing any retreat.

One Mite of Grace

One Mite of Grace

(“It has been granted to you on behalf of Christ, not only to believe in him, but also to suffer on his behalf.” Philippians 1:29)

Time has frozen some of the machinery down,
other pieces are worn, gears ground, belts dry as parchment,
and oxidation fills the spaces between nuts and bolts and spacers.

Every joint which first swung freely creaks with effort, to begin
even half a younger man’s backswing. And the follow-through,
we once taught to others at the plate, stops before the shoulder
clicks
with every overhand throw.

I knew my calves would ache about now, my feet sore from standing,
I expected no supple angles, no ground touched with unbent knees.
But I still thought I would swing the racket, chase the high fly balls,
and hunt my slice buried near the adjoining fairway. The serves
would be slower; the drives
would be shorter, and I might make a muffled sound when
bending over to snatch the tee.

But, at 60, I never dreamed I would sit out my favorite play-times
altogether.

So, now I have pain. It never matters where the clock hands point;
the pain remains, and advances. The pain squeezes and takes more chances
with my thinking than I ever did
hoping to make the team. No one can see it, this intimate enemy,
and I rarely let it show, though its armies bombard my cranium
and set fires within my head.

My Loving Jesus, yet and then; is this my promised suffering?
How will it help, now and friend; to paint You beautiful when I barely
sing for minutes before the volume must cease altogether?

And not only me, Sweetest Sovereign, but soulmates who cannot still
rise from their beds. Pain and its alliances have nailed them prone
and tossed them alone. Careers and income blown away; the
dead leaves of dying trees: Shade and Proud.

If our suffering is a gift indeed; let us breathe the mercy
and refuse to waste one mite of grace today.

You Know the Grace

You Know the Grace

(“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ: Though He was rich, for your sake He became poor, so that by His poverty you might become rich.” 2 Corinthians 8:9)

Clothed in gold, washed in spring rain,
the grass is thick, the streams parade life
and young men’s dreams from foothills
to the pregnant river of long poetry;
creation’s own form of praise.

Surrounded by breeze, underneath these old
feet each day is cool with dew that never
dropped upon the soft green blades
of this playful morning before.

We wore our castoff clothing like
princes;
Our half-scales and jazz chords like
incense.
The music we hear, though
assembled before a not ever was played,
is beyond our talents; the gift is
in the singing;
what we never dreamed of before.

And yet, the key can sour with time,
the odes and dirges overtake our jubilant hymns.
And yet, the day can bristle with age,
the plush rose petals brittle and late.

Rich with melody, yet faded with age
we may forget the sun on our faces,
the soft earth’s carpet on our back,
and the words that sent us leaping may
fashion weeping instead.

What, day of joy and night so old,
how may I find, discover, define,
and hold forever
the single afternoon memory of a
meadow spring—unvisited for decades.

How old is Your gift; the music, the rain,
the warm, the same thoughts that
once coaxed love from uncertainty?
But ageless is not old; but ever.
And the song; redemption’s dialogue of
God and man

Will remain the tune I whistle
half-forgetting its title.