Why the Hell Don’t You be Jesus?

 
Why the Hell Don’t You be Jesus?

(“But the Lord stood with me and gave me strength so that I might preach the Good News in its entirety for all the Gentiles to hear.” 2 Timothy 4:17a)

Jesus is all you need!

They say,
and send you away with another
crunchy cliché.

Jesus is all I need!

They boast,
and hide themselves away before their
brittle bullshit

Reveals their balloon busting pride.

Then the days yawn slowly when no one
made the trip to share hugs, nor dollars, nor
humanity, nor proffers of their
body warmth near mine.

May it not be counted against them.

Jesus stands, if we will see, beside the living spring
that transforms the desert as the sycamores bloom.
Jesus hands the sweet figs into our ailing ego,
fully conscious that we may misinterpret the kindness
and claim an exclusive breakfast meeting with the
glorified son of god.

Too many heads are patted by self-serving
spiritualists who quote more than chapter and verse,
but tell you a tale that was told them about a missionary
in Africa
(it is usually Africa)
who actually saw Jesus’ face in the mane of a lion.

I would not argue with the missionary, if I met her,
but I tire of hearsay mysticism. I cry at the descriptions
only read in books, the ones meant to hook you into
their way of thinking.

Here’s a hint; no, I will say it boldly. Why the hell
don’t you be Jesus
showing up at the time the shaking body you see
truly needs it.

And yet, though some consign the slit-eyed
soul to some outer hallway of unknowing,

The Lord does stand.
She does offer her hand.
He does smooth back your hair
matted with tears and sweat
and leaves you speechless about such encounters
for ever
and ever after.

The Layers

The Layers

(“My beloved is mine and I am his, he pastures his flock among the lilies.” Song of Songs 2:16)

The first layer of attention, the lightness of feathers,
the breath of linen, never left for over the briefest season when
I moved apart the leaves to find another pathway lined
with false proposals. Inclined to believe what I see,
I sought them for the loneliest era; time undefined by
the finite or eternity.

I cannot be specific about what layer was next, or how many,
or what order they came; though I do know the last two as I’ve
grown into a new set of clothes that feel like comfortable hand
me
downs.

Love was never questioned, no seriously; the first layers were
dance and six-strings, never weary of late nights, long walks,
unending talks of what we thought might be heaven to day,
or might be gone tomorrow. Unexamined, our love bounced
like wagon wheels unsprung. We were nearly nomads,
finding gifts between concrete cracks and below rocks
settled in mud
after the rain.
We acknowledged hell with a mere glance, little thinking
love might leave us wordless about eternal agony.

But these final layers, no, not the ones on top, not the last
bit of whipped cream topping a parfait; these final layers lie
deep within the dish, the final taste of perfect goodness. Here
is where
our minds met, and nearly exploded in the velocity of
pleasures and restriction, passion and restraint in head-on
competition for an affair of the heart that satisfied the mind
as late as sentiment slept.

Would this Lover of my Soul satisfy its imagination,
half would not be rich, semi would not be full;
but let reason ring with passion, affections
speak with acumen; and the whole more complete
having examined each competing thought with
honest eyes and unswayed heart.
We acknowledged hell with more than a glare, more wondering
love would put it there for any creation; and leaving
each interpretation to other tongues. There may be
more clever ways to constrict the days others spent
on loves with different names than we have heard.