With The Shadows Chased Away

 

With The Shadows Chased Away

(“They will not be hungry or thirsty; the sun’s oppressive heat will not beat down on them, for one who has compassion on them will guide them; he will lead them to springs of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

One day we will lay down the bricks we used to build the walls,
one day we will dance until the tyrants fall,
one day we will plow the fields in sun and rain,
one day we will give away every crop and every grain.

And so, we watch the clouds swallow the hilltops,
loading up for more showers to paint the skeletal trees
with life again. We hear a single drone inspecting the
fields where the cattle graze.
We remember the voice of a friend who
wasn’t sure winter would be over soon enough.
And we wanted to rush the season along.

But as soon as the sun shines again
we will see it all. With the shadows chased away
because the throne is the light in the middle of it all
there will be no hiding in the dark,
no shadows to conceal the harsh asides,
the cruel remarks,
that bruised the sweetest fruit waiting to be vinified.

One day we will picnic again like we did on cloudless days,
one day we will sing until the dead are raised,
one day we will reap the grace sown with our tears,
one day we will give away all the pain and all our fears.

No One Leaves Hungry

No One Leaves Hungry

(“He took the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to the sky, he blessed them, broke them, and gave them to the disciples to set before the multitude.” Luke 9:16)

I do not know who you are
reading these words,
seeing this page online,
but I want to share my bread with you,
my skin with you,
the tent I live within.

The dirt that I am made from,
the mud that molds my frame
is the same as every other earther,
we are 6 billion and the same.

And Jesus loved the bread of the land,
he love the fruit of the vine,
he shared it like a baker,
he blessed it like a priest,
he divided it like a maître d,
he held it like a grandfather on
Christmas eve.

No one leaves hungry when we share our bread,
no one leaves angry when we keep our skin on,
no one deserves our judgment, no one knows the story
from first to last, from vast lifetimes birthed without
our consent.

So we set the table; no we dine on the couch or
the picnic blanket closer to the soil. We are broken,
we are one,
we are open,
we are children aching for the sun
with our unanswered prayers and losses,
our good fortune and the gossips that talked
out of time.

We invite the one who spoke behind our back,
(our own words were swords not long ago).
We make room for the loneliest widow,
for the offkey and off the mark beliefs
we are certain are mistaken.

But this is becoming too unwieldy,
I only want you to know my story
and listen like it is bread that has been baking
and filling your head like yeast, and filling your
heart to
love the least and just join the band of humanity
that multiplies in the hands of dusty people
who still hunger for a shared loaf of bread.

From mud to grain, there is no better explanation
than a preoccupation with love.

I Will Listen for the Streams

I Will Listen for the Streams

(“They will not be hungry or thirsty. The burning heat of the sun will not trouble them. For He Who has loving-pity on them will lead them. He will lead them to wells of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

I think I might do my best trying to find God
as a monk in the wilderness,
a hermit for half an hour among the sand
and spiders without a page to read,
without a pencil to write,
just the hard floor the sun baked,
and a stick to etch meditations on the earth.

I think I might be happy for half a day
sitting by the dock of the bay,
no tunes in my pocket,
no guitar in my lap,
just the squeak of dolphins playing
while waves clapped against the pilings.

I think I could construct something simple in the forest

given wet mud and pine needles
and a survival expert as well.
Without a tent or a cookstove I know
I would starve before the sun was one quarter done.
But I’d still watch the blue jays play
and the fawns leaping after their mothers.

I know I’ve seen the face of eternity in my best friend,
in the toddler whose laugh fills the room,
in the longest hug I’ve ever received that felt like Jesus
was squeezing all the hurt out of me.
I know I’ve seen the king in the face of children swinging
at recess. I know I hugged creation when
I greeted my friend in rehab,
and when I hugged him after he failed.
And when those who knew all about me
kissed my cheek like a prince. I winced before
and after, but still saw the sun brighter that day.

The suburbs seem so much farther from imagination,
my meditations do not fit the square corners of intersections
and property lines.
But the same love dwells in this silent weekday afternoon
as does in the constellations, the red sand, the wild waves,
and all the affections that have led me to this place.

I will listen for the streams.

I Am Sending You

I Am Sending You

“Then Jesus said to them again, ‘May you have peace. As the Father has sent Me, I also am sending you.’” John 20:21

Can you imagine the fear, the despondency and lack of hope that Jesus’ followers felt following his crucifixion? They had been “all in”. Many had left their livelihood three years before to follow this wandering teacher. Over their internship they slowly understood that Jesus was the promised Messiah, the one who would deliver Israel and set up the kingdom of God.

If we can stop for a moment; consider this. We human beings only understand the world around us through one faculty; our malleable and fallible brains. And our brains receive information through our senses, filtered through culture, teaching and experience. In other words, just because we think something is true, we ought to be open to the possibility we may be mistaken.

The disciples were not mistaken about Jesus’ identity, but they did get the nature of his kingdom wrong. That is quite natural. The only kingdoms they knew were what they had experienced, what their brains had observed and heard about. So, certainly the kingdom of God would be similar to what they knew. Yes, a good God would rule, but, the only way they understood “rule” is by authority and force. They were soon to be surprised.

Jesus’ death did not square with what they “knew”. We can understand their reasoning. “If Jesus is ushering in the rule of God, then he will defeat our enemies, show his power, and ascend a throne that none can overthrow.” Seeing him suffer at the hands of both religious and political rulers, they must have fallen deeply in despair. In some ways, Peter’s exclamation, “I never knew him”, may have held some truth.

But Sunday morning Mary Magdalene ran to Simon Peter and John with mind-boggling news. The stone to Jesus’ tomb was rolled away and she worried, “They have taken the Lord out of the grave. We do not know where they have put Him.”

Peter and John run to the grave and see it just as Mary said. They saw the linen cloths Jesus had been wrapped in, but the white cloth that had wrapped his head was rolled up and lying by itself. Even then, they did not understand that Jesus had risen from the dead. (Remember, all they have are their limited brains to make sense of it all.)

The two disciples went back to their homes. That’s an amazing thought. Jesus is alive, but they are still slowly taking it all in. They simply go back home. But Mary stayed by the grave, weeping. And it is there that Jesus appears to her. He instructs her to tell his brothers: “I will go up to My Father and your Father, and to My God and your God!” She hurries away to tell the disciples what she has seen and heard.

(A quick aside. Recently a well-known evangelical leader had unkind things to say about a female Bible teacher. Those in the audience applauded his snide remark. He is among some who think women have no right to the pulpit or teaching ministries. I wonder if he would have listened to Mary.)

Later that evening, as the disciples are gathered behind locked doors because they are afraid, Jesus appears to them. His first words are, “Peace to you.” The disciples immediately react with joy as Jesus shows them his wounded hands and side.

And once more he offers them peace, saying, “As the Father has sent me, so I am sending you.”

That phrase should make us stop, be quiet, and consider: How did the Father send Jesus?

Remember, the disciples had the kingdom of God all wrong. Jesus’ resurrection shows he has indeed won the victory. But sin and death were defeated, not by force, not by armies, not by hard-fisted legal enforcement, but by suffering and death. The kingdom of God has not changed. We are sent to be men and women who are willing to give ourselves on behalf of others, not tell others how to behave.

The Father sent Jesus to the less fortunate. He went to the poor, the sick, the blind and the “sinners”. He did not condescend, as if they needed to prove themselves before He brought healing and forgiveness. Let us go in the same way, we are all on a level playing field.

The Father sent Jesus to those who could not give back. Who could offer Jesus anything that he did not already possess? He gave hope to the hopeless. He healed, even when some did not return to say, “Thank you.” Let us go in the same way, not looking for people to behave just because we have given. Let us simply give.

The Father sent Jesus to go out of his way for others. Remember the woman at the well? She was a Samaritan. Jesus had to take a less traveled route to meet with a single woman in need. Why do we expect people to come to a church building once a week, where they feel out of place? Let us go out of our way to share the Good News of God’s kingdom of mercy and love right where people are.

God is not afraid of humanity. Are we fully aware of that? The most degraded heart does not scare God or keep him away. God loves humanity so much He became one of us! So, why in the world would we ever avoid someone who seems different than us? Why would we not embrace the homeless, the hungry, the addict, the rebel. God embraced them already when Jesus took on the same human flesh and blood.

When Roman Catholics celebrate the Mass in Latin today, the last words the priest or deacon speak are “Ite missa est.” Translated, it means: “Go, the [congregation] is sent.” The people are told, in so many words, “You’ve worshiped, celebrated Christ in Communion and heard the Word, now go forth as His ambassadors in all the earth; be that bread that is broken for a hungry world.”

When You Can't Taste the Bread

When You Can’t Taste the Bread

“I am the bread of life,” Jesus told them. “No one who comes to me will ever be hungry, and no one who believes in me will ever be thirsty again.” John 6:35

I think for most people the aroma of baking bread is one of the wonders of scent. Why does something that tastes so yummy also smell so enticing? And, as a staple of life, bread is ubiquitous. Every culture has its breads; flat breads, grilled breads, yeast breads, wheat, rye, oat. Well, you get the idea.

The perfect morning would be to smell both newly brewed coffee and freshly baked bread upon waking. The buttery dough saturates your tongue as the brightly bitter brew washes it down. In most homes, that is enough to get you going for the day.

Smell seems to be connected to memory. In the early 1980s I worked for Laird’s Office Supply and Business Forms. My territory included both San Francisco and the East Bay. I was hired to go to any business that did not have accounts with the firm and cold call, developing new clients.

Once or twice a week I drove across the Bay Bridge from our office in Oakland to San Francisco. If the breeze was just right, at a certain point where the freeway turned north into downtown San Francisco, two aromas met in an atmospheric elixir I’ll never forget. Folger’s Coffee was just to the south and the many sourdough bakeries were northeast. The slightly acrid perfume of roasting coffee beans met the yeasty output of the sourdough ovens. The combination was heaven to the sense of smell.

Jesus had just miraculously fed 5,000 people with a boy’s lunch of loaves and fishes. People were astounded and followed him up and down the coast. He turns to the crowd, telling them they weren’t looking for him because of “signs” but “you ate the loaves and were filled.”

As Jesus often does, he takes something tangible and teaches a spiritual lesson. Bread isn’t really bread as he begins his unusual speech in answer to their inquiries. The crowd knew that God had given the wandering Hebrews manna in the desert and asked Jesus, “So, what sign are you going to perform?”

He first sets them straight. “Moses didn’t give you the bread from heaven, and, my Father gives the true bread from heaven. The bread of God is the one who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”

“Well give us some of that bread, Jesus, then we’ll never have to eat again!” Was there snickering among the crowd? Maybe.

But Jesus tells them, “I am the bread of life. No one who comes to me will ever be hungry, and no one who believes in me will ever be thirsty again.” This is an absolute statement. Jesus doesn’t say “will rarely be hungry”, or “will usually never thirst.” He is positing himself as the full and complete answer to life and human need. It is sad that we have reduced it to one or two propositions.

First, it’s about salvation. “Give your heart to Jesus, you’ll go to heaven, and you’ll never hunger again.” And there is truth behind that. But Jesus is talking about food, something we do every single day of our lives. He is talking about water without which we cannot exist for more than a few days. He is talking about life here and now.

Second, we make it about satisfaction. “Make Jesus your everything. Turn away from the ‘world’s’ bread (fill in anything your church thinks is scary) and fully commit your entire being to Jesus.” The only problem here is that Jesus is offering an invitation to a meal, not a marshal order.

What he is saying is so much richer, so much fuller than either the “heaven when you die” or the “perfect discipleship” picture. Food is life. Water is life. What he is saying is what most of us realize; much of our life can feel very inadequate. Jesus opens up an abundance of life to us through being the very sustenance we need. We do not need to prepare the meal; he is the meal.

I’ve been struggling with this ever since I retired early from ministry this January. I am closing in on 11 years of a never-ending 24/7 headache. It is torture at times. We moved in with my sister in Texas, Patti found a job at a university, and I fill my days with very little of any significance. Without a car at the house during the day and no hangouts or restaurants within walking distance, loneliness and isolation easily take me by the throat.

Add the constant pain, the average of 6 out of 10 pain, the pain that feels like a spear piercing my temples and an iron helmet pressing in on my head, and trying to keep my outlook positive approaches the impossible. I despair of knowing or experiencing Jesus’ presence. Indeed, I have called to him for help over and over, weeping; and here I am. The things I loved to do the best are, for now, out of my reach.

And today I read this passage and I fell into a pit of gloom. “Jesus, if you really are my bread, my sustenance, my satisfaction, then, even in this pain, I should at least be able to rise in spirit and be comforted.” But I am not. I lay quietly, listening to music, stilling my heart, hoping to feel him near. And I do not. I pour out tears on my pillow hoping he will place his hands on me and dry them, but he does not.

And so, I decided to be honest. But, the risk of being honest is that people respond with, “I know what you should do!” Before you write me, let me assure you, I’ve been in evangelical Christianity for 47 years and a Pentecostal for almost that long. I’ve tried and experienced almost everything you could suggest. Recently someone even told me that they “know” what my problem is, and if I just tried crystals, I’d be free! Others suggest I have unforgiveness in my life. Others, sin. Some seem almost more stressed that God hasn’t answered their prayer for my healing instead of simply caring about my well-being. So, with this paragraph done, let me go on.

Imagine an illness where one could not taste or smell food. We’ve already described the delights of both senses. The person would still eat, of course, out of necessity, but the joy of the tasting would be gone. I think, in a way, that is what both the pain and the extremity of my circumstances have done. Jesus is still my bread; but, for now at least, I cannot taste it.

This should help us when dealing with people who are in desperate need. Be present to them. Listen to them. Don’t give them answers. And please don’t tell them about your experience of 20 years ago when God felt “so real to me.” If anything, share a time when God seemed distant to you as well.

The final thought after pondering this all day in the middle of an extremely painful and lonesome day is this: In Jesus’ day, meals were communal. You simply did not drive through the Capernaum McDonald’s on your way to the Sermon on the Mount. If you know someone who is isolated, in chronic pain, economic poverty, deeply depressed or ill, don’t just take them food; have a meal with them. I promise you, that meal, and the blessing that accompanies it, will probably help that person sense the savor of the Bread of Life at least in that moment.

Applaud the Portfolios

Applaud the Portfolios

(“He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty.” Luke 1:53)

Didn’t we hear it when the poverty crept into
our modern towers, our suburban powers were all
in a fix
because no one served mixed drinks anymore.

Didn’t we avoid the side effects, the stress-sweat
that followed dripped on the broken sidewalks
in a fix
over derelict cars never running well.

Didn’t we follow the lead of every person before us?
Didn’t we drive beyond the camps foreshadowed by
our taste for sharper images and victoria’s secrets
left us little time to add another 15 minutes to the rest
of our plans.

But the thunder will reverse our fortunes and favors,
tsunamis will wash the cliff-dwellers away,
no one will laugh at the hoarded destruction or
applaud the fatty portfolio’s disintegration.

Why do we wait? Why? Do we? Wait a few moments
longer
at the grocery aisle,
check out the daughters and sons who
walk and run in tennis shoes; then, single-file
inspect the soles abbreviated by time,
the uppers ripped from the pages of hand-me-down novels
and consider:

How long will it take for me, for Your name’s sake,
to see the tears we thought were the lament of the poor
are instead

The grief of the One who creates all to be fed by mercy,
no matter their wages, their mobile stages; but simply their
shared humanity.