Overgrowth of Grace

Overgrowth of Grace

(“The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid again. In his joy, he goes away and sells all that he has and buys that field.” Matthew 13:44)

There is more underfoot than simply the understanding of
sand and soil. Someone sowed the gems into the ground and
another one found them. Hidden became probable and
discard became possible on a sluggish walk back home.

He did not own much and owed more than he gained.
His accounts were in arrears even though he had watched
them like a hawk after a field mouse. He never imagined
the daylight would lead him to see what someone else had forgotten.

It had not occurred to him that luck had a hand to play.
It always had been a day to day of just scraping by.
It was not a lack of effort that caused him to walk that day.
It was just another moment when the thoughts were imprisoned
in his head.

He was never cloud-high, his feet always reached the ground.
His mind was one day dark and one day fire, and mostly full
of memories he wished would return. He endured the hoary
downturn that made up epithets that never rhymed.

But this day he stubbed his toe. This day the overflow
made him stop short and look. The sun was refracted
through the late mist and just as he stopped walking he
bent over to see the treasure below. Who had hidden this
there?

He rooted through his pockets; he examined all his
balance sheets and decided to buy the land that had
bruised his toe. The well-enclosed walls of his soul
opened like the first morning of the week.

No one had predicted this and no plans were made,
but happenstance surrounded his sodden walk and, like
a jackrabbit from a coyote, shot him from the old
illusions to his present overgrowth of grace.

If You Decide to Dig in My Earth

If You Decide to Dig in My Earth

(“For the kingdom of God is not eating and drinking, but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.” Romans 14:17)

If you decide to dig in my earth I
hope you find something
worth your time. I know where the bones are buried.

My daughter prayed that her hamster would live
one night on New Year’s Eve. I don’t remember the little
rodent’s name, but when we looked the next morning
he was dead. I never could explain why Power
and Love
could not keep him alive.

I don’t blame you for wondering how
certain flowers grow in the soil of my heart.
I see the all of it, you only see the part.
I have piled layer upon layer to hide what
I hoped would never be seen. I figured I would wait
until I was
80
to dig to the bottom again.

We buried the hamster in the back yard between
bulbs for tulips and daffodils. The ground, nearly frozen,
broke beneath our trowel. We laid him in his grave,
hoped the earth would welcome him. We bought her
another hamster weeks later. He escaped one day,
never to be found and maybe still haunts the house
running around the rafters 20 years hence.

If you want to know what is unseen in me,
I am ready for you to ask. If you want to hold me
hostage to my past,
I don’t mind. There is truth in all of it.

Spring warmed the bed where yellow and red
popped from the earth toward the warming sun.
And my daughter wanted to exhume the tiny body
planted a season ago. The same trowel that prepared
his final place
poked beneath his grave. Unearthed, the plastic
sandwich bag which was his coffin
contained only tiny bones, a skull as small as
popcorn. Her curious eyes and curious hands
silently greeted the remains.

It is no lie that my garden hides relics
I wish you did not know. But I will reveal them if,
after seeing their whiteness and death,
you stay for coffee and see me the same
as you have from the first.

Did I Use the Wrong Fork?

Did I Use the Wrong Fork?

(“For the kingdom of God is not food and drink but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.” Romans 14:17)

Would you listen as I rip off the bandages,
would you hear the cry of torn flesh and broken cell walls,
would you be frightened at the darkest parts of me?

I spent too much time unraveling every thought, and then
hiding again behind lofty words and preemptive attempts at prayer.
I kept the rules, some of them, some of the rules I kept.
Other I dismissed as unnecessary,
some I ignored and wept at my weakness.
Once I even un-curtained my uncertainties in hopes
of help with my idiosyncrasies. I was wrong. No one likes
a loser. No one likes a maverick who cannot learn to behave.

It really is no one’s fault. And there were a few who
gathered my tears in their hands and valued them like gems.
But the ones who struck out at me because I did not fit the team
never once
saw my tears as anything but
evidence I was as weak as they thought.

What they did not know, and what I tell you now,
is that I was, is that I am, weaker than anyone ever imagined,
weaker than snow in the Sahara.

Here, let me show you what I could never show. Will you
turn away in ghastly fear. Will you imagine my face so ghostly
you would call for an exorcism to purify your own thoughts?
Did I use the wrong fork for dessert, did I leave too much on the plate?
Did you finish my second helping after I left, did you huddle with others
to determine my fate?

Because I’ve tasted the menu, the bitterness of raw onion skin faith,
I invite my friends to dine, one at a time, and let the conversation unwind
till we get to the end of our piety and rest alone in human reality.

Drenched in Rain and Wine

Drenched in Rain and Wine

(“The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid again. In his joy, he goes away and sells all that he has and buys that field.” Matthew 13:44)

My thoughts are drenched in rain and wine
while the sun and shade play in shadows and shine.
Everything is, and if everything was, then I could say
all is well
on a day when frowns are immodest.
Faces from every town,
voices from every conversation,
the store that sold 50 kinds of hamburgers,
the coffee shop that served espressos 50
years ago,
the tiny toes of my first-born son, and the fear of
getting it all wrong.
The playful pranks of my second born, and watching
him grow full wit.
The dance that began upon the birth of our unplanned
and only
daughter, and wondering how I stumbled upon such joy.
The wife I met when she was only a child,
and the child that still resides inside her. I only hope
I have not, in my pain, in my dark demeanor, in my
trespasses and sins
stolen even a single laugh that was lavishly rationed
upon her.

I do not know. I have no artistry in this. I stumble.
I mean,
I stumbled into all of this. While snow-and-dust
sandpapered the prairies; while gales-and-gusts whip
up the mighty river; while songs are sung (the ones
in melancholy minor keys, my delight) I tilt my head
to wonder how I ended, given so much pain falling,
and stained recalling of misconvenience;
I wonder how I found this treasure and why
its simple contents are indexed in my heart;
my bucket list of joy.

Not a Bookmark

Not a Bookmark

(“But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” Hebrews 11:16)

This is no bus stop,
waiting for the next ride out of town.
This is no train station,
hoping to ride the rails further underground.
This is no turnstile,
counting your head as you pay for your playland.
This is no country club,
where drinks are served to the exclusive male and
other perfect genders.

This is ground zero, baby.
This is where the work gets done.
This is bone marrow, honey.
This is where our lives get born.
This is the opening curtain,
This is where we play for keeps,
This is first night on the boards,
No time for taking bows.

Who said this was the time to improvise,
to replace words of truth and love with lies?
Where did you learn to see darkness in the sunrise
And whiteness in the anthem you sing?

There is a better union, if only we will keep on walking,
there is a brighter day, if only we will circle the halting,
There are deeper rivers, if only we will keep on hoping,
There is a new downtown, if only we will keep on holding
the cigarette man
and the $20 girl
and the shivering boy
and the ignored woman
in the sphere that makes all things equal
and all things beloved.

This ain’t an Uber stop,
it’s not a bookmark or placeholder.
This is the essence of days, eternity past,
and, to be bolder, the garden we are called to tend
till kingdom and heaven come.

Kids and the Kingdom

(This is Asher)

Kids and the Kingdom

“Yahweh appeared of old to me, saying, ‘Yes, I have loved you with an everlasting love: therefore with loving kindness have I drawn you.’” Jeremiah 31:3

Most of my readers know I retired from ministry a few months ago. A 10-year chronic headache finally got the best of me and I could no longer manage both the pain and the responsibilities of pastoring a church. It was a painful and difficult decision.

Just as difficult was the knowledge that we were not financially prepared for such a move. With grace and compassion, my sister and her husband opened their house to us and we moved in with them near Dallas, TX. Our plan is to finish paying off our house in Washington State and move back there to retire.

For me, leaving is always hard. I thrive on relationships. In fact, my deepest experiences of God are in relationship with others. If you were to ask, “Mark, if you wanted to have an intimate experience with the Almighty, what would you do?” Years ago, I might have replied with fasting, praying, worship, or any number of the other responses most religious people might give. Today though, I would say, “I would have lunch with a best friend.” Whatever we mean by the “manifest presence” of God, I experience it most deeply when I’m with people who matter to me.

So, though I am living with my dear sister and brother-in-law, I also felt cut off from much of what filled my life with divine joy. Not only had we developed great friendships in almost 12 years in one pastorate, both in our church and in the community, but we had picked up nearly 20 children on our church van every Sunday for the entire time.

The front two pews were always filled with children ages four to 12, not counting the teenagers. I couldn’t wait for those first few moments before Sunday Service when I would visit with that boisterous group of kids. In fact, they would often be in the aisle grabbing my arm to talk to me or show me something before I ever got to their seats.

Amy, now nine years old, lost her mother two and a half years ago. She had been riding our van for five years. While her mom was sick, every time we asked for prayer, Amy came right to the front, tears in her eyes, with her two young cousins alongside her, asking for us to pray for her mom. For months after her mother passed, Amy still asked for prayer.

We often asked people to share something God had done in their life recently, and Amy always shot her hand up first. For nearly a year, she said the same thing, her eyes glistening with tears, “I’m glad God took care of my Mommy while she was sick, and now she is with Jesus.” Pause. “But I still really miss her.”

On the Sunday I retired I invited all of our children up to the platform with me, to share just with them for a few moments. They scurried up to join me and we began talking and asking questions. After everyone gathered a little three-year-old boy with long wavy blond hair climbed the steps, looked up at me and said, “Hi Church”, then turned around and went back to sit with his mommy.

That was Asher. I’ve known him since he was born and both his mom and grandma since our first few weeks at that church. I held his tiny frame in my arms within weeks of his birth. He and I have a very special bond.

But, he has never called me, “Pastor” or “Pastor Mark” or “Mark” or even “Baby Jesus” (which a four-year-old in another church used to do). No, I was “Church” to him. I assumed that was now my “Rap” name, so I could announce at the beginning of service, “Hey, Yo, Church is in da house!” I tried to tag him as “Lil Church” but he wouldn’t go for it. I’d say, “And who is Lil Church”. He always responded, “You Church!”

Sometimes we would accompany his family to dinner after church. No matter the seating arrangement, I made sure I sat next to Asher. He has a way of lighting up everyone around him, mostly with his laugh. His laugh, no kidding, ushers in the very presence of God. He’s a tiny guy, but when he lets go with a full-throated, mouth wide open, head swung back series of giggles, nobody is safe! Might as well say, “Thank You Holy Spirit!”

That is one of the things I remember from my last Worship Service. We had ended, and people were going downstairs for a potluck. I went over to Asher and his mom, picked him up and swung him around just a bit, and, out came the joy! It’s like honey, a puppy’s yelp and the best dance music all at once. And yes, God was in the moment; at least for me.

So, when we moved to the suburbs of Dallas I wondered how I would fare. I was leaving adult friends and children who were the life-blood of my spirit. My wife soon got a job, and since there are only two cars in the household, my sister and I are on foot for most of the day. The frustrating part is that there is no coffee shop or place to hangout any closer than six miles away, and no public transportation.

But God has loved us with an everlasting love. Our house has a covered front porch and I have taken to sitting there midafternoon to read or play my mandolin. A couple of days into that routine the next-door neighbor drove up, bringing her kids home from school; a set of 6-year-old twins (brother and sister), a 4-year old-daughter and a daughter almost ready to turn two. They piled out of the van, looked over at me, and said “Hi”. I smiled and waved back, “Hi, how was your day?”

For the last two and a half months, those four children have become my best friends. Now they don’t simply wave from their driveway. They come all the way over to the porch and show me what they did in school or about why they took their dog to the vet. A few weeks ago, after the three oldest had visited and turned to go home, the younger daughter turned around and came back by herself.

“I love you,” she said. It was a butterfly voice. A tiny silk voice. A voice that speaks truth without calculation. And that voice landed on the flower petals of my heart. The mom told me a few days later, “My kids really love you.”

But that’s not all. I try to walk several times a week. I walk the same route each time for a couple of reasons. One is, I know how far I’ve walked. But the other is selfish. I hope people will eventually go, “Hey, there’s that guy I see walking all the time”, and maybe I’ll make some friends.

I was walking a few days before Easter and I could see a dad helping his kids out of their car, probably coming home after school. A boy about three was already on the sidewalk and his eyes were sad and downcast. A few steps in front of me was a purple plastic Easter egg rolling toward me. I picked it up, snapped it back together and gave it to the boy. The father noticed and said, “Thanks”. By that time two elementary school age girls were also out of the car.

I was ready to resume my walk when the boy opened the egg and reached his little arms toward me. He showed me the plastic giraffe; the prize within the egg. Immediately the girls came over as well, tilting their Easter baskets to show me all of their treasures also. I think the Holy Spirit was present too.

Then, a week ago, on my walk, I saw a preschool girl struggle with her bike on the sidewalk in front of me. She fell, but not hard. Her knees did not even touch the ground. I suppose that is one advantage to learning to ride bike when you are short and have less distance to fall. She had remounted the bike by the time I caught up with her. She wore a pink and purple helmet and the bike was obviously new.

“That’s a nice bike”, I said as I walked past her. “Thank you,” And I walked on, waving at her mom sitting in front of their house across the street. Then, seconds later I heard the same tiny voice, “I want to catch up to him.” Mom said something I didn’t understand. Probably a warning about not catching up to strangers. I think the Holy Spirit was present.

You may disagree, but I think children can usher us into the presence of God almost any time we allow them. Parents wanted to bring their children to Jesus to have him touch them. The disciples rebuked them.

It is important to note that children were not honored in the ancient world. They were loved and cared for, of course, but not held up as examples of anything. So, when Jesus not only says, “Allow the little children to come to me,” but also, “for God’s Kingdom belongs to such as these”, I’m sure there was plenty of shock, whispers and, “Did I hear that right?”

I’m not going to theologize about it much here, I just know my own experience. I have 40 years as a “Pentecostal”, and I have seen all sorts of experiences that are the real power and presence of God. I have also observed people trying to work up some sort of experience, hoping to come away with a touch of the divine.

For me, there has hardly been a time in my life, after spending time with children, that I needed to ask, “Where is God?” Didn’t Jesus even say that when we did anything to “the least of these” that we have done it to him?

If you want to see where the kingdom of God meets this present earthly life, spend some time with a child. Look for the face of Jesus. Don’t spend time instructing them (unless, of course, you are their teacher. We’re paying you to do that.) Just be with them. Rejoice over their Easter baskets. Listen to their stories about their pets. Hear their laughs, Dry their tears. Let them show you what they drew. Answer their question about that mole on your arm. Just be with them. I cannot explain it, but that is when I experience Christ and His kingdom most clearly.

Where I Would Like to Live

“Therefore, we must be thankful that we have a kingdom that cannot be shaken. Because we are thankful, we must serve God with fear and awe in a way that pleases him.” Hebrews 12:28

Our daughter Sarah told me recently that she wants to live in Minneapolis. “That just seems like the city for me,” she said. She was raised in North Dakota before moving with us to the Northwest just before high school. So, the familiarity of the territory combined with the fact her only niece lives there makes Minneapolis the obvious choice.

She asked me what city I would most want to live in. I hemmed and hawed a bit, partly because I have enjoyed almost everywhere I have lived based upon the friendships we made along the way. But finally I told her, “Berkeley, California.” I have loved the free-spirited nature of “Berzerkeley” from my high-school days. Our family would often make the 30 mile trip from Concord to hang out there on Saturdays.

I attended the grand opening of the amazing Berkeley Art Museum in 1970 and heard poet Richard Brautigan read. I haunted the shops up and down Telegraph Avenue, wandering up and down the aisles of basement stores. I got lost in the bins of used records and sheet music. It was there I first discovered the riveting and muscular music of Leadbelly. I had never heard guitar work like it, nor voice and lyrics that wouldn’t let go. I also discovered Tom Rush, a pioneer of the new folk music and incredible singer-songwriter.

It was at the Bishops, a coffee shop in Oakland, not far from Berkeley, that I got my start reading original poetry. It had open mike on Friday nights and I would wait my turn with a manila folder holding a dozen or so handwritten pages. It was scary business, but it helped me hone my skills. And it makes for beautiful memories over 40 years later.

But the Bishops is no more. I worked in Oakland in the early 80s and wanted to take some friends to see the old stage where I once sat. I was greatly saddened that it no longer existed. And the stores where I set up camp for long Saturday afternoons now house some other wares, who knows. At least the beautiful Art Museum remains. Today’s city is not the one I grew up with, even if many still think of it as “The People’s Republic of Berkeley”.

Things change. Coffee shops shut down. Stores are sold and become store front churches or furniture warehouses. Some of the buildings themselves have been razed and parking lots put in their place. It is true, if we put our heart in things of this world, we will find our heart broken.

God’s kingdom, though, cannot be shaken. More than a place we go, His kingdom is the way we live out our lives no matter our geographical location. King Jesus presides over the kingdoms of this world and will forever. Berkeley has changed. Nations have come and gone. Poets keep writing, artists keep drawing outside the lines, but even the best will someday be forgotten. I am deeply thankful that God’s kingdom, which He has prepared for those who love Him, is safe from the ravages of time and cultural change.

When I realize that God established His kingdom for the good of humankind, I am overtaken with awe. God didn’t need worship; He is secure in His “ego”. He doesn’t need to conquer nations, He already rules the universe. He does not need masses of followers to affirm greatness; He is already completely great within Himself.

No, His kingdom is for our benefit! He loves us. He created this entire world for us to populate and nurture. He made a world keenly established to keep us alive and offer every sort of pleasure and joy. Had sin not crept in, the universe would have been perfection. Even then, Father God chose to annihilate the infection of sin we caused, and allow us to enjoy all His kingdom’s benefits again.

As we trust in the forgiveness Christ offers through His death on the cross, we place ourselves at the very heart of God’s kingdom. It is about far more than becoming religious folks who no longer sleep in on Sunday and who offer pamphlets full of new rules to follow. We are people set free to live like members of the holy, pleasurable, love-filled and joyful kingdom of God. And that kingdom will never, ever be shaken!

Yes indeed, I stand in fear and awe that God has done such a thing for us who are so insignificant. Time to send Father God a few thank you notes, and dash off a handful to other members of His kingdom as well!