Of Bread and Music

Of Bread and Music

(“I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever, and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” John 6:51

I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been asking for a rhyme
to bring me closer to another soul like mine. Recent years have left me
frightened of conversation and forays into the depths of contemplation about
God and sunsets and music and the proper tempo to play a hymn.
My abilities have wavered as my fingers bend and tremor. Not
that anyone can tell, but I know my fine motor skills are no longer
fine and have left me with less skill.

But the trio invited me to join them as I walked into the bar
a midday Thursday afternoon. Two women with voices of angels,
one husband, a kind man, buys me a beer. We sit and talk music
and I’m invited to join a group of ukulele students with me on
keyboards. Recent years have left me skittish of forays where my
mistakes can be readily discerned. I’m a music reader and have
never played by ear well. I need to see it and from there it transmits
to my fingers. But they have been left dormant for so long they
miss the keys and come down between them in discordant half tones.

But the urge still moves me, while anxiety pumps the breaks.
To gather around picnic tables and share bread and wine,
steaks and beer, or anything else brought by the few who
(I hear) are as anxious as me.

Could there be angels surrounding us as we pass the
food down the line?
Could there be divine messengers listening in to our
musical etudes and attempts? Could our small talk be
a tactical vest to protect us from blushing at our inadequacies?
Whatever it is, and whatever we hear, whatever we eat, and
whatever we drink,
let’s let make music of heaven sink into our closed-mouth
inhibitions.

Sale Pending

Sale Pending

(“I am the living bread which came down out of heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever.” John 6:51a)

I never liked to let anyone guess about my inner mechanism,
and whatnot,
and
what
not
may not be right with me.
I am just a shelf of cheap knickknacks, picked up in
curio shops.

But you, you named your cats,
Frik
and
Frak
and they always hid beneath your bed.
They replaced your badboy bigdog Bob
who was a puppy until the cancer choked him
like an aging man. You could not be consoled,
though you scolded his misbehavior often. We both
knew
that rambunctious boy was your mirror, the playful reflection
of the youth we both once knew.

But you followed him, friend, a mere four months ago and now
I am the one unconsoled. I walk by your house four or five
times a week,
and I have for these three years. Stopping by, I
would find you antic, sometimes sucking oxygen in
wheezing uncertainty. We shared Christmas Eve
vespers,
we sat at the Thanksgiving table,
and the last time we ate was my birthday at
the Mexican restaurant downtown. Everyone in
our hamlet loved you, and Maria’s was the best place
to celebrate.

But you are gone and my heart hangs dusty on a dry branch
of a walnut tree. I still walk by your house and barely can breathe.
But I refuse to take a different route.

The long ranch gate to your property was open today,
your house has been on the market for weeks. Someone must
be mowing the yard, or staging it for the next open house.
I almost turned in toward the glass doors where we would meet
time and time again. But I could not. They had already
removed the wooden rocker from your front porch
and the MIA/POW flag from its railings.
I moved on, like I have scores of times since I never saw
you again,
and looked up. Men were laying
new shingles over plywood; men were preparing the
last home you owned. Then I saw the sign, the realtor had
amended it;
“Sale Pending”, and I cried.

You were never shy about letting me know about your
inner inclinations. You were angry at me only once, and that
just a week before you died. You wanted me to drive to Seattle to
bring you home, to let you die in front of the window where you
watched the deer in the field and the
ships sailing down the Columbia.
I could not, and my heart cracked like sunburned skin.
I knew you might not
survive the ride back home.

Four months ago I cried again. We laid you to rest along with
Big/Bad/Bad/Boy Bob. Frik and Frak thrive on a farm somewhere.

And I am left wanting to hear you curse the same void
again
that we both crawl through. And I want to

Share a whiskey and a taco just one more time.

Incognito in the Neighborhood

Incognito in the Neighborhood

(“Every day we experience something of the death of the Lord Jesus, so that we may also know the power of the life of Jesus in these bodies of ours.” 2 Corinthians 4:11)

Here is why I hesitate to write,
or at least for now. Truth has become the
newest enemy,
and honesty
the horrendous foe.

For years I stayed within the lines,
no one could question my faith.
For years I wrote without pain; only the pangs
of guilt that drove me deeper into myself,
and sounded like the words the overseers
could hear.

But now, as days feel like death,
I will not describe them with sunrises.
My body begins its slow disintegration,
my mind thinks like a rusty armadillo,
and numb as a glacier until another
hot wind blows.

Alright, though the truth seems unwanted,
I do not desire to write of the seeping wounds.
But it was the wounds of my friends that
lanced my sleep,
the adjudication of those who knew be best.
But all I became was a repository of ideas,
thoughts newly formed,
but formerly rejected.

A mother I do not know was teaching her daughter
how to spell on the driveway with chalk.

I wanted to stop, I walk to dam the thinking,
or to promote the tears I’m told are simply ungrateful.

A mother was teaching her daughter,
and I wanted to stop to know their story.
One doesn’t do that incognito in the neighborhood.
But life has stopped for me; give and take,
up and down, seesaws and jungle gyms,
third base coach and football in the mud.
Exchanges have turned to iron-tipped scalpels.

A mother was teaching her daughter,
and I do not even know their names.

I walk anonymously, I wave at cars to pretend I know the driver,
children are blowing bubbles, a grandmother gives me space as
she struggles to place her trash upon the curb.

But I am nameless; and those who know my name have forgotten
my address.

If this is dying; then what will the living be?

Sowing to the Spirit

Sowing to the Spirit

“If you plant in the field of your natural desires, from it you will gather the harvest of death; if you plant in the field of the Spirit, from the Spirit you will gather the harvest of eternal life.” Galatians 6:8

Have you ever wondered who was the first person who thought that putting seeds underneath the ground was a good thing? We simply take it for granted that something should sprout once seed is sown into a fertile field. It seems counter-intuitive; that by emptying our hands of those tiny seeds we will eventually harvest something bigger and better.

Jesus said it this way: “A grain of wheat remains no more than a single grain unless it is dropped into the ground and dies. If it does die, then it produces many grains.” (John 12:24) So, not only does the sower end up with empty hands, but the seed itself “dies”. Out of our sight, underneath the black earth, it bears all the markings of the grave.

Yet we know from experience that, given time, we will see an amazing process. Perhaps you had a sandwich today, or a hamburger, or tortilla. The bread you consumed is the end result of this miracle of planting and harvesting, sowing and reaping, dying and living. A single seed of grain gave birth to a stalk of a hundred more. Those were harvested and ground into flour, eventually becoming the delightful bread that accompanied your meal.

Paul takes this concept one step further and tells us we can sow into two different fields, giving two different results. We can sow to our “natural desires” or to the “Spirit”, resulting in either death or eternal life. Every follower of Jesus has this choice daily.

When we make decisions based on our self-interest alone, we reap “death”. Relationships suffer, our spiritual life becomes dry and discontent rises. Life is neither enjoyable or ultimately pleasurable because self-interest can take us only so far.

But, when we make decisions based on God’s Spirit, especially as revealed through Jesus Christ, we reap “eternal life”. This does not mean “heaven” primarily. It means a quality of life that is God-like. It echoes His self-giving nature. As we decide to follow the Spirit’s lead, we experience a harvest that leads to greater love in our own hearts. We reap joy that is not dependent on the winds of changing circumstance. And the fruit of peace rules our thoughts and relationships as we learn to be like Jesus.

Here are some examples. Sowing to the natural self involves a scolding nature. Sowing to the Spirit involves a supportive nature. The person who is self-interested will often try to dominate others. It doesn’t matter if the cause is righteous or not, dominance is not of the Spirit. Instead, the Spirit it gentle and supportive by nature.

A few sentences before Paul talks about sowing and reaping he wrote, “if someone is caught in any kind of wrongdoing, those of you who are spiritual should set him right; but you must do it in a gentle way.” (Galatians 6:1) Do you see the non-scolding nature of the Spirit? Even when someone is doing wrong, those who are “spiritual” set them straight in a gentle way. Scolding seldom reaps the God-kind of life; whereas supportive guidance can produce great results.

Criticism sows to the natural self. When we look at people and behaviors with a critical eye we are more intent on judging than on helping. Instead of criticism, perhaps we can find ways to help carry the person’s burden. “Help carry one another's burdens, and in this way you will obey the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2) Can you imagine what would happen if every follower of Jesus became less critical and simply offered to help ease the burden of the troubled folks around them?

Admittedly, sometimes the “giving” nature of the Spirit feels like losing; just like we empty our hands of the seeds which we plant. And, self-interest feels like winning; though we keep nothing but dry and dusty seeds. Learning the Spirit’s way is not easy, but it is the way of life. 

Think about Jesus and His interaction with the “sinners” of His day? How often did He scold? Was He critical? He had lunch with Zacchaeus, an embezzling tax-collector, without publicly berating him. Jesus stood between an adulteress and the scolding crowd, bringing her grace and healing. He healed, He set free, He loved, forgave and empowered men and women to live in the light of God’s grace. Let us sow to the Spirit in the same ways. The results are truly eternal.