Did You Pick Him Out

Did You Pick Him Out

(“When he disembarked and saw the vast crowd, his heart was moved with pity for them, and he cured their sick.” Matthew 14:14)

Did you pick him out of the crowd,
the lonely one barely drudging through his grief?
Did you stay just a moment longer to
share his tears as your own?
He turned away,
embarrassed at his shame.
But like daylight you came
and sought him out anyway.

His years were longer than he could count,
his afternoons yawning into early dusk.
He was invisible to those who knew him longest,
silent to those who had heard him cry.
They had memorized his ache,
had touched every blemish on his face and felt
they knew all there was to know and so
left him alone.

He blended into the throng, didn’t he?
He had walked the curving shoreline so long
that his feet throbbed the same as his face and
he imagined you might see him anyway.

Did the crowd call you? Did they dig into
your recent loss? Did your heart capture their signal
like a radio after dark?
Did their eyes call you from your solitary heartache
into their own? You saw them all but you also
saw
him
who wondered if things would always remain the same.

Healing the sick,
feeding the hungry
has always been your way, hasn’t it?
Seeing the one,
touching the single
among the throng you healed them all.

I Wander Less Lonely

I Wander Less Lonely

(“May he be pleased with my song, for my gladness comes from him.” Psalm 104:34)

With open arms I master the song that pools through my mind.
Every breath is full of the divine,
every step so much closer to his abode within.
I throw off the apprehension that keeps me a child of fear.
I create unedited psalms for the king who occupies my ways.
The words from my mouth, the lyrics I write are
meant to be
full of gladness and running over with praise.

It is the little things, after all, isn’t it? A grandson
who wants to play tag with his Papa, who wants to sit in
his lap to read the same story three times in a row.
All this, and more, directs my heart toward the Creator
of my song. Children occupy the altars of my mind,
the spaces left open for celestial celebrations of joy.
Every playful invitation to play is seen as God’s invitation.
Every giggle another reason to breathe fully the depth of creation.
Wouldn’t it be right to take the funny language of toddlers
as the holy voice of God? Wouldn’t it be healing to believe
every unequaled squeal as the instigation of faith?
And when he insists I share his popsicle,
how can I seen it as anything other than the generosity of God?

And so I search the atmosphere for more clues of
the ways of God in the universe. So I take each birdsong as
an invitation to sing like I belong to the continuing creation
and nature’s own symphony.

Taken together, the songs and the words, the play and the giggles,
the unending repetition of his favorite things, I wander less lonely,
I carry my burdens more lightly. And I send words toward heaven
like the flight of the swallows over the fields.

I Hear/Bread and Wine

 I Hear/Bread and Wine

(“Or do you not know this about yourselves: that Jesus Christ is in you.” 2 Corinthians 13:5b)

At this point it is so hard to remember
chocolate or
guitar songs with my clan
or
warm beaches with my toes in the sand.

(I am in no mood for stoic meditations. Some
days it’s so easy,
but mostly I’ve forgotten.)

I don’t mean to be grumpy or
self-indulgent or
sorry for my plight.
I just wish I got get-well cards
from someone
other than my
nurses.

My house is cozy,
my family loves me,
but I am lonely
inside these days that pass
while I breathe and
eat and
live and
sleep
under the radar.

My soul is taxed,
my brain no match for the bass drum
of days that advance without my permission.
At this point
(let me make it clear)
Christ is more than all
while I wonder why the snow falls
so late this year.

Today the hours taunt me with self-made
stories
and the sadnesses I remember.

And then I hear, yes, only faintly,
the bread and the wine and the
voice that has never minded my questions:

“Remember me.”

The Lonely Leaks In

 

The Lonely Leaks In

(“Be careful that none of you fails to respond to the grace which God gives....” Hebrews 12:15a [J. B. Phillips])

Maybe there’s a job at home that will keep me there this time.
Maybe there’s a lover or a friend,
an upended cup of water that
was filled again.
The lonely leaks in like august heat waves through
the blinds.

I’ve been standing on your porch hoping you still live
in the same house where I once knew you.
We were kids, we were naïve, we were insanity,
we were cotton candy and backyard picnics. We were
young love and agony.
Then it got cold,
and we got old
and I moved to the north country.
But I still feel you living in my chest.
Nothing lasts forever, some of my schoolyard crushes have died.
Some timeless friends have hidden themselves,
and some live just up the road.
But the lonely leaks like a diesel engine on fire.

I had a friend so smart he could have been a
chemical engineer.
But he bought a bowling alley instead and had a hundred
friends visit him in a day.
And still the lonely leaks like the grease
from drive-in fries.

Maybe there’s a house where laughter still lives
despite the brute force of age. Maybe
there’s a museum where one friend finds another
staring at the same painting for far too long.
Maybe there’s a child not grown
that simply wants to play on the swings again.
And still the lonely leaks in like delivering
newspapers before the sun rises on the weekend.

It Is Lonely, You Know

 

It Is Lonely, You Know

(“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in. I will eat with that person, and they will eat with me. Revelation 3:20)

It is lonely, you know,
taking breakfast by yourself.
It is solitude for an hour, the sun upon the back porch,
but then the quiet invades and screams there must be more
than waiting.
(I’ve left the front door unlocked for ages.)

I would go into town, meet the gang for lunch,
but my cat has run away, and most of my friends
live state-lines beyond my reach. My feet ache
from starting my walk south and turning around.

I’ve heard the songs you sing, hands sometimes raised in the air;
I’ve seen the prayers you pray, sometimes kneeling on the ground.
Where does all that seeking leave you?
Which direction does your face turn,
what concerns you most after your encounter with
holy moments better than the building around the corner?

It remains lonely, you know,
after lunch by myself.
The sky is sun, the air is roses, the grass is fully awakened.
My eyes are rain, my breath half a prayer, my mind slowly mourning
the silence that makes all my thoughts shout even louder
that happiness is still far beyond my reach.

I’ve sat at tables before full of bread and bounty;
I’ve heard the thrum surround the forks and knives
while stereo conversations fill the kitchen counters with
more than just casseroles. Laughter is the echo that remains

After everyone has gone home.

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.

And Carried

And Carried

(“They departed in a boat by themselves for a deserted place.” Mark 6:32)

I want to be alone (I told them)
and cried after the last one left (and carried her dog out too)
This silent place amplifies the drop of each tear,
(like the boom of a rubber-red playground ball against the hollow wall).
This silent place occupies every open space, couch or chair
(reminding me who, 20, 30, 40 years past of the ones who may still be sitting there.)

I want to be alone (I write them)
and still edit my phrases down the middle of the river (the rapids at the banks
would surely alarm the satellite men scanning people like me for movement
outside the lines)
I edit my phrases (and still call it poetry)
when poetry should be blood on the page, question marks and slashed phrases
so sharp it makes the reader want to rip it out of the book and burn it before
the questions creep between the place where eyes and brain always meet.

(I edit my phrases) I answer, mostly, as I’m expected (and argue once
the last inquisitor has exited, with my deserted self) He carried his doctrine out too.

I am in the dunce’s corner (I chose the seat myself)
without reading (magazine <weekly reader>, book <Fahrenheit 451>,
poetry <cummings, ferhlinghetti, Byron> ) and wear the paper crown well.

I know as much, but no more (only on different matters, different scores)
I have read widely, sang wildly (still different matters, but scorched the scores)
all upon a lonely corner because (enthralled by words my ears heard through my eyes)
the bell had rung, the day was done (and never noticed the last student leave).

I wandered home late (others carried out the doctoral theses well)
walked through the park (barber shop quartets in summer)
entered the front door where

Mother’s Remington always sat upon the dining room table. Next to it,
Father’s box of latin flash cards and a wall of books from Microbiology to
Faulkner. (I learned to edit myself far later, when big men with large desks
misread an innocent piece…)

I want to be alone.

(The faith, reason, here-and-now part of me knows that the disciples found that desert spot and experienced the miraculous feeding of the 5,000. This bit of knowledge I post at the end of this piece in case any firm believer firmly believes I have lost a marble or a screw has wriggled loose.) 

Precisely

Precisely

(“I am with you now, I will protect you everywhere you go, and I will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done everything that I have promised you.” Genesis 28:15)

I had nearly forgotten the dreams that led me,
nearly forsaken the voice that called me,
for my loneliness speaks so loudly in the wilderness,
so cleanly, so distinctly, each syl / la / ble  pre /cise / ly
uttered.

The rain is white noise, good for sleeping, good for supporting
the crackle and syncopathy of dropped syllables letter; an even
better background to syncopate popcorn for a four minute b-side
while the rain drones on.

I need someone to strike the upbeat, catch me off guard, teach me
to jump when everyone else is landing. I need the summer rain that
makes dancing better joy than silent sunny afternoon.

I’ve checked, and just this morning a new gift was waiting on the
single empty space my desk offered. I had not prayed for something to
wake me,
nor to be moved from my dysthymia. My usual walk is slow and
painfully willing, quickly distilling the reading I must finish before
I can return with the door closed behind me and pray the pain will
give me room enough to sleep the afternoon away.

But on the open space, directly in front of my chair, a dolphin
pointed to the sky, handcarved and wrapped in silk. Her grandmother
died just a month ago, and among the keepsakes she found a treasure
she knew
her friend would adore. I love dolphins because they make me smile,
I smiled because my teenage friend left her grandmother’s dolphin,

And I am unworthy of such friendship; the one who overhears the
unheard whispers
as if they are conspiracies to burgle my joy. One more dolphin,
one more friend, and again I say, He has gone with me every way,
one down to another upbeat, and still teaches me the heavenly
tunes my fingers are still learning to play.

"Just a Lonely Shrub"

“(The Lord) will regard the prayer of the destitute, and will not despise their supplication.” Psalm 102:17

Every person who has ever struggled with their faith goes through times when it seems as if God is silent. The writer of this Psalm feels pleads with God to not hide His face and to incline His ear; wanting a speedy answer in his distress.