The Sacred Meal

The Sacred Meal

(Therefore, since we have this ministry as a result of the mercy shown us, we are not discouraged.” 2 Corinthians 4:1)

We no longer hide behind manufactured words
and disguised shadows in the sun.
We no longer panic when the winds blow
cold from the north and try to pierce us through
buttoned coats. But we will continue without pretense.
We are filled from the beginning by methods of
grace
that have opened our hearts to newday like flowers
seeking the sun.

Once the announcement was made we learned how
honesty and repair looked once we opened our eyes.
We took it all to heart, we gathered our children
to celebrate new movements of sanity and purpose.
By this grace we have learned to make space for
dozens who do not believe yet, who think we may be
lost because we have moved outside their rigid restraints.

We invite them to the dance and hope they will join us.
We cancel our subscription to the prescriptions they
thought had healed us. Instead, we break bread with
the bare-faced children who come in with mud on their face.
We share the declaration we heard from further within
than we could imagine.

Open further. See sooner. Speak truer.
Live longer. Dance faster. Love deeper.
Dine at the banquet set with oval tables
in the meadow with seats for everyone.

We put down our visors meant to hide our eyes,
and look across the table at every tribe under heaven
sharing the sacred meal of the beloved.

Love Your Neighbor

Love Your Neighbor

(“For the one who eats and drinks without careful regard for the body eats and drinks judgment against himself.” 1 Corinthians 11:29)

With the grease of roast lamb running down your beard
and the newest wine filling your gut
you decided you wanted to tell me about Christ.
You pushed ahead so that nothing was left save
a few crusts of bread and the vinegar squeezed from some grapes.
You carried your gun tucked into the back of your belt;
I gave me sword away years ago.
You took the seat no one else took; you sat at the head
of every table you found.
You left the floor for the waiting poor, you left the door
open
so they could leave quickly. The cold night air stung
those sitting so close to the door ajar.

I heard there was a day (haven’t seen it yet)
I’ve heard there is a dream (haven’t held it yet)
I’ve heard of family (haven’t felt it yet)
I heard there was a meal (the richest served first).
I dared not raise my voice,
I shrunk even further behind the children you pushed
to the back of the line. I had been waiting to
enjoy a meal with humans just like me.
I had no double-breasted suit to wear,
I had few coins to cash in on my attendance,
I had few words to demonstrate I was part of the family,
I had left my voice behind the last time a church like yours
told me I was welcome

And then ignored my hopes,
teased my dreams,
and left me behind while you schmoozed with
the pastor and his wife.

I know my car has seen better days,
I know my jeans are torn,
I know my kids don’t always behave,
I know that Jesus told me to love my neighbor

And I’m trying. I only wish you would
love your neighbor
too.

Open Invitation

Open Invitation

(“He said to them, 'I have really looked forward to eating this Passover meal with you. I wanted to do this before I suffer.'” Luke 22:15)

I saw you outside the door. You approached it slowly, like you
were uncertain of the address. You looked up at the wall and
down upon your downloaded map and seemed assured this
was the right place.

I saw you outside the door. Your body swayed in toward the light,
then back toward the olive groves while your feet stayed planted secure.
The aromas were familiar, Passover since you were a toddler; roast lamb and
garlic, parsley, eggs and wine to remind you the God with a Name will have
no slaves.

I saw you outside the door. You made a wide arc toward the dark
between two closely planted olive trees. You could lean your back against one,
your feet against the other, and squint to your right, the door that beckoned:

inviting light and something so serious that the usual menu was incomplete.

I saw you between the trees. I whispered and early spring bore my breath
toward your face, “Come in with me, the Master asks us to celebrate tonight.”

You cast your eyes to the ground, and slowly, tracing my face, I know you
recognize me, and I am sure it is true.

“Yes, I was on my way in, friend. And, like you, I feel I have no right to enter.
You know my lusts, don't you?” A pause/selah. “I have also lied, you've heard.”
Another pause and selah. “You know how well I spoke and how poorly I acted,
I can see it in your eyes.” l o n g e r pause - - - s e l a h. And now the breath
you could see was ice inside of me. I shook over every betrayal known and yet
undiscovered.

“Yes, I know you know who I am. And I have been worse than you know. But,
I am here for Him, because of my sin. I am here to drink the wine I must drink,
or else die in my grief. I am here to drink the cup of bitterness,
the cup of my forgiveness.”

I touched your elbow, barely. Departure left you open to steady yourself or push
me away, stealthily leaving the open invitation. But, like a diesel in winter, you
warmed to the light framed by the door waiting open on the Eastern Wall for perhaps

only two or one more.

We sat, remember? I mentioned that, though I knew the forgiveness deeply, I still had not control
over the shivers every time I remembered how untrue I had been.

I hoped that you, new and without a history of deceit, could be clean and never shake except for
joy and laughter. And so it was, your mouth broad, your teeth wide and gleaming at
mercy's dance.

We have met there, each year since, begging the Savior would suffer no more
than He already had for us. We have watched, each year since, for others
who, shiver or static, still cannot quite make their way
through the door.