Pockets Lined with Gold

Pockets Lined with Gold

(“He has toppled the mighty from their thrones and exalted the lowly.” Luke 1:52)

Pockets lined with gold,
people queued for food,
tyrants on the throne,
beggars inhabiting the pews.
Turn around now,
spin out of your cycle,
let the eyes of the needy capture
you by the hands and pull you in
until you understand your
riches are not the blessing of God.

Instead, let justice roll down like thunder,
let your assets account for your deafened ears
and give thought to the ways
the mountains stay suspended as they
send their snows in streams to the sea.

Do you see how humbly God answers?
Do you observe the prayers of the poor?
Have you ever seen the tables turned;
have you given away what you have already earned?
You are not that innocent.
You are not that ignorant.
You’ve seen them cross your street just to
miss the subway on their last day of work.
And now they do not know what name,
or what denomination,
or what currency will ever buy
their dignity back. You have seen them
and have pushed your way through the
crowd to the penthouse with the secret code
only cudgels know. Document your
oblivion and send it down the
U-turn postal service to remind you tomorrow
of everything you ignored today.

I Guess I Grew Up

 

I Guess I Grew Up

(“Turn both your pockets and your hearts inside out and give generously to the poor; then your lives will be clean, not just your dishes and your hands.” Luke 11:41 [The Message])

I guess I grew up without knowing your culture
celebrated
a bath in a lake or a hot tub just off the sacristy.
I guess it surprised me how loud the applause was
when a poor beggar came up out of the water
(and went home without supper, and went home without bread).
I guess I never questioned why
my annual report demanded how many heads went under the water
and had no fill-in-the-blank for how many mouths were fed.
Don’t get me wrong,
I’m glad for every person added to the roll,
but can’t we, just once, or even from now on,
count the toll it has taken for the forgotten and forsaken
to spend food money on rent, and rent money on diapers,
and diaper money on food, and food money on
nothing left at all.

Don’t tell me BLM is violent until
you dismantle the razor wire around the
enclaves of elite purveyors of happy blessings
and pastoral greed. Don’t tell me
all lives matter
until you disarm the anger that puts
each shade darker than you
at risk. I don’t care how many tithe
checks you have written. Don’t tell me
you love everyone the same
and then complain
that the manicurists speak in Vietnamese
right in front of your pale english face.
Here’s a tip: leave an extra 20
for the ones still learning the language.

I guess I grew up without it getting through
my thick wooden head
that guns and god are on equal footing.
I guess it surprised me how much those
who never take a drink
don’t mind a little anger in the name of
the
Prince of Peace.

But did I digress? I do not think so.
I have digested 100 different tales of
presidents who are muslim,
care bears that are devilish,
teletubbies that are gay,
and the correct way to pronounce
the name of g-d when, I dunno,
there were no tape recorders beside the unburning bush.

What was the last time you looked in on
the disabled pastor
and offered refreshment, a little water,
a little oil, a candle and a quiet whisper that
says
sometimes uncertainty is

All we are allowed.

I guess I grew up.

A Mirror to Mine

A Mirror to Mine

(“Do you think all God wants are sacrifices—empty rituals just for show? He wants you to listen to him! Plain listening is the thing, not staging a lavish religious production.” 1 Samuel 15:22 [The Message])

While the corners are piled with the world’s castaways
we play wise men and Herod, Pilate and centurions,
enacting ancient stories with smoke effects and children’s choirs.

Give me a single day of passion. A cloudless vision of the womb-love
of God. Give me lace with mud, scratched silver and old pennies found
at the foot of gnarled apple trees determined to offer their fruit against all
odds.

While the borders are crowded with castoff peasants
we buy better security to protect our audio-visual equipment in
our not-so-sacred places. We dig to the bottom of our blue-jean
pockets to give our last dollar for this year’s software update.

Give me a single year of housing. A flag refurled so the colors bleed
into each other. Give me huts and haunts, swollen knuckles and young babies
brought to the foot of our fears. Show me their faces, and hold a mirror
to mine.

Put the nation on pause, please. Give the pastor some time, this time,
to meet Jesus again. And unlock the doors we closed when we feared
politics might enter and become converted. We have one too many flags
in our churches.

“Give us this day our daily bread”: we’ve forgotten how You broke,
and blessed, and gave Yours away.

“Give us this day…” for our mercy seems to have evaporated away.

“Give us this day…” and we will put it in our knapsacks and give it away.

Give us some time, this time, to meet Jesus again.