Undiluted Beauty

Undiluted Beauty

(“Do not be so certain you have won. Do not speak with your head held so high.” Psalm 75:5)

Do you know what I do not;
Is your power so great you have brought it to the battle?
Do you take counsel or do you put your head inside a
soundproof booth to keep your personal plans alive?

I used to need to be certain. I figured I was truly right.
I met every argument with a counter more wise,
I heard every disagreement as a disguise keeping
people from candor. I was the conveyer of truth,
my arguments were leakproof as they left my mouth.

But my soul hungered for more. My soul left me to
wonder why the surer arguments started to leave me empty.
I could hold my answers in a single hand but the truth
was numerous as all the grains of sand. How could I
be that foolish;
how could my doctrine be so brutish?

Are you still grasping dearly to parchment paper
copied hundreds of years ago? Do you remain sure of
the single verses you have plastered across your walls?
Has your mind ever changed? Has your fight ever ceased its
battles?

Under this sapphire sky are seashell eyes waiting for
freedom and unshackled fire within their soul. They long
to see
a day turning to night as the pastels of evening paint
the horizon.
They long to hear undiluted beauty and see the symphonies
of love from an orchestra of joy.

What shall we feed them this time? What recipes will we use?
Have we chosen saran-wrapped sandwiches from the deli counter?
Or are we willing to freestyle some bread and fixings, humble
ingredients, and water springing from underground. Shall we
admit we don’t always know what to do with so much fresh
produce. But we will feed you just the same.

Not Yet 10 in Nashville

Not Yet 10 in Nashville

(“All I want is to know Christ and the power of his rising from death. I want to share in Christ’s sufferings and become like him in his death.” Philippians 3:10)

Christ, far too many have taken lives with
your name on their lips. They say your name,
they invoke your power, they quote from a book where they find
a sword here and
a war here and
walls falling here and
sulfur consuming the cities on the plain.

Why do we forget, what the hell is wrong with our
broken memory,
that you told us we have no idea what spirit we are when
we want to rain fire upon our own enemies?

We give weapons that rip through flesh and incinerate
organs and aortas, and blame the crazy ones who pull the triggers.
I have to say, my Jesus, my brother,
the crazy are the ones who let anyone possess those guns
meant to tear a human to shreds.

Christ, they did the worst to you. Christ, they mocked and
cursed and sneered for you to leap from the nails and save yourself.
Meanwhile a legion of angels waited for your word. And you never
whispered
a single command.

Today three children, not yet 10, were obliterated by a shooter with
an AR-15 (three legislators sport them as tie clips and lapel pins)
and they pray for the parents and go home
to shoot another family photo armed with semi-automatic weapons
legal and celebrated,
worshiped and idolized,
over the lives of third graders who never saw it coming.

Christ, why do we never learn the cross? Jesus, why do we never trust
the way
of Peace
that surpasses every strategy conceived by
men who only hope for red to fill the streets when you
return again.

All
i
want

Is to know you.
more
so
much
more.

To know the power the gentleness wields,
to know the subversion that turns us away from
the killing fields,
the halls where bullets whine louder and louder
since the last time only weeks ago.

We are sick and broken. We are full of cowardly unspoken
love that
would save our babies, comfort their daddies and mommies,
and protect them like we say we protect
those that are yet unborn.

Christ, we do not know you.
Turn us. Teach us the power of
melting every weapon into crosses,
hoes and rakes for community gardens,
and let us never
study the weapons of war
again.

I Wish You Would Walk with Me

 

I Wish You Would Walk with Me

(“And he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you whole. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.’” Mark 5:34)

I wish you would walk with me, I wish you knew me,
I wish you would walk to the unseen city with me.

I cannot see it yet, though the crowds chant its name.
I have watched for its gleaming alabaster piercing the sky,
I have heard the words shouted like a hundred spears
to drive demons away.

And twelve years with the same unknown pain has
slowed my pace while others went ahead on their own
pilgrimage. My courage sinks as I see them disappear
across the hill-spotted margin of the trail.

My face is not disfigured though my brain is tangled like pasta.
My eyes are not darkened though they burn like fire.
My music comes slower, my voice has no power,
my days are on rewind, my nights project images
of ghostly winter trees, fingers snapping when the ice
weighs them down.

The detours are as lonely as the singular path I have walked
for decades. I bring up the rear, or turn back, or aside and
can only be reminded that I have cried in wishes, sometimes
in faith that misses the point. And the pain stays; one of
the few companions
that are not afraid of the unheard words I long for.

I wish you would talk with me, I wish you got me,
I wish you would listen to the silence in the dark with me.

I wish you would hear me or heal me. I wish you would
keep me company.

Just a Pencil

Just a Pencil

(“But I will sing of your power and in the morning I will shout for joy about your gracious love. For you have been a fortress for me; and a refuge when I am distressed.” Psalm 59:16)

The Santa Monica pier is just a pencil
drawing dots and dashes before the swells sweep in.
The first time I saw the ocean I wondered where it would end,
how the graphite waves inked the beach like slate
and why the sand stayed attached just beyond the ribbons
of asphalt.

The planet Venus is just a candid song
mimicking madrigals and goddesses before the show begins.
The first time I saw the green star I wondered why it blinked,
how it hovered and caught my eye so far from my reach
and why it moved in winter skies from house to house
before it dove into the fields of snow.

The Whirlpool Galaxy is just an artist’s rendition
echoing the smaller circles and spirals spun by ballerinas.
The first time I saw the ageless coil I gasped at its audacity,
how toy-like, how yoyo, how hula-hoop it plays
and why it invites my eyes to see further than light
exists above the tiny steps of earth.

The wide mouth words are just bullets
that explode inside the soul of the drowsy.
The first time I heard, crash or whisper, I wondered where it would end,
how the expelled breath became gray arrows
and why they stuck so deep and so long before
the stingy world swung round the sun again.

And we are shot up, shot down, filed away and
underground
until
a voice sounds, rewound, wild arrays of
love unbound
by time or space,
pencils or bullets,
and gently pulls us deeper in
to the Center of song, the Tower of morning
and dance.

I Am Not Strong

I Am Not Strong

(“To end my letter I tell you, be strong in the Lord and in his great power.” Ephesians 6:10)

I wanted to meet you well before the end of the road.
The stones are sharp, the sun watches my every move,
the winds have vanished and everywhere I look
I see the absence.

I am not strong. This journey has taken its toll and
I’ve run out of change for the next payment to cross a bridge.
I don’t mind saying, I’ve heard trolls are ready to catch the last breath
of travelers who went too far in their search for faith.

I’ve heard the trip is worth it, the travel is the holiday.
But I’ve hit another dead-end, a skip in the record that keeps playing
a lyric half-spoken over and over again.

I hear nothing, feel less. The air even presses upon me like
an anvil from the sky. The friends who once listened are hiding
or have traveled the opposite trail from me. My afflictions

Are self-inflected

They would say.

If strength is shaking when I’m backed into a corner,
then I’m as strong as you’ll ever see. Even a piece of cheese
from an unexpected raven would be enough for me.

Dearest Father, let one of my own speak in a language I’ll understand;
send words that will fill the stillness before the storm;
hail a cab for me, rid me of all misapprehensions
and send me to a long afternoon of merriment simply because
I’ve made it this far.

I’m stalled, I’m stuck, my wheels spin in the rut as I
await a new name now that I exist halfway between one tribe
and the other.

I am not strong, the friends are further than sound can travel.
And when I write this honestly I fear they wonder what’s wrong with me,
dearest Father. This is it, this is me. Weak and dependent,
hoping I have not expended the final words that finally write me off.

Dearest Father, it is true, I will not refuse your power. Yet you must know,
more than that, my strength is lagging for a lack of travelers
who simply know me. Who simply see me. Who simply love to walk
even when the strength has fled from our words.

No Power But Surrender

No Power but Surrender

("So you, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus." 2 Timothy 2:1)

Once the pain encircles my day all advice sinks beneath the waves
while the crowds shout from the shore how nice the water is today.
I would float on the crystal Caribbean,
soak in August's alpine lakes
just to view the light from my old point of view.

There are huddles so small that electrons cannot pass through,
moments so long the birds and deer leave only their scent behind;
eyes have focused on silence overridden by bass notes never in the score.
The phone rings; another robocall selling me ways to pay for
an attorney. I would answer, but I've memorized his spiel.
Nights are too short, though syncopated with ghosts who
know everything.

Some of the specters are soothing and drink tea or enjoy my
abstract jazz; my bluegrass grooves.
While others are buckets of words, hot soup on a sweltering day,
undoing the therapy poured out in every lyric.

There are expanses so vast, though I have 2,000 friends,
I cannot see a soul or tree or the horizon where the day should end.
The sun sweats. A high growl lassos the sky and declaims the regrets
that time relentlessly reminds each pulse of my brain.

I would sleep in the shade on a day like this in an East Bay meadow
found only by weaving past the eucalyptus, descending to the stream
and crossing the fallen log waxed with frogs and water and time.

But yesterday no longer exists, though each stab of pain urges
the better days when friends had no answers; only hugs and
chowder and
grilled cheese.

There is no power but surrender left. And surrender may be the
most dangerous power that exists. All this brain can do with its
body of bones is fall back in the ocean, the lake, the meadow;
fall back to a time when, eternity past, all is reassigned. 

DisCovered

DisCovered

(“[The Lord’s] intention in giving me this authority is to build you up, not tear you down.” 2 Corinthians 13:10b)

Buried beneath truckloads of shame,
beneath the heavy loam where breath is lost and
light barely breaks between the clods; he was still,
no, he was stiffened as the fright consumed the nerve endings
from finger tips to toes; clamping fists and eyelids clenched,
he would have held his breath forever, if forever was possible
to keep it from escaping.

They stood him up. Yes, someone discovered the burial mound.
The brushed him off. Yes, the mud stuck to his sight, to his bones.
They whispered long. Yes, the words were mixed, like blizzards in Spring.

He found his legs while the world spun against him.

He delayed his reply; would his past-tense stories be held against him?
He heard one hope; perhaps the night had stretched far enough that
morning was required.

They stood him up and brushed him off. He found his legs and turned around.

And 100 people stared at the emaciated corpse before them;
his rescuers spoke in uncertain terms (parsing their words, though)
while the little blood left drained from his face and the room spun while
the rest of them whispered their own stories (confidences trusted, lives
broken by the telling).

The promise, the restoration, the power, the indoctrination all
spilled like blood before him. Sick and nearly dead from wearied
cringing,
he hoped the syringe was a dream he could wake from. It was a
handgun he had to wait for, brandished by the promisers and
primed by the best pharisees and new-charisma followers who
could not tell the difference between their night-dreams and
a man’s daylight weeping.

He limps still. The wound is open still. The grave they found him in
was filled in long ago; it’s a hotel for conventions and he was
never invited to its groundbreaking or Grand Open-

ing.

A Surplus of Peace

“But the weak will inherit the land; they will enjoy a surplus of peace.” Psalm 37:11

Most of life is taken up with gaining recognition or acceptance. People who we call high-achievers may try to accomplish this by force of will or fighting their way to the top. Others who are quieter by nature still look for opportunities to be recognized. They may not start wars, but will still measure success by the square foot, the dollar sign or name recognition. Though we may call these people “meek”, I do not believe their retiring nature is the same quality God admires.

Cliff-Edge Day

Cliff-Edge Day

(“His divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness, through the knowledge of him who called us to his own glory and excellence.” 2 Peter 1:3)

Holding tightly to another cliff-edge day
I hear the dirt clods tumbling below, beside, away.
I see the patch of grass, the brashly painted island
with boundaries tightly drawn.

I do not wish to write another screed of pain,
the words have piled up like broken lava
and I stand atop the cone, the crater, knowing
sooner or later
I will tire of the subject and take a 

European vacation just to prove I can still
live outside the lines.

There is a force (I shall not say “hand” or “arm”,
anthropomorphism does not suit the spiritual subject
in concrete verse)—(yet, I should not say “force” or “power”,
as if something like the hum of machinery kept me
from falling)—

There is a devotion (not mine, but Another) that
refuses to see me fall, though boulders roll unevenly
passed the appalling picture without explanation;
I am secure, though I would rather crawl alone past
the constant question, “How are you?”

I am beaten, I am worn, I am divided, I am torn,
I think with dust in my eyes, I see with  my mind
addled with icy sunshine; and lay quietly on the same
couch (my body imprinted in blue cushion by now)
when I would rather stand Grand Canyon tall, rising
early, adhering late to the Canyon walls.

Yet, all is stalled by the fingernail grasp that
uses a whole day’s energy by half a day at noon.

Hid Away from the Enthusiasm

(image at http://brianzahnd.com/category/jesus/)

Hid Away from the Enthusiasm

(“Jesus therefore, perceiving that they were about to come and take him by force, to make him king, withdrew again to the mountain by himself.” John 6:15)

I.

Hand me the power, wrap it in brown newsprint,
if no one will be king, it might as well be me.
Find me the rulebook, set it on my desk,
if no one will read it, I will edit it for free.
Buy me a new suit, tailor it perfectly,
then I will wear it fiercely, a lion, a tiger,
an animal louder that hunts alone.
Bring me an arsenal, prepare me for bloodshed,
the first sword I brandish will not tarnish before
used by some opposite instead.
Lay out my best words, digital or scribed,
poached and borrowed, paint them broadly
on highway signs; be sure each traveler subscribes
to my etched denouements.

Map the best lake possible, preferably white and
windswept, and I will cross it, if I must, barefoot.

Next (what is the quantity and the order so far?)
be sure to bag it all slowly, in the express lane.
Let my name be clearly seen on my credit,
my license to drive, social security and
preacher’s club card. Run these errands
in the heat of the day, pass out the gospel
exactly as I’ve dictated. Find a way to
miraculously lock the door from behind and
let my name and my plans stand above each
revolving door. We will schedule the rally once
the funds are raised.

If no one will be king, it might as well be me.

II.

It was in this narrow valley, Jesus, between two miracles
(multiplied meals and a walk upon the waves)
they wanted a king, but You

Found the undisclosed cave near the mountain’s peak,
and waited
until the crowd’s crush had passed.

No Fear

 “God has not given us a spirit of fear. But he has given us a spirit of power and love and self-control.” 2 Timothy 1:7

Comedian Jerry Seinfeld observed that the number one fear is publicly speaking, with number two being the fear of death. He then quipped, “So I guess if you are at a funeral, you would rather be in the coffin than give the eulogy.” Thankfully, God doesn’t ask us all to be public speakers.

Outside the Comfort Zone

“Finally, grow strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power.” Ephesians 6:10

As humans we grow naturally in the direction of our own comfort. That is why we are often inspired by people who take risks and overcome great obstacles. Though we may not be given super-strength to perform amazing feats as Christians, we are enabled to move through pain and even into areas of discomfort. It is those occasions where we learn the true power God provides.

Thoughts on Boxes and Treasures

“But we have this treasure in clay pots, so that the surpassing power belongs to God and does not come from us.” 2 Corinthians 4:7

My father was an amateur magician. He delighted in using various sleight of hand tricks to illustrate sermons for children, and sometimes for adults. In one he showed the audience a red velvet bag with a handle on one end. He would hold it up, turn it inside out and back again, to show it was an “ordinary” bag.

Great Strength

“I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

When Jesus calls us, He does not offer a sample platter of Kingdom offerings. He grants His grace without measure to everyone who answers His call. It is important to remember, though, that He also asks us for everything. Grace is God’s free gift to those who know how bankrupt they truly are.

Under Laminate Table

Under Laminate Tables

(“This is the message of God, the Master: ‘I’ve put up with you long enough, princes of Israel! Quit bullying and taking advantage of my people. Do what’s just and right for a change.’” Ezekiel 45:9 [The Message])

Is our hiding a dangerous planet where breezes blow hot
and friendships grow cold? Or is it
merely an experiment in language that calls Home
the place we occupy plus
the place we wish to return?

Are the caves in the hills welcome respite
from the sun that broils skin to leather,
or prisons to which we retreat when the
enemy runs to fast to notice the grotto’s closed mouth?

A fence holds bully and victim
both within its perimeter, chain-link mainly made
to keep us all from slopping onto the street. Borders are
no better when the authorities can send the helpless away
and file their reports at the end of the day stating
“one less in state, one more over there”.

Maybe today one man with a mouthful of power will
speak without though of protecting his position
and instead will dread the outcome of tiny lies to
tiny people that pile up like hay too late in the fall.

Maybe someday we will never think to bring the whole ship down
just to rid us of the one non-swimmer. Could be
this day
the dangers won’t press their luck
within conference rooms underneath
laminate tables,
but rise to the top where everyone will see

What Truth Himself has seen all along.

So today, though hiding is this planet’s magnetism,
and the gravity of the world would grasp me by the temples,
I think I’ll wait out the cons and the causes of the downstream blue,
and fashion sweeter air while I meander my way from present loved
and future hoped home.