Of Prayer and Song

Of Prayer and Song

(“Are you hurting? Pray. Do you feel great? Sing.” James 5:13 [The Message])

How long the day when the sun refuses to shine
on the dark pain you carry like a bag of sand.
I know the weeks are molasses crying in the night,
and the months struggle by as time strangles your
every word.

And now we pray. Will relief come? Set the weight
down on the ground
and see what answer comes. The Father is fond of you.
The Mother creates comfort for you. The Son soothes the
disquieted heart that runs apace of your mind. And now we pray.
Quiet. We wait for the word that empowers us for later in the day.
The day passes and we turn to face distress with renewed promises.
And now we pray. Within. The Spirit within takes our embers
and turns them to incense; an aroma of good things to come.

How light the day when the sun peeks from behind the clouds
and the flowers seem to wave to greet you as you bend over them.
I know the weeks fly fast, laughing until sunbreak,
and the months are filled with coffee with friends and a
few songs we’ve known since we were kids.

And now we sing. Will we remember the words? We pick up
the first note
of our earliest songs. The Father dances to our music.
The Mother harmonizes to set the song ablaze. The Son improvises
to prove he is still human just to remind us. And so we sing.
Lustily. We sing the first words that enter our minds.
We whirl like tops, dancing and transforming our heart-songs into new tunes.
And now we sing. Again. The Spirit pays attention and carries
our songs like afternoon wine; a vintage better than we had ever known.

Between the Hills

Between the Hills

(“But as for me, my prayer is to You, Lord, at an acceptable time; God, in the greatness of Your mercy, Answer me with Your saving truth.”  Psalm 69:13)

I’ve given up just a moment before I
grasped the boiling point of water. So high on
Everest
the water bubbled nearly on its own.
Sometimes I wonder if timing counts at all,
sometimes I beg beyond belief for an answer we
all can appreciate.
I wrote down every request and believed it until
I was too old for it ever to happen. My vision
might be blurry looking so far ahead. I thought it
was faith, but it was probably just a
figment of my imagination.

I wrote it in the flyleaf of my Bible,
I wrote it full of belief. I wrote it when
I had nothing to show for
myself but a few notes on the piano.

God did not answer, and I felt unworthy.
His servants ignored me or took me to lunch
and lauded me with their uncomfortable questions.
No, I did not finish my meal.

So here I am, a thousand miles and a half
divorced from the soil that germinated me.
My soul is sore with sorrow. My memories have
not changed
even though the landscape points to a hidden place
between the hills on the river shore. Now I
don’t want to be remembered; I want to
walk the boards on the stage, write the blocking
in the margins of a newly minted play, and wonder
if the troupe will be at rehearsals on time. I want a
festival artfully filled with folk tunes under an Autumn moon.

God is not my debtor; God owes me nothing at all.
The rain this morning turned to sunshine by the afternoon.

Up By the Roots

 

Up By the Roots

(“Daniel…knelt down in prayer three times a day, giving thanks to God.” Daniel 6:10)

Would you pull me up by the roots
if I need replanting?
With every tick of the clock I
know
time is oozing by like a mudslide
tearing up the hillside.
Would you still sit beside me
in silence and solitary confinement?
Would you see what no one else sees
and still love me the same?
Would you believe (how can I deceive you)
that my love is deeper than ever before?
And yet I will not bow to the images;
I

Will

Not.

Nor to the graceless claws of
embattled rhetoric.

So, though I appear a fool,
though the days pass faster than
whitewater tumbling over the narrow
rock-strewn rapids,

I’ll grow if you plant me. And mis

Understood

By many, I’ll take my chances
that love still nourishes every prayer
I cannot say.

An Epistle, a Prayer

 

An Epistle, a Prayer

(“In order to set us free from this present evil age, Christ gave himself for our sins, in obedience to the will of our God and Father.” Galatians 1:4)

Dear Jesus,
having set us free from the present evil age,
it makes me wonder why
so many of your disciples use
bullying and
sometimes billy clubs
to get your point across.

I know, Jesus,
this has caused such a poor reflection on you
that many have twisted every bit of wrath out
of any graceful act you performed. And, honestly,
I have been scorned for suggesting we pause a bit
in our
list of sins that we no longer participate in. We know
damn well
most of our inclinations did not change the
moment we decided that a rearrangement was in
order. We dined at camps where the noise level
made us slink out to the bench behind the tabernacle
just to rest. Just to rest. Just to refresh
and rewash our ears
from the assault of decibels that convinced
most everybody else
that the holyghost was soon to appear. Yes,
my tear stains are on that carpeted stage as well.

But Jesus,
the one time I stayed quietly in my pew while angry
men and
women who wore it well
dragged seatmates and cousins to their knees before
the cacophony right in front of the evangelist’s feet,
the one time I sat tight halfway back
I was accused of quenching the spirit.
(All I wanted was to peacefully meet with you,
Jesus,
without the sound and sweat and salty tears
writing my script.)

And yet I cannot argue, Jesus,
the present age has much evil,
and you, in love of humanity and
humility of private conversations,
you absorbed the violence that

The state sponsored

That

The religionists supported

and

The crowd roared in scorn

While

Disciples fled

And

The women stayed to the end.

My dear Jesus,
may your church,
the one which storms the gates of the dead,
be delivered once again
from this white-ghost addiction
to spelling out the sharper notes of
everyone else’s sin.

No Mere Acquaintances

No Mere Acquaintances

(“[The angel addressed] me: ‘Cornelius, your prayer has been heard, and your kindness to the poor has been noticed by God.’” Acts 10:31)

There are times I wish no one would notice me at all;
when I trip on the pavement, when the pieces do not fit,
when my face turns red in ordinary conversation,
when I’m practicing my scales, when tears leave behind
scaly dust in my eyes.

We notice the stranger, the things that make the adolescent shorter,
the teenager slower, the pimples, the black skin, the foreign accent,
the headdress, the thrift store clothes,
and the misbehavior that shows in the kids we did not raise.

There are times I wish I noticed every red leaf in November,
every ice crystal sharpening the air in December,
every barking dog that wants to play,
every school child who had to stay after class because mom
and dad
forgot to send her bus pass.

There are things I wish you noticed; like the mom who hides her bruises,
the preacher who labors in the night to work a second job in the day to
serve the tiny church enclosed by wheat fields or forest,
the mother who weeps twice a week, she had such dreams and is
a taxi driver for her kids,
the immigrant who risked his life (have you asked about his wounds)
for children, a wife, and a chance to dream; to dream the way you dream.

And when God notices your kindness, he does not forget;
he records your love like a Beach Boys song and plays it over
and over to hear the sweet harmonies.
And when God notices your patience, he does not forget;
he paints your hope like a still life and gazes at it from before dawn
until after dusk to see how the light plays on it.

And sometimes angels notice what God notices and wonder;
writing sonnets about strangers who were no mere acquaintances of
the divine.

Say the Intimacies

Say the Intimacies

(“You must pray at all times as the Holy Spirit leads you to pray. Pray for the things that are needed. You must watch and keep on praying. Remember to pray for all Christians.” Ephesians 6:18)

Once a thought in the mind of God,S
then a word and command, the world began.
There is no mud nor air contributed by man,
no angel or demon made the seas meet the sand.

Once infinitesimally small with all the weight and fury
the entire universe would carry; expanding beyond imagination,
words eclipsed by eternity, music hindered by hearable scales.
The stars, like glitter and powder, sing sacred songs unknown
within the trails of swarming galaxies. A mere Painter’s
flick and colors spun from the Center of all being to the
edges of Not Known.

The Scholar and Artist who still conceives a day on this planet,
a year on the next, is not deaf to the whispers or agony
of a single creature upon the universal canvas. One cry
to His ear is all.

Turn over the contents of your heart, pour out the tears stored
in hidden jars and all will stop as the Father hears.

Dawn delays, dusk slow its rosy dark while
eye to eye, heart to heart, every word, every thought
is heard and repeated. One appeal does not deplete
the constant supply of wildfire love, nor any whisper
too soft to merit the gentlest reply.

Sing if you pray, or chant new rhymes, keep matins
or vespers, shout or whisper, knees, feet or prone,
crowded or alone; seek and say the intimacies
that have crowded you too late and early, too
recently.

There is no Rock Like our God

“There is no holy God like the Lord. There is no God but you. There is no Rock like our God.” 1 Samuel 2:2

The human heart is either too stubborn or too variable to be trusted completely. We stubbornly cling to opinions, even in the face of convicting evidence that we are wrong. We will even cling to our personal convictions to the point of causing harm to others. If our preconceived notions are threatened we may attack, make insinuating remarks and shut down relationships that may have actually helped us mature along the way.

"Father, What do You Want?"

"Father, What do You Want?"

^“Going a little ahead, he fell on his face, praying, ‘My Father, if there is any way, get me out of this. But please, not what I want. You, what do you want?’” Matthew 28:9

Jesus took His three closest associates on one final, intimate moment together. His arrest and crucifixion loomed large on the horizon, and late that evening He seeks His heavenly Father for solace, a bit of negotiating, and final submission to the plan set long ago for mankind’s freedom.

Unusually Kind

Unusually Kind

(“The people of the island were unusually kind. It was raining and cold. So they built a fire and welcomed all of us.” Acts 28:2)

Why did it take an outsider, a resigner, a former resolution-signer
to mention the faults that second and third story men had committed?

Why were the liars allowed to speak, allowed to right in pen and ink

words recorded, classified and filed forever? One such deceiver, on
good word from his perfection’s daughter, said a certain pastor was
caught drinking (oh my) champagne at last weekend’s wedding! No
one mentioned the pastor had not attended, oh, and his daughter had
meant another man instead.

Why were men whose prayers could put you to sleep with their length,
but spoke only staccato in with fresh breath or defense, why were they
listened to, having found, behind the house, vacated a year before,
weather-beaten and full of snow, the old men’s magazine no one reads.
Why did the father of us all bring it up two years later
with conversation volume
in the midst of a restaurant meal with customers ahead, behind and
left and right? His only comment: “You never eat much when we talk.”
Not knowing what the hell he was talking about, I could only gulp. The
man who found it, accused me, attached it like to my forehead like
nails to a tree, could not find room for even a private apology.

I have been treated kinder by men who never meander the maze
of pews in our houses of the holy; sometimes prayers are offered there,
thanking God the quarterback of the Seahawks completed the final reception.

I am sick of love at first and rejection at the last. I am tired of perfection
that is as suspect as I was made to be. I am sick of love, lovesick, and
unsure it is found, heaven or ground, apart from the love of a wife who

Knowing all, has healed me from death to breathing, slow, yes, but:

Yes.

Beyond the Grid

Beyond the Grid

(“Give praise to God. He has accepted my prayer. He has not held back his love from me.” Psalm 66:20)

Across the boulevard, sidewalk to sidewalk,
 the asphalt grid divides the green patches;
like half-open eyelids the exhaustive haze mixes
mankind and sunny days. Our ways of walking timed
just so;
at the push of a button we are told to “stop” or to
“go”. “Walk”, “Don’t Walk”, verdant, yellow, and ruby;
the city is full of desert riverbeds holding the
metallic current within its banks.

Beyond the grid with x and y lattice,
five miles out of town, maybe eight or nine,
the lattice work is overhead, the lines crisscrossing
an open sky. Hills rise steeply and roll their carpet out
into meadows and playrooms for picnics and fawns. Freedom
invites
(without button punctuation) constant exploration,
following streams and crossing logs just because
there are more rooms of mossy walls just up the
opposite bank.

Our faces change from grid to lattice. We cross
the avenues hurriedly, avoiding touch or glances.

Our smiles return in open meadows. Children run and
one becomes three becomes five becomes a game
of tag for an entire afternoon. We would just as soon
watch their wonder than fight for a window seat
for a quick bite
lunchtime across the street.

Hopes and concrete, prayers and bare feet,
we are full as we wish to be. But the questions that plague
our fast-track seem irrelevant washing the grass stains from
new jeans after a meadow afternoon.

See the Words

See the Words

(“Lord, in the morning you hear my voice. In the morning I lay it all out before you.  Then I wait expectantly.” Psalm 5:3)

What if we could see the words, the syllables come rushing
like pellets from an air gun. What if their velocity measured
the force, the love, the grace, the clear-throated and the hoarse.
And, what if their colors measured a story’s truth, like halo’s
shine, like glory’s arc of purity. And false words fell under
the weight of colors so dark there remained little brightness
to measure at all.

Imagine each syllable of every word, each syllable’s letter
flying above a crowd of mouths intersecting and reflecting until
all we have seen is as much joy as a flock of monarchs spiraling
in joyful colors and buzz. Or, depending on what you had heard,
what you observed,
the flight is as annoying as a swarm of mosquitoes in high-pitched
drone?

We would see no better than we hear, even though the words appear
color-coded and hover eye-level. We might still dissect the syllables
in our insistence that each hue has an exact correlation and my
reaction
equals (without fraction)
the speaker’s meaning, as if a caption was written
in italics and English and definitions’ shades remain
unchanged over the arch of the sun, over the length of
the days.

But to You, Yahweh, I come with naked sounds in
the morning. By later I may have adorned my words better,
but waking is black and white first copy, my heart’s first
grunt and sometimes song. It is so unrehearsed, but You-
the-
Word
know the first sound from my mouth; tone and emotion,
shorter and longer, that I do not wonder if you mistook
my colors
for someone else’s better requests.

You Only Look at Me

“I cry out to you, but you do not answer me; I stand up, and you only look at me.” Job 30:20

Recently a good friend of my passed away unexpectedly. He had heart problems, but no one had pronounced an end date. As far as he and his family knew, he had a few, maybe many, good years ahead of him. Alan was the director of a drama ministry and we had invited him to bring a Christmas-themed production to our little church here in Southwest Washington.

He Begged God

“God had the power to save Jesus from death. And while Jesus was on earth, he begged God with loud crying and tears to save him. He truly worshiped God, and God listened to his prayers.” Hebrews 5:7

People have countless images of Jesus. We view Him as the Super-Human miracle-worker slashing demons with a single word. Or, we see Him as the compassionate Healer, touching the sick and restoring them to health. He is the Good Shepherd, tenderly leading His sheep to safety. He is the fearless Master of Creation, stilling the storm with His voice.

Never Give Up

“Then Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up.” Luke 18:1

A couple of weeks ago I received a call from my health-care provider. I had turned in a request for a prescription refill to my pharmacist. There were no refills remaining so he needed to get approval from my doctor. This was early June. I had missed an appointment the week of Easter because the busyness of Holy Week simply did not allow time for the appointment. Then, his office called to cancel our next appointment due to illness.

Baseball was Cancelled

Baseball was Cancelled

(“Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” Mark 11:24)

Baseball was cancelled today and the breathing grass
had a rest.
It takes nine, they say, and two is simply not enough.
Yet the two did more with their day excused
than the others did at home alone, unused.

I believed longer than I could hold my breath
that my team would grow and run and sweep the
season like Mays or Drysdale. Let me pitch,
an inning, maybe two; right field is lonely,
my glove is new, used only a day or two.

I believed larger than I could vision, revising
data to meet me at the intersection of hope’s
certainty and childish imagination. My speed
and curve, knuckle and slider; were four names
for one pitch inches outside and high.

I read the comics and knew I could become
a caped and super human dressed in primary colors,
seeing behind the lead, taking the lead and knowing
no one teases a kid in bright spandex who

Can also fly.

I heard the radio, watched the black and white,
and my Dodgers rarely let me down. I believed
higher, somewhere over the outfield wall my hits
would land well beyond sightseers cars, on the ground,
found rolling on the sand underneath the slide while I
made the rounds from base one to two, two to three
and home.

I believed it all so well and found I struck out mostly,
pitched silliness costly, and was never picked up for
summer league.

My Lord! Is it possible that, when two show up and
the game is cancelled, my prayers are answered, and
new friends are made sharing bubble gum and baseball cards
in the shade?

The Touch of Healing

“As it happened, Publius’s father was ill with fever and dysentery. Paul went in and prayed for him, and laying his hands on him, he healed him.” Acts 28:8

Paul and his sailing companions had been forced to seek shelter from a terrible storm on the island of Malta. Although the people were kind, it was a bit of a scary start. Cold and rainy, the men built a fire and a poisonous snake, driven out by the heat, bit Paul on the hand.

Pray Like This

“Pray like this: ‘Our Father in heaven, may your name be kept holy.’” Matthew 6:9

You can spot them right away. Watch their eyes. They are in the stands of football games. They are in the audience at the school play. They walk the sidelines of neighborhood soccer games and, practically hidden, are often the proudest person at a wedding. If their child is involved, you can pick out a father anywhere.

Compression

"Compression"

(“Through him, then, let us continually offer a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that confess his name.” Hebrews 13:15)

His life once expanded, people traveled to ask his advice,
to watch his mannerisms and copy his reflexes. He was only
half of what they saw,
though the hidden half frightened him from daylight into
nightmares.

They etched his name on plaques and bylines,
brought babies with coughs for him to cradle,
sat him down around hardwood tables with
state committees. The governor’s wife presented
the award paired with a guitar-man statue on his
haphazard office wall. Musicians applauded,
and the sharp arc of his trajectory was combined with
just the right velocity to land him
happy once the hard work was done.

But his sad half never smiled,
dark side cold, stubbornly deflecting
the weak force attempt to turn it toward the sun.

Blind side hardly smiled,
cold side stark, visionless and pallid
though colors swirled around it,
the hidden half never upgraded,
afraid it would be discovered in its
perpetual monochrome.

His life once expanded, now the diameter of a dime;
pain limits his excursions,
fear authors the versions of every story he remembers.
He is few.

But he cries. He turns the music loud. He keeps the
doctor long to have someone to talk to. He loves
and does not know how to. He faces himself and
wonders how this all will end, with tears and pain
his dinner and desert.

But he cries. He turns to You. He keeps on
asking so he will not have to regret. Tomorrow
still frightens him, with so little room to maneuver.

But he cries…to You. And he knows You,
though all is puzzle and spiral, and thanks You
for hope that seems wickedly illogical. Hold him
now, he lays his lonely assumptions in the strongest
Hands he knows.

Fixing Potholes

And make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be dislocated but healed instead.” Hebrews 12:13

I don’t think God is against tranquil meandering walks. There is a deep need to slow down, especially in our culture trying to wring one last chore out of the next hour of the day. But, God does desire for us to stay on track, keeping the goal of our lives in focus.

Face the Silence

Face the Silence

(“Only one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen what is best, and it will not be taken away from her.” Luke 10:42)

I want to face the silence,
embrace the quiet alone where
my tears are understood,
and Jesus untangles the thoughts that
have short-circuited where the fabric is worn
and the bare wires touch; memory affecting future,
misfiring every emotion, stalling every venture
I might have begun if I had won the battle,
slain the monsters of the abyss who insist
the kinks are all impossible to unknot.

Tell me, in my silence, once I am able to hear,
teach me in my place seated at your feet
what I need to hear, why I still tear up after
ages of knowing there is no need for exploding prayers
that leave the atmosphere bitter with gunpowder’s tang.

Let the waters flow deep, seeping through the handful
off burrows I’ve left open following the tilt of the shale
to the heart’s well waiting its fill.

I am quick off my knees, hard to please, and sensitive to
these
thoughts that loop endlessly. I am ill at ease after
five minutes of silently; and seek my books to
capture my mind, disguise my inclined plane that
leads from stillness to the uneasy patter of doing nothing
with all my neurons firing. Busy, I accomplish little.

Quiet, I sit and twiddle my thumbs.

And yet I still long for the best part that comes
while I sit, even fidgety, at your feet.