A New Place to Listen

A New Place to Listen

(“Do not neglect the gift that is in you, which was given to you by prophecy when the elders laid their hands on you.” 1 Timothy 4:14)

I heard you crying like a child who cannot wake up.
We cradle them until the brightness returns.
We wait for the sun and forget the rain,
we talk until 2 in the morning, we drink coffee
until the same.

Our tears were distilled and run through the mill.
Our weariness overtook every plan we had made.
Could I tell you one more time how it means so
much to me
to have you fan into flame what sometimes disappears
beyond my fenced imagination? I fear sometimes
that insulation has hindered my brain and I’ve forgotten
the exact, the point, the meaning of it all. I want to give
it all away
again.

When we reach so distantly, insisting there must be
a way to discover something new, we play some jazz
and memorize the patterns that improvised over our heads.

I took a bottle of wine to my friend who had cried
for days. He could not put his finger on it, and I knew
less than he,
so we poured our glasses and reminisced on better times.
We recognized in each other’s eyes the questions that had
hemmed us in like concrete. He told me he never imagined
he would turn solo after so long. I was silent, I knew what
he meant.

We once understood the steps in the dance that brought
the delight of heavenly joy. We were players, we were
instrumentalists, we were singers some of the time.
But now we couldn’t find a venue to play. We hummed
a few tunes while we finished our wine and decided to find
a new place to listen to the music we missed and find
one or two who would learn them through like children.
We were ready to be useful again.

Ready to Announce

Ready to Announce

(“We had the courage through God to speak God’s good news in spite of a lot of opposition.” 1 Thessalonians 2:2b)

From the moment I opened my eyes the only
conversation I wanted was the one about grace.
And wider than I imagined, deeper that some friends
unknew, I awoke to speak more coherently than I ever had.
There is a lot to say that embarrasses me now, so many
stories halfway through their happy ending.

Threatened with hell, the sensitive hearts cry like God
would soon send them to the fire, to the everlasting flames,
to the torture of ages over a simple lifetime of missteps.

Threatening hell, the whitewashed tombs harden up
and put a Halloween mask on Jesus to scare the aching
hearts into catacombs of shame. No one showed them the
Father’s smile.

Peacemakers belong as children of God, but big-hair
and butt-hurt purveyors of steel grip doctrine don’t
waste a minute to imprecate anyone they think has
eyes too wide open. They see anxiety as evidence of
demons in crying eyes. They yell that depression
belongs to the devil and a dozen more people hit
the floor begging for some sort of change.

What if we woke and sat next to the dejected,
What if we took the hands of the anxious and,
without a word invited them into our space.

This is what opened my eyes. This is what made me see.
People needed more than fiery proclamations. How
can we reflect the father when all our affectations
pain him angry and ready to smite with wrathful fury.

Woke, I see the wrinkles from constant agonizing prayer
that pled to take every misstep away.

Nothing will keep me from being the Good Story
no matter how many take me as the original heretic.
I am ready to announce the world-wrapped hug
that God calls us to embrace. People, your doctrines
may be strangling you. Christ meant for you to
be free.

Get Things Ready

Get Things Ready

(Jesus said: “He will take you upstairs and show you a large furnished room. Get things ready there.” Luke 22:12)

Send me somewhere, and I will go,
outlying villages where the streams run slow,
to find the banquet hall reserved for the few,
one hundred or less, and with a view
of the pacing river off the redwood balcony.

Let me return with happy news,
the room is perfect; blue jazz or summer blues,
and now to flood it intimate late night mood,
savory and candles, talk and food
while watching the river off the redwood balcony.

We would gather, shoes set aside,
hesitation and invention, step inside,
and now the mood crowds our own expectations;
inspecting our invitations
while we watch the river off the redwood balcony.

Hold that thought, repeat that phrase,
banquets are laughter and jump-the-gun applause.
Why this supper before suffering;
this meal and announcement of Your intention
to die before we have barely digested

Your words at all?

Send me somewhere, and I will go,
baffling villages where streams once flowed,
to find the leftovers, many or a few,
and invite them all, alive and new
to watch for the river off the redwood balcony.