UnMasked

UnMasked

(”For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that although he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that through his poverty you might become rich.” 2 Corinthians 8:9)

I hardly knew what to do when the gift was dropped off
outside my door. Should I open it; what was it there for?
I set it inside on top of a coffee table and went about my
day, making lunch, drinking wine, and wondering how much time
I had before I heard the famous voice that thundered everything
into place.

But the noises outside and the people who cried
that justice looked sad were in the streets today.
There was no peace from the camouflaged recruits who
pummeled observers of their over-privileged gunfire.
Hard on the way, they lay another one upon the concrete
as if they are simply punching bags for practice.

It was all on video, for those who would watch it.
It all was heard, though many refused it.
It was unlicensed aggravation and children kidnapped
from outside their schools. It was a nurse to veterans
being beaten for pointing his phone at the officers of fear.

But thousands showed up and broke the silence. Thousands
sang songs of resistance and beat their drums above the anguish
laying low and loud. They are trauma-breakers assisting the wounded.

And still the gift sits unopened, its contents hidden underneath
layers of paper and perforations. We have thrown away the wealth
of harmony paid at such a price the universe trembles. The estranged
are invited to join the sanity that is richer and offers reunion
to armies of boots on the ground. Unwrap the present and join
the mass apology for the pain created by the masked unrighteous
ways of hardened lawless masquerading as officers of the peace.

Teach Me Silence

Teach Me Silence

(“Those who want to be rich are falling into temptation and into a trap and into many foolish and harmful desires, which plunge them into ruin and destruction.” 1 Timothy 6:9)

Can I learn more about you, the silence between
the commercial rants and conversational winds?
Do I need to listen to every interview with the next
entrepreneur hawking what I never needed but want
just the same?
Can I conquer this need for occupation,
can I slow down my mind?
What of the hands on the clock that mark my hours
more slowly than the day? What of the tremor I feel
just wanting to get out of my skin? If I could
buy everything (retail or closeout) how much
quieter would I seem? I don’t say much, but my
brain unsteadily steams like the iron wheels of a train.

I’ve never had much money,
don’t know where I’d shop if did. Maybe the
minutes would tell me how to satisfy these desires.
Maybe the hours would empty my treasure chest
buried closely to the line where land and sea meet.
Maybe my heart would beat to the rhythm of the waves,
and maybe I would be still long enough to know
I have everything that I need.

The fingerprints of the world are whorled on
my transparent brain. I never wipe them clean. They
inform me of everything like rafts
carrying pelts from northern excursions. I inspect
every one but leave them for someone else to purchase.

Take me silence, teach me stillness. I’ll lay my
yearning aside for an hour of solitude, though I barely
talk
to anyone all day. Is there a word in the center of me
that can define my cravings? I’ve run out of energy
and no longer pursue them. But they still occupy my
thinking every day.

Meet me, find me in the middle of my sentences that
trail on for hours at a time. Unpack my density,
my destiny seems to be wound up and tangled like
vines in the middle of a rose garden. Meet me
finally where I can hear only silence waiting for
me.

Untitled

Untitled

(“The rich and the poor are met together; the Lord is the Creator of them both.” Proverbs 22:2)

I.

He wandered the galleries
circa 1970
of the New Berkeley Art Museum.
The gray concrete Brutalist building
housed Warhol and Pollock,
and in a shaded enclave Richard Brautigan
read,
with easy inebriation,
his newest poetry. It was magical in the 70s;
He was 15 in 1970.

Brautigan paused. Or maybe he finished.
The students who drove through the Caldecott Tunnel
could not be sure.
Some of his poems were scratches on parchment,
some rambled the east bay hills. But, after he
put the last drop of whiskey to his lips and
sat down to light a cigar,
the curious teens wandered the galleries again.

He wondered at some of the installations,
walking around pop art and soup cans
and curious to their meaning,
looked at every label in the gallery.

Untitled.
There was more than one. Un
titled.
And questioned the creativity of
leaving off the name.
For him the title was a gateway to the meaning,
a miniature explanation of the dots and explosions
on canvas or melamine sculptures. There was no one
to ask
when the card read
un
Titled.

He vowed to write an anthology of poetry and,
right in the middle of his collection,
leave one page blank except for the title:

“Untitled”

II.

Half a century later, labels mean less.
Perhaps we come into the world as the perfect
artistic medium.
Perhaps we do not need the titles. They may not
be
gateways to meaning at all,
but a tin box lithograph with “sardines”
on the label.
The name tag was affixed so early
the artist’s name has been forgotten.

Stop Now. Sounds.

 

Stop Now. Sounds.

(“Or do you have so little regard for his rich kindness, his restraint, and his patience, that you ignore the fact that the purpose of God’s kindness is to lead you to repentance?” Romans 2:4)

Stop now.
Sound out the top of the silent suns
wrapping the grand, warming the sand
while the tides ebb unconsciously.

I can hear myself growing older,
years like wind, like sails, like friends
who streak across the night sky. Shooting
star
how I wonder who you are.

I would rather borrow your eyes than
rewrite our conversations. I would rather
drive by the coast as the cliffs twist by.
I would rather squint in the light than to
strain to see you appear in the dark night hallways.
I would rather let the questions go unanswered.

Stop now.
Sound surround us. I’m up for a night of repentance.
Nothing is wasted in this universe,
everything is borrowed. It was all here first.
But your story, your spiral, your skying face and
your carousel feet carry my mind to better places.

We can light the candles, break the bread,
sweep the sidewalks, plan ahead,
fasten the nails so the pictures don’t fall
on the floor.
We can feed the poor. We can read some more
until
our shells are broken, until every unspoken story
is written across the sky.

Until we all

Stop now.
While the sounds of undancing whistle like morning,
like handfuls of birdsong with lyrics hidden within
the center of everything.

Family Portrait/Advent

 

Family Portrait/Advent

(“The rich and the poor meet together. The Lord is the maker of them all.” Proverbs 22:2)

Do your ears hear the same carols
floating from the trees as winged birds sing
in air grown crisp toward the end of the year?
Do your eyes see the same sunlight
creeping over the hills, the same fog
opening to reveal the day?

Do your babies cry like rain,
your children play ball until sunset,
your thoughts fill your mind like winter champagne?
Do you visit your muse to find the silence you seek?

I remember the blue slate siding with a dozen layers
of paint beneath the cracks.
I remember the first time I walked to school in the snow,
plastic bags over my little tennis shoes,
and I was late. A couple of inches of snow in
west Texas
will always slow a six-year-old. My
hand-me-down pants were cold and wet.

The children raced to the feasting table first
but had learned through instruction and habit
to wait for the elders to be served. Bright eyes
looked up to meet some eyes sad, some flittering,
some distant, some weary, and others gladly receiving
a place in line saved by little mouths. One time
an elder placed two deviled eggs on each child’s
plate.

Do you sit across from a little not your own,
next to a neighbor who lost everything that made them
well-known in town?
Did you hear the stories of sweaty days repainting a house
where the sun snuck through the cracks?
Did you find the place that eases suffering by the
simple touch of hand and face? Did you walk
the dirt road until everyone’s feet ached the same?

Many Ways to Become Rich

 

Many Ways to Become Rich

(“I know that the Lord maintains the cause of the needy, and executes justice for the poor.” Psalm 140:12)

There are many ways to get rich:
become famous, write a book
(do not sell poetry)
collect the spoils of war
(do not organize for peace).

The hems of my blue jeans were frayed
when I wandered the halls of temporary buildings
in the middle class high school I attended
in navy bells and khaki shirts.
(it is a sorry time when an aging man
must reach back to his teens to find substance for
his literary works.)

I never knew then the stitches that connected
breathing to living,
eating to breathing
and giving to eating
corn soup and simple fry bread
in the corner kitchens where friends waited
the passing of the latest blizzard--clapboard
government housing and those of a certain age
who slept on broom-swept dirt floors.

We rarely spoke of who would pay for the next meal
we shared in common, or the next pizza we tossed on
the table in town. From suburban bars with Italian sausage
to franchises with frisbee logos,
we ordered water if our wallets would not sing.

I had a friend once who frequented the bars. I loved
him (and I think he enjoyed Jesus without the weaknesses
of those who have no flaws). Once we had coffee,
often we prayed, he mowed the church lawn in his
cowboy boots
and on New Year’s Eve
he died
outside
the home where he lived with
handfuls of cousins and uncles. It was sub-zero
and no one found him until the slow northern sun
deceived us into thinking the warmth would revive him
if only we waited a while.

There are many ways to become poor:
sell your soul, increase the volume,
(do not listen outside your door)
exert your privilege
(do not befriend the frightened).

I have too many friends, I need to find more
who cannot wait to share coffee
walking down the frozen pavement.
How can I ignore you any longer,
how can my heart be so cold.

Monks and Beautiful Gates

Monks and Beautiful Gates

So the lame man paid attention to them, expecting to receive something from them. Acts 3:5

Our dreams can often be a rich reservoir of insight into the needs of our soul and how to care for it. I am not talking about interpreting dreams and applying symbolism to everything within them. But there can be general themes that seep up while we sleep that we may be unaware of in our waking hours. Also, as we all know, some dreams are simply a result of too much pepperoni pizza the night before.

I recently had quite a complex dream that stayed with me for days. I want to share it here, then move to the story of the lame man who was healed at the temple.

I was on a tour bus, though it was designed more like one for mass transit. It had one seat near the front behind the driver that was perpendicular to the other seats. I rode in that seat alone with the rest of the passengers filling the seats on either side of the center aisle.

At first, I was not aware of our destination, but as we crossed a long narrow bridge, I became aware that we were entering the city of Munich in Germany. I have never been to Munich, or the European continent for that matter, but in the dream, I understood where we were going. The bus was filled with 60 to 70 passengers.

The bus pulled into a parking area about 1 pm. The itinerary included about six hours of exploring the city with our guide. Though it was early afternoon, there was very little light. The whole landscape was dusky and dark, muting the colors, washing the scene in grays and a dull green.

Within moments of exiting the tour bus the group walked to a downtown area of Munich. The buildings where old stone on narrow streets. Almost immediately I found myself separated from the group. I could not find them anywhere. I looked about anxiously. I feared I would miss the sites and my ride home. It did not occur to me in the dream that I knew where the bus was parked.

Then I thought I saw our group in a restaurant. I opened the door quickly to a barely lit establishment with dark brown paneled walls. Several 80s style video games were in an alcove to the right of the entrance; a small arcade. As I stepped into the restaurant proper, I saw only three or four tables and about as many people. They were putting away the chair and tables. I was deeply disappointed; I had not found my group and had missed a meal.

I wandered through the town looking for the others when I came upon a park with a small lake. I remember walking near the lake, in a hollow, ambling around its shore, still wondering at the darkness in the middle of the afternoon. At one point I turned away from the lake, looked up from the small basin, and saw a group of figures on a hill.

They were shadowy because it was dark, but I was certain they were my group. Perhaps 100 to 200 yards away, they appeared as silhouettes at the hill’s crest. Happy I had found them; I began to walk up the hill toward the group. But, as I walked, I got no nearer. It was as if I was either walking in place or they were fading backwards away from me. It was not as if their limbs were moving, I just never covered any distance. No matter how much effort I expended the distance between us stayed the same.

I don’t know if I ever got home, because that was the last scene in the dream. It really stayed with me throughout the next day. It was strange that I would dream about Munich, and the whole feeling of being lost and separated from others permeated every scene. I thought I would look up the derivation of the word “Munich”.

The name of the city is derived from the Old/Middle High German term Munichen, meaning “by the monks.” Monks of the Benedictine order ran a monastery that was later to become the Old Town of Munich.

Then the general theme of the dream began to show itself to me. I was on a trip to a place founded on Christian spiritual practice. It was literally “by the monks.” I was on a journey, perhaps a pilgrimage, to find a deeper place of devotion. But, upon arriving I was separated from my group. The whole atmosphere was dark and foreboding. And, every time I did find my group places were closing down, or I could not get close to them. The city of “professional” Christians would not have me. I felt isolated and alone in the very place I was searching for something to nourish my soul.

For me, that theme was not surprising. Most of my life, even after following Christ in 1972, I have felt like I did not quite belong to any group. Maybe I’m too independent. Maybe my soul is fed in different ways that some of the established religious expressions I’ve been associated with. Maybe the acceptance I’ve sought isn’t actually that important for the nourishment of my soul.

What does this have to do with Acts chapter 3 where a lame man is healed in the front of the temple? Let’s review quickly. Jesus was crucified, buried and rose from the grave several weeks before. The Holy Spirit and been poured out on the day of Pentecost, forty days after His resurrection and over 3,000 people were added to those who followed Christ.

Peter and John are on their way to afternoon prayer at the temple. A man who is lame from birth had been carried and placed at the “Beautiful Gate” at the temple to beg for money each day. This was accepted practice. Those who were unable to work often begged alms in populated areas. In some ways, it was considered their “occupation” since there were so few ways they could earn a living.

When Peter and John arrive at the temple, he asks them for money. Notice that man is not in the temple, he is outside of it. No matter how much this lame man desired to worship in the temple, he was prohibited. It was not simply the organization of priests at the time who kept him out, it was the recorded words of Holy Scripture! No one with a “defect” was allowed within the temple precincts.

(Do you begin to see the tie-in to my dream?) He stares at Peter and John. To him, they are just two Jewish worshipers coming for afternoon prayer. When he asks them for money Peter and John look directly at him and say, “Look at us!” He perked up, met their eyes and expected money.

Peter says, “I don’t have any silver or gold, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ the Nazarene, stand up and walk!” Peter takes him by the right hand, lifts him up and the man’s feet and ankles are made new again!

The man jumps and leaps. No money, but new legs! Now get ready for the next phrase in verse 8: “and he entered the temple courts with them” where he continued walking and leaping and praising God.

We must understand the reason for this story. Yes, a man is healed. But look a little closer. What did that man really want? He wanted to be accepted. He wanted access to God. He wanted to worship “with” not “alone”. But everything that Scripture seemed to say kept him on the outside. The religious professional were the enforcers of that Scripture. Everyone accepted that lame folks could not enter the temple. God said it, that was enough. Everything about the religious thought at the time put him outside of the inner circle of God’s love.

But Peter and John come along, who had no professional theologically training. Remember, just three years previous they had left a good fishing gig to follow a roaming teacher named Jesus. The lame man didn’t know anything about Peter and John. He knew the priests, Pharisees, Sadducees and scribes had the power to keep him out of the temple. But who had the power to make him no longer the “other”?

That is the point of this story. “Jesus Christ the Nazarene.” Paul expands on the idea by saying the dividing wall between Jew and Gentile were also torn down by Christ.

Do you understand, there are no longer “defects” that can keep you from God? Christ has destroyed every wall that divides. He has taken down the fences between “worthy” and “unworthy”. The first miracle after Pentecost is the great announcement that the Beautiful has come. We can come limping, wounded, bleeding, without a plea to our name; and we are no longer excluded. (My take on Scripture is that we were never excluded. Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross doesn’t change God’s mind, it reveals His nature from all eternity.)

God in Christ has announced that your soul has a home. Though you may feel out of step with some of the organized religious movements around you, you do not have to feel out of step with God. What my soul was searching for in Munich it found in Christ alone.

Peter and John gave the lame man what the professional religious leaders could not. They gave the lame man, not what he asked for (money), nor what was his perceived need (new legs) but met his real need: access and acceptance by God.

River Sweep

River Sweep

(“The rich and the poor meet together; the Lord is the Creator of them both.” Proverbs 22:2)

Wherever I be, straight line or crooked tree,
the rivers birth winter snow down the early May gorge
toward
the ocean full of swimming and floating,
diving and quoting the songs of Him
who made it all.

From midnight Marianas Trench to
luminous sandbars overrun by fleas and hermit crabs,
every stretch of imagination feeds our fascination
with the circle bouquets; life and breath,
gills or lungs,
eyes or tentacles,
fins or fingers;
we mostly blush at our preconceptions.

But let the unwashed bump me on the
crowded aisle of Wal-Mart AutoParts
and I lose interest in the theme of things,
the string of things that attach us all,
charms on a young girl’s bracelet.

Let the unknown language invade my
English comprehension and I might replace
my love of time and space with a catchphrase of
alienation; stepping beyond the border from outside
in,
we argue the space invasion. We bought this air,
this two foot square occupied by my intonations.

River run past the shanties,
river sweep past the cliff dwelling mansions,
river sweep the sweet sands and firewood to the sea,
to the sea,
and river bring back the wonder of living,
and breathing, and the Creator’s design
signed on each low and high with the same
name, Emanuel, for each. For all. For me,
for me.

On the Bus

“…and you pay attention to the one well-dressed and say, ‘Have a good seat here!’ and to the poor one you say, ‘You stand there’ or, ‘Sit down on the floor by my feet.’” James 2:3

Did you ever ride a bus to school or an event when you were a teenager? I’m not sure what the appeal was, but the seats of choice were the two in the very back of the bus. (I’m being fake naïve, by the way, I know very well what the allure was.) You could just about chart the pecking order of any group by observing where they sat on the bus.