The Sacred Meal

The Sacred Meal

(Therefore, since we have this ministry as a result of the mercy shown us, we are not discouraged.” 2 Corinthians 4:1)

We no longer hide behind manufactured words
and disguised shadows in the sun.
We no longer panic when the winds blow
cold from the north and try to pierce us through
buttoned coats. But we will continue without pretense.
We are filled from the beginning by methods of
grace
that have opened our hearts to newday like flowers
seeking the sun.

Once the announcement was made we learned how
honesty and repair looked once we opened our eyes.
We took it all to heart, we gathered our children
to celebrate new movements of sanity and purpose.
By this grace we have learned to make space for
dozens who do not believe yet, who think we may be
lost because we have moved outside their rigid restraints.

We invite them to the dance and hope they will join us.
We cancel our subscription to the prescriptions they
thought had healed us. Instead, we break bread with
the bare-faced children who come in with mud on their face.
We share the declaration we heard from further within
than we could imagine.

Open further. See sooner. Speak truer.
Live longer. Dance faster. Love deeper.
Dine at the banquet set with oval tables
in the meadow with seats for everyone.

We put down our visors meant to hide our eyes,
and look across the table at every tribe under heaven
sharing the sacred meal of the beloved.

Unlearning is Sacred

Unlearning is Sacred

(“And if you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.” Matthew 21:22)                

Come on over and set yourself down;
let me tell you the ways of the wind,
Come on over and sit beside me;
let me introduce you to explanations I
have not yet found.
Together we can solve the puzzle,
on our own we only scratch our heads.
Tell me today one way the world has changed
when you asked it to change.
Tell me the transformation you observed while waiting
for sundown to melt into the west.

We were sitting on the curb asking donations;
We were singing the songs we learned from the wind.
We were singing in the park, busking for dollars:
We were sitting awaiting the introduction to a
new world we were promised so many years ago.

We learned to stand up to bullies, we trace lines where
our coffee cups sat to refine our focus. The bullies grew
up
and lowered the boom on the people in the margins and
passed the responsibility on to their part-time managers.

But there are tender years we can discuss;
There are listening ears we can sing to.
There are fascinating trips around the world like
geese migrating to the end of autumn.

Pray now and ask, there is nothing new to learn.
Unlearning is sacred if we will take the time.
So let us sit in the sun of the fading day and
recount the ways we can appeal for a new way,
interceding for a day like kingdom come.

There is a Hush That is Sacred

 

There is a Hush That is Sacred

(“So God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it God rested from all his work that he had done in creation.” Genesis 2:3)

We sat on benches only inches apart,
the work was finished, the words inscribed.
The ducks roamed the pond idlily,

and the dogs napped in the sun.
The rains had filled the stream on the hill and
the water fell, softening the air.

We found a silence that
bound us only closer,
a triune conversation, a dialogue of zero,
a soliloquy floating on the breeze.

Butterflies like linen tugged our gaze along their
crepe paper flight. They were not giants nor
marked like monarchs;
simple, small, singular. They owned our hearts
stilled by the moment at rest.

There is a hush that is sacred,
trees have always known it.
There is a language of angels,
we work too long to hear it.
There are doves who have learned to
call the world to themselves,
in pairs in the branches of the new elms
beyond the field.

I remember there were sailboats on the river,
do you?
In the momentary stillness they moved past
our consciousness too fast.
There was just the rest we shared,
a memory lasting longer than forging words
in the fire. There was no misinterpreting the
questions our quiet had asked.

Until No One

Until No One

(“The sacred vestments of Aaron shall be passed on to his sons after him; they shall be anointed in them and ordained in them.” Exodus 29:29)

I know you want the title,
I heard you’ve been renamed.
You’re the prophet who can change
any ashes that have remained from
the fire we burned last night in the hearth
where we stare at the flames till midnight.
No one blames them for going cold after so long.

But the positions we inherit, the ranks we desire
do not fit us in our longings for something deeper,
something higher, something wiser than the mere headdress
of a priest at his duties,
or the half-Windsor knot of an executive’s silk tie,
we lie to other who know the truth,
we lie to ourselves and remain unmoved.

From the stars whose light fascinates our eyes,
from nebulae and galaxies we pretend to be our playgrounds,
the deepest call, (a Servant’s appellation), lands within our ears
quicker than light from iron-cold stars.

Fasten the nametag now, do not hesitate, serve the meal
with the wine
and take your place among
those who have heard you were once a criminal
or worse.

Today is your choice, today is the final verse of an Amen
louder than the last sound from the first black hole; listen now
to the level ground, the Father’s Son laid everything down

And kicked up the dust he first created so some would
lay down their crowns
to follow, thirsty, through the desert, until no one
knows our name.