To Shape the World

 To Shape the World

(“Look! The Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” John 1:19b)

How could we miss it,
the way you displayed our violence
when you never said a mumbling word?
Why do we dream of armies,
why do we fight hand to hand,
face to face,
race to race,
grabbing land and
staking our claims?

My walls, my acreage,
my car, my failing courage,
the broken bridges are my solitary
confinement. My isolation has gone
on far too long.

Why a lamb? Oh, little one, so very young;
why a lamb?
Shepherd us again, gather us, all of us,
into the fold again.

I had dinner with some of your own a few
weeks ago. We were a jolly boy, a mother of
still waters running, an elder left on his own,
a daughter in love with the world, her husband
in love too, a wife who wishes we would celebrate
more often. And one who, I daresay, is among the
beloved.

Though we made no mention of it as we drank
and laughed and nearly emptied the place,
I suspect the lamb was present too. And, I daresay,
called us all beloved and sent us, full and joy

To shape the world in the image of lamb-like resistance,
defenseless reformation, campfire pentecost, shalom and
shabbat; to

Meet the next member of the flock with
wildflowers that take away the
sins of the world.

Why Don't You Go Back?

 

Why Don’t You Go Back?

(“’You aren’t from Galilee too, are you?’ they replied. ‘Investigate and you will see that no prophet arises from Galilee.’” John 7:52)

Where do you come from, and where have you been
to tell us how to shape our mouths and keep our souls clean?
On the backside of the desert
only the sandstorms speak
of decaying sunlight.
How do you claim to know anything despite
your nowhere dirt roads with pebbles in your shoes?

Where have you been, and why don’t you go back
to your own shanty town. Rehearse your
sermons
for the horned toads and serpents.
We have heard all we need to know,
our minds our full and refuse to be confused
by your small-water mouthfuls.

Where is your hometown? We cannot find it
on the map. What is your pedigree, where is your
divinity degree? Why do you disagree with every
law we have coveted for so long? If you are right,
then we are wrong
and we cannot fathom anything more permanent
than our wallpapered temples at the center of power.

What is your language, share with us your alphabet.
Why do you think you can speak to us like that?
We have gathered, we have met
and our conclusions prove you are a threat
to all our preconceptions.

We cannot believe that you have not been
arrested yet.

The Shape of Sunday

The Shape of Sunday

(“Be sure to give to them without any hesitation. When you do this, the Lord your God will bless you in everything you work for and set out to do.” Deuteronomy 15:10)

There are always more people driving past the corner
where the ragged people sleep earlier than the arm of the sun.
Minivans with fish decals turn left instead of right
to miss the cardboard signs and boarded up shoes.
Men in collars, some in habits, pass the concrete where
the cracks and broken backs wait and try to catch their eye.

Get up early man.
Plant your seed with the sunrise.
Apply within. Generate your CV where the sidewalk ends.
Get a bath son.
Shave your face with your bowtie.
Save your money. Put a little away for a rainy day.

While you do; I’ll pray.

-----

He cannot remember they shape of Sunday,
he barely knows his name.
But I used to golf with him, debate with him,
and prayed with him for the Spirit’s flame.
Friends, peers, ministers; we patted each other’s
midlife backs on the links and in the fire.

He shepherded a river of sorts, and then I dove in too.
He bred new sheep a thousand miles south while I
briefly put my feet in the river unsteadily.

A million years later he was on the road to Jericho,
and waylaid by robbers, they took his health,
and now he cannot remember the shape of Sunday,
he barely knows his name.

He lives within broken synapses, he lives in
a frail apartment above an in-law’s garage. His wounds
are still untended, his breath slow as his mind.

And for all the life he spoke, for all the joy of the river,
for all the sheep who prance in the curling hills,
he is left with nothing but

Feet that have wandered to follow the Shepherd,
and slices of memory of words out of time.

-----

Don’t tell him you love him if you don’t touch the same dirt he does.
Rich or destitute, our feet are stuck to the ground.
First and last, the last will thirst until the first offer a
drink from the river.
The first in line who led you there
deserve a share of the crystal waters and the
trees on either side with leaves for
the healing of nations.
Is it too difficult a notion to provide him
some comfort, some health, some better abode
and some

Gratitude for a

Job well done?

Even when he cannot remember once, or the month or 

your name?