And the Fog Grabbed Me

And the Fog Grabbed Me

(“You were like sheep wandering away. But now you have returned to the Shepherd. He is the one who watches over your souls.” 1 Peter 2:25)

And the fog grabbed me deep gray,
and the streetlights faded away,
and the avenues were dripping,
the roadway was slipping towards the
outside of the city.
I turned the steering wheel and
turned it again. I consulted long abandoned
side streets and could not find the
way home.

The sun had dropped hours ago,
the moon had lost all of its night-glow,
the stars had departed their places,
the fog broke my vision and filled the spaces
between the nose of my car and the
height of a man. I could not understand my
ability to be lost; I had entered the town
in daylight. Was I paying the cost for waiting
too long to journey home?

A green sign barely lit through the haze
seemed to rise from in front of me. A sign
with highway numbers, a sign pointing to the
205.
Cautiously I turned onto the ramp,
breathing heavy only frosted my windshield
and the mist hid most everything else.
I followed a semi out of the city.

I am not harmed by my meandering,
I am only a refugee here.
I had gone to meet a friend who loves music,
I had gone to meet her and busk awhile.
I would have sojourned longer but the night
caught up to me. She is a PhD in psychology,
I’m just a weary member of the clergy.
She is a meditating Buddhist,
I am just a melancholy Christian.

Home came in view after nearly two hours,
the fog grabbed the riverbanks like fingers
from an underwater creature. I still hear
our music as I pull into my drive.

Like an Autoharp

Like an Autoharp

(“My sheep listen to my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.” John 10:27)

It never occurred to me, but I’m sure it happened,
someone recognized the riffs I had written so long ago.
So I recorded an alternate version. Disguised my voice.
Detuned my guitar. Hammered the piano strings like an
autoharp. I dreamed
I was Bob Dylan. I thought I could compose something
like pinball percussion. I tamper with the tempo too often.
I staged a guitar circle like it was 1973.

My lyrics stood the test of time, but rhyming was not my thing.
I sat down to write and rose up to play. And nothing new was
created. My mind runs on synthesized loops, my mind runs
in circles. My mind collects bracelets and trinkets and
turns them into idols.

I hear another voice, in the sky, in the earth, in my flesh,
in cricket clicks and blue jay calls-and-response. If I
ever find a way,
I’ll repay those anonymous composers with a cover
of the song
the Shepherd sings.
I’ll recognize the patterns I have heard all along.

My verses swerve from angel-hair skies to red
eyed
monsters in the night. My themes were never good
enough
for jazz. My fingers swell with age and forget
fretboard playfulness. I’ll try again,
listening to the wind,
remembering the way we used to change keys
in the middle of a measure. 

Covered with Bricks

Covered with Bricks

(“Jesus replied, ‘This very night before a rooster crows twice, you will say three times that you don't know me.’” Mark 14:30)

Fixed in time, the prophecy announces the dawn nearer
midnight than most. I did not recognize him in the
firelight
once the opposition seemed to have the upper hand.

Storm

The

Temple,

I wanted to say. I could not comprehend the ways of
bloody stripes and shame. I knew his name
but I had not seen these shadows before, nor
had expected them.

Deliver

Us

Now,

I wanted to cry. Instead I stood by, my mind dull, my
body paralyzed, and my tongue thick in my mouth. I don’t
know.

I

Don’t

Know

Is all I said. How had the tables turned? Had we not earned
a seat at the table, a place in the kingdom, a world where we
finally won?

We do not know him because we only see him
in thunderclouds and brimstone, in conflagrations and
bloodstones filling the valleys up to the bridles of the horses.

We

Don’t

Know

A thing. We only deny him because we never see him
in the eyes of the lynched. We are unhinged, doorways to
the peaceable kingdom covered with bricks.

And the roosters crow again and again
until we are ready to see the dove descend upon
the Son of Man and the eagle bow before the
shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep.

We Might Have Been There

We Might Have Been There

(“Acknowledge that the Lord is God. He made us, and we are his—his people, the sheep of his pasture.” Psalm 100:3)

Depleted,
exhausted,
gazing across the land everything looked
like a flatfish lying on desert sand. We might
have been there to forget.

Rising,
enlivened,
embracing the entire scene, help was sent,
sweet like the refrain of a lover’s serenade.
We might
have been there for the sunset.

You don’t use tear gas on congregants who gather in the streets,
just to prop up
your next photo-op
and pose like the king of crosses that only burn.

But there is one that gathers crowds, tosses joy, plays catch
with girls and boys who don’t understand a word that is said.
There is one who eschews military tactics, has no throne or palace,
but leads the muddy to living waters and the barren to
emerald fields.

Awakened,
agnostic,
hearing the late show commercials and feeling old
like it was time to finally learn how to touch. We might
have been there to speak up.

They Also Traveled Alone

They Also Traveled Alone

(“And you, my sheep, the sheep of my pasture, are my people, and I am your God, declares the Sovereign Lord.” Ezekiel 34:31)

It wasn’t a game, this vagabond life unleashed
near the end of marking the map carefully, reading
the words like carpentry, measuring twice and cutting once,
never allowing the slightest variance, never taking the unlost
navigation of nuance.

Who would leave me? Who would stay? Who would say nothing
so I never knew either way? The landscape was gray, the air
heavy and filled my lungs like lead, like the dread of becoming
a gypsy alone.

It should not matter, I told myself. I need to get where I am going,
though the destination is befogged with doubt and unknowing. It
should not
matter. I could tell others had traveled the same route, and by the
footprints I knew, they also traveled alone.

I was too old to wander, too far along to travel that far from home.
I was too lonesome to travel single, but no one I knew was on the path.
I was too unsure to travel friendless, though some spoke on my behalf.
But all I wanted was provision to make it home, all I needed were
contributions to shorten this exile with a check or a song.

You see, I know less than I knew before. I probably know less
than the initiates at baptism’s door. I’ve shed so much skin,
emptied the backpack entirely. The days and empty sidewalks,
the pain and the silence are grinding me down to the barest bones
of belief; the dust of a soul undone.

This detour seems like a moving away from faith and
the beginning of unbelief. The destination stays clouded,
the navigation unclear.

Yet, less knowing than hoping, in the emptiness, the thinness,
the silence and the desolation, there was, not much more than
the opaque slice of dreams, another who walked with me,
another who watched my feet, another who believed in me
better than all my unbelief. I’m still a vagrant and I still wander,
but I wish I could travel far beyond the sign posted “lost”.
Then, maybe then,
another would discover me waiting where the streams run dry and
the meadows have turned to brown.

The Sheep of My Pasture

The Sheep of My Pasture

“And you, my sheep, the sheep of my pasture, are my people, and I am your God, declares the sovereign Lord.” Ezekiel 34:31

Have you ever thought about what it is like to be a sheep? No? I suppose it is not one of those daydreams many of us have. If we were to imagine being an animal we might choose the stately lion, the majestic eagle or maybe a playful puppy. Sheep just don’t come to mind that often.

Yet God describes us as His sheep numerous times throughout Scripture and Jesus calls us as His “little flock”. Sheep are not solitary animals; they flourish in flocks. And domesticated sheep need a shepherd; a good shepherd. That is God’s primary message in Ezekiel 34. His people had been ruled by “shepherds” who had no cared for the people’s needs at all.

Instead of caring for and feeding the sheep, these rulers had fed themselves. “You eat the fat, you clothe yourselves with the wool, you slaughter the choice animals, but you do not feed the sheep!” God tells them (Ezekiel 34:3) They did not strengthen the weak, heal the sick, bandage the injured, bring back strays or seek the lost. Instead they were harsh and forcefully exerted their power over the people. (Ezekiel 34:4)

As a result, the people were scattered and were, like sheep, put at risk and became “food for every wild beast.” Leaders, whether religious, business or political, are called to look at the needs of those around them and be good shepherds. Instead of finding ways to exert personal power, a good leader seeks out the hurt and brings healing. A good leader finds ways to heal the sick and weak. A good leader refuses to hold back they good they can do for those who have suffered injury.

Think about the goodness of Jesus Himself. Matthew 12:20 say about Jesus: “He will not break a bruised reed or extinguish a smoldering wick, until he brings justice to victory.” Bruised reeds matter to Jesus! We must understand that first and foremost. When God sees our broken places He immediately sets out to heal them. When He sees the fire nearly going out He immediately acts to ignite the flame again. He does not blame, He does not condemn: He heals.

As His followers, we are called to be the same. We are Jesus in the world. Spirit-filled believers are the “flock” of this Good Shepherd. But, we also become shepherds ourselves. When we see injustice in the world, we should also say, “Bruised reeds matter.” We who have received the healing, strength and care of the Almighty are called to take that same compassion into the world.

It is easy to rely on people to gain what we think we need in life, but it is the care of Father-God that truly satisfies. We will make mistakes along the way. We will step forward when we should have waited. We will wait when we should have acted. But, if we are living in complete dependence on God’s loving care, we turn from those mistakes and reach out to the hurting once more.

As a church, I hope we at River of Life are creating a safe space for the flock of God. For a good shepherd, every new lamb is treated with the same care as any other. And, those that are weaker often receive more intimate care because they are more in need. I hope we are creating an environment where people can share the joys and the hurts they feel. I hope we are a place that people do not have to act like all the other sheep to fit in. We will go through ups and downs throughout life, but the love of God will always move us to greater compassion for others and less self-promotion. We love each other well when we point to the hope we have in Christ while never ignoring the painful circumstances that may be present. Remember, to follow Jesus means to be part of a flock. Don’t stay away from the sheep pen.

Let us throw the doors of our hearts wide open. Jesus was constantly stopping to heal those who the world had passed by. Jesus gave His time to despised tax-collectors and prostitutes. They mattered to Him. You matter to Him. And, sheep who have been excluded for one reason or another especially matter to Him.

Father, may we truly follow You as our Shepherd. Let us learn to rely on Your for Your personal care and healing of our lives. Create in us the same heart You have for all people and help us give the same grace we have received.