Love Songs for Everyone

Love Songs for Everyone

(“But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” Matthew 6:33)

Demonizing immigrants is not doing anything
for the kingdom of God.
Vilifying gays does not accomplish God’s dream
for the world.
Letting the poor in,
but insisting they sit where they cannot be seen,
is from a kingdom of this world, a kingdom headed by
a Satan who only wants to discredit God’s grace.
Letting the mentally challenged have a place,
but insisting they better never become ushers,
misses everything that God has ever dreamed.

Seek the dream, the one where every tribe, nation,
language, and ethnic group, every sexuality, every
bisected economy of the poor, rich or medial are one;
seek the kingdom, where God is happy that
uncommon odors cannot deny a teenager a place
in the celebration of grace. Open wide the gates,
and do not lock them again. Throw open the windows
and let the unbridled joy seep into the neighborhood.
Let it waft into kitchen windows of those who
wondered why they were never invited. Let it whisk
around the room like Thanksgiving pie baked hours
before its partaking. Let the words learn holy silence.
Let the words learn that tongues do not need to wag.
Let the words learn the happy sound when someone finds
their way to our group who knows nothing of our niceties.

Open your arms wide, learn their faces, repeat their names,
invite them for lunch, sit with their children, play their games,
roll the tonka trucks for the littles to roll back. Tell the adults
there is no qualification for our little group. Some of us
are not sure what we think about God these days. Some of us
are undeterred and couldn’t be moved from faith by the worst
calamity possible. Some are CEOs, some are dishwashers,
some are behind on their rent, some own their homes outright.
But together we are a dream come true, a dream formulated
in eternity past, in the heart of God. A dream that sees the kingdom
full of every possible extraction and opinion.

I’ve been poor, I’ve been broke, I’ve been okay, I’ve been saved.
I’ve been well-off, not really rich. I’ve been waiting to be a part
of something like this.
There are no greater riches than the grace we find hidden
in the lives we once had bidden adieu to. Isn’t it time to
hear their stories, affirm their humanity, celebrate the divine
that dwells in them as certainly as we think it does in us?
Isn’t it time that our worship is simply full of
love songs for everyone.

The Appropriate Fashion

The Appropriate Fashion

(“What good is there in your saying to them, ‘God bless you! Keep warm and eat well!’—if you don't give them the necessities of life?” James 2:1
6)

If only you would wear the appropriate fashions,
if only you had proof of your labor,
we might hear what you are saying,
we might ride that wave with you.
But first impressions have caught us in the undertow.

Here is some macaroni and cheese from our potluck,
oh, and an old shirt used as a rag I found in the storage closet.
We have five acres and three thousand square feet but,
not a single place to lay your head, not a single place
for a temporary home.

We must be responsible. What if you steal everything.
And God know, if our insurance caught wind,
we would pay through the nose to treat you well.
We don’t know your background, but we are pretty sure,
from the way you smell, you’ve been smoking that weed again.
You can’t fool us,
we are not children.

I must hurry back upstairs, the worship team is starting to play.
There is a seat near the back I think, right behind the sound booth.
(All he wants to hear is something that sounds like truth.)
All we want to give are tickets to heaven,
all we donate goes into the plate to keep the lights on and
inflate the pastor’s pocket. (Although all he wants is to help
people like you.)

“People like me? What do you mean? I did not schedule this visit.
Someone told me I would be welcomed today.”

Yes, but you need to leave the same time everyone else is dismissed.
We have a long list of ways our charity has been enlisted once a
month
on the third Wednesday of the month.

Stay warm until, and here is some cornbread to take wherever
you lay your head. We’re sorry, but we simply have no accommodations

Here.

Simply Complex

 

Simply Complex

(“Then Jesus said, ‘I have come into this world to judge: Blind people will be given sight, and those who can see will become blind.’” John 9:39)

Paper thin eyes scan the horizon line
for the next message sent from gathering skies
to caulk the open seams of frightful facades.

Who could shiver more?

It is all piecemeal anyway, this grand passageway
through time. One grain and another falls on top
of endless beaches and some pretend to
count them all.

Who could hide beneath the piers that long?

The handful I carry today will be half as much tomorrow,
the sighs might be laughter,
the racing heart may find rest after
a simple lunch of
wine and cheese.

Who could promise days like these?

Feigning sanity we mow down the opposition.
We protect our position in the castle on the hill
pinning all our hopes on cannons that make fodder
of all who advance on the slopes below.

Who could explain it to the maker of the mountains?

We even write our copy out loud,
read the news, eat green beans, walk the dog,
make love, reheat pizza and save bags of marbles
for another day. We are not complicated, we are
simply complex.

Who could confine grace to words between leather covers?

Some Recitations

Some Recitations

(“Keep praying. Pay attention when you offer prayers of thanksgiving.” Colossians 4:2)

I woke with my face frozen in hot anxiety,
the result of hard dreams between fitful waking;
a conflict, a comrade, the nightmare lasted only moments,
but went on well into the night.

I woke with time emptied; full of iron and snow,
unknowing and dissonant angles meeting like arrows
shot from the basement of my brain toward full consciousness.

I woke with my face leaden but wanting stained glass panes
between the outlines of the day. Where do I take my complaints
when pain repeats itself like half-tone chords in percussive polyglot?

I left my place in faith and now it feels I’ve climbed the apex of foolishness.
I stay a few steps from home while my mind wanders the prairies and
rivers,
the buttes and blizzards, the pow-wows and county fairs,
the dares and know-how of a more convinced mood and time.

My mind wanders to the places where I sat with friends the best,
ate their bread, drank their coffee, laughed, cried, argued-prayed,
relied on their couch, drank of their confidence, and occasionally

Doubted together what we so loudly professed.

I am thankful for the slim faith, the uncertainty and shyness
that kept us begging for heaven while planted on the ground.

I am thankful that gravity was heavy today and kept the atmosphere
so close I could smell each molecule, feel the air of a birdwing leaping
from the peak of a roof.

I am weary today and should be thankful I have no jobs to do,
no schedules to keep. But I can’t keep from thinking that someone
will pop by, lie back in the chair and just say

“I needed this.”

I am thankful God does not take my melancholy as a sign of
diffidence,
but merely the way I’m made; the way His hands molded the
folds and fissures of my brain. There is a chance of rain,
the summer weighs more than the spring, and life keeps on
rolling past my expectations.

I am thankful some recitations mean simply what they mean.

Simply Put

Simply Put

(“Blessed are those who endure when they are tested. When they pass the test, they will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.” James 1:12)

What is my love compared to the trails You have left with
my heart?
Are my faltering steps enough for the race when I know
I once flew faster? There were friends I once would ask,
but now they do not answer my letters.

Pain is the dungeon, depression the iron door, and where is the
something more,
the crown,
the life,
the speed,
the gown of white,
the reed unbroken and the smoking wick
relit?

Which foot should I put forward now? Which direction, and
how do I know when to lay my head upon the grass because
the world is far too fast for the ache that started in my heart and
now has lasted too long in my head?

Can I tell you the truth, Father-I-hope? I am tired of the test and want
to lay my pencil down. Grade me now and let me finish. I’ll take an
incomplete if I have to.

Suffering and glory, crowns and crosses; that was Your story, but

I need the alphabet to be flesh. I need the paragraphs to be persona;
the stories to be more than mystery; but my contemporary now.

Visit me in more than my dreams, beyond the page, within the schemes
of my undulating hobby of ache. I wander the fields of my youth,
the days of laughter and acoustic songs, flutes and singalongs,
and I was so much smarter than anyone knew.

Now I know how narrow is the science which pulled the blinds so tightly,
that Your light is the sliver of morning where the dust hangs.
And, simply put, I haven’t seen a sunrise since before North Dakota
on the Missouri.