And Then the Wind Turned

 And Then the Wind Turned

(“They stopped asking, ‘Where is the Lord who brought us from the land of Egypt…’” Jeremiah 2:6a)

There was a time when I thought that
an empty room
and vacant thoughts
meant God had left the premises.
There was a time I screamed for
God’s return.
There was a time when I was certain
that wind like fire was
the certification of a job well done.
There were times I fasted badly,
told no one (or only a few)
and convinced myself had I held out longer
my troubles and temptations would have
melted like ice cream in the sun.
There was a time when I expected everyone
to agree. 

And then the wind turned on itself
when the big voices
insisted hurricanes were God’s destruction
for
blank and blank and so much sin that
it stank in his nostrils. Can we begin again? 

Please? 

Did God knock down trees simply to appease
your bluster mister man while you collected diamonds
on the backs of the poor?
And while you spread lies about stolen votes
you have sucked the soul right out of the nation.
How much fasting will replace your deceptions? 

Now I see (somewhat dimly)
the fullness of things, the revolution that
moves into the neighborhoods we once skirted
and called dark and oppressive. When,
all the while,
God waited for us to show up and see
what God was already doing. 

The Music Never Stopped

The Music Never Stopped

(“Blow the trumpet in Zion; sanctify a fast; call a solemn assembly.” Joel 2:15)

The loudspeakers are not selective,
their frequency soars across the plaza,
echoes off the stone hills,
pushes the river further downstream,
ricochets off the banks and restaurants downtown.

The banjos announce the time to assemble,
the mandolins sing the same again,
the brass hold back until the crows settle on
the asphalt paths and parking lots.
Congas call the drum circles’ song,
while whirling banners and shawls dance down
the back streets; the streams overflow as feet
skip and hurry to the call.

Even steeples seem higher, enemies shyer,
and confreres delight in the deepening day.
The tables are spread like a village wedding
on the sidewalks, on the boulevard,
on front lawns, on courthouse steps;
The weeping is over and repentance has
washed every debate away for another day.

We celebrate like children again, laugh as we
sing like Dylan again. The borders have opened,
the doors are unlocked, we have opened our ears
and learned the stories of immigrants and widows,
and those from african, caribbean, muslim, cynic
and pagan descent. We bowed our heads just long enough
to hear everything we thought God had never said.

We shed tears for the sheep we kept out of the pen,
for the words we called those who sang the blues over
and over
again.
We repaid the stolen generations, we honored the
broken treaties, we learned the native tongues
we once called foreign and delighted in their unfamiliar
rhythms. 

We reviewed the outcropping from peak to valley
and had never seen the imported air the same.

The music never stopped; we still learned silence.
The feasting never ended; we still fasted with grace.
The churches did not close; we still chose the way
the light played over everything.
The lion, the lamb, the prayerful and uncertain,
the oldschool, the post-modern, sat on the lawn
all day long
and woke at dawn to start the festival
over again.