That Leads You Home

That Leads You Home

(“At that time I will bring you home, at the time when I gather you together.” Zephaniah 3:20a)

 

Slightly lower below the
sunrise hills
there glows a beacon that
leads you home.

It does not screech, it only beams,
it intervenes between hope and
bleak shadows that have
occupied your mind.

Some days the sun shines
but your shoes are not ready for walking,
The next day the fog lays
across the hills hiding their ever green.

There were no frowns, only furrowed
foreheads and unlikely thoughts of what
had turned this dark so soon. Some mornings
beckon with a better tune.

Suddenly our riches were fading, our coins
melting in the danger of the day. Quietly, though,
a new economy was coming, a new exchange,
all for all from unguarded watchmen who found
their pockets full of misting and rainbows.

Overnight someone sent invitations,
late afternoon we all made our plans,
early evening we gathered the adulation
we felt when we knew our clan was meeting
with us for good.

His Walk Was Interrupted

His Walk Was Interrupted

(“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28)

 

His walk we interrupted, his thoughts diverted from
the increasing potency of pointed reflexes. He saw
his image in each drop of rain. He heard his name in
the wind that exposed the trees and stripped the leaves to
create autumn’s carpet.

He rarely wandered, but liked to explore.
He rarely spoke, but liked to ask questions.
He liked the wildlife that posed just beyond his
itinerant feet.
He liked the voice, sounding like a child, that
whispered truth so rare he had forgotten
that once upon a time he memorized the faces of
children. And now they had children and
grandchildren
of their own.

He used to walk to work. He used to stop and
visit with the widow who tended her roses and
fountain in her front yard across the street from
the courthouse. He didn’t know all their names,
but petted the dogs who lived on the edges of
downtown.

It did not take much these days to throw
him off balance,
his equilibrium was affected as much by
gravity as it was by sound. He spun
inside, he twisted everything around his heart
in vain attempts to forget the faces that
ghostly adults displayed. He knew there
was a place created,
an Eden orchestrated,
that invited his rest.

And sometimes he did. Rest.
And sometimes he didn’t. Rest.
And rest became his comfort. Quilt.
And rest became his prayer. Quilt.

And he was blanketed by the name that
gives all the world the definitions that,
if we are willing to hear,
describe a love that transcends the
misuse of letters sent ages ago. He
needed to hear from former days;
he needed to listen more slowly and
pick up his pace. He loved the moments
when he forgot the epithets appended
to his name.

In the Silence Between Thoughts

In the Silence Between Thoughts

In the silence between thoughts,
the milliseconds of listening; that
is where the peace is found. Unaccompanied music
swings us like leaves in the wind.

I know the endless narration, the novella we never
meant to write. But it is fiction, it is not your story
today.

Find someone to read it to you anew;
I will start at the beginning with a new
chapter every day. I will remind you that
those unmanaged words like rocks, the barbs
of fiery poison,
do not bear your name. They are not the holy space
where you hear secrets so sacred they are
barely breathed to life within you. I will
hold your tears, offer you the palms of my hands,
and if you need,
to let you cry again.

You have been scribbled on too long. Now
breathe your name slowly. Hear your own voice
tell the wounded child
you are not at fault. You are not less, you are not
minus in a world
of aggressive arithmetic.

In the sun, between the silences,
imbued with blue, let the artist paint your portrait.
Stilly. Sit within the loving gaze of all who
treasure the moments they spend with you.

In the purple night, separated from the blistering
rage that demands your perfection,
see the blinking above, the caress of cool grass
under your feet,

And let your name be more precious than even
saints can imagine. Let the namer of all things
call you like a mother rings the dinner bell.
Let all the wonders of you
seep in like a late summer waterfall.

Between the songs, unafraid of love,
let the rewriting begin. Your story.
Your song. Your name.
Your eyes and your lungs
steeped in the sacredness of simply
being. The perfume of heaven,
the shoulder to lay your head upon,
the stream washing your feet in the
silence between waking and dreams.

The Cocoon Broke Open

The Cocoon Broke Open

(“Many people are suffering—crushed by the weight of their troubles. But the is a refuge for them, a safe place they can run to.” Psalm 9:9)

The doorway was locked to him,
he would not have entered anyway.
The doormat said, “all welcome”,
he knew he would have to become like them.

His wounds were invisible to all but his friends
who listened to his soul.  

So people thought his tears were
for dramatic effect. They thought he should control
his emotions. They thought God should have healed him.
They thought he must have done a lot of nasty shit to
be so broken so easily.

And maybe he did.
And maybe he didn’t.

He tried the promise of sanctuary in the habitat of
pews and stained glass,
to tents and loud guitars,
to youth groups and flag football,
to speaking in tongues and baptisms in ponds,
to trying to stop rainstorms with mighty prayer
and repair the breaches that
did not desire to be repaired.

And finally, the cocoon broke open and his
slimy
wings felt more vulnerable than before. For a moment
he wished
to be back in the front row, reading the hymns, tapping his toes,
and imaging halos around the choir members.

In time his wings were dry, and fluttering,
getting his bearings, he landed upon the first place
he could find. Her hair was auburn as she worked
in her garden. He alit upon the top of her head, resting
before his next excursion. And then, unexpectedly he
heard her thoughts:

“Now I feel like a Disney princess.”

Crumbs

Crumbs

But she replied, “Yes, Lord, I know, but even the dogs under the table eat what the children leave.” Mark 7:28

It is one of the strangest encounters that Jesus has in the gospels. It is recorded in both Mark and Matthew. Jesus traveled outside of Judea (read “Israel”) and went to the Gentile area of Tyre. Mark tells us that Jesus wanted to be alone, and sought out a house for just that purpose. As always, it was impossible to hide him.

As soon as he arrived a Greek (read “unaccepted Gentile”) woman approached Jesus and bowed before him. Her daughter was being harassed by an evil spirit. There is no greater anguish than a parent whose child is suffering. This woman crosses all social boundaries in search of an answer for her daughter.

Gentiles were “dogs”. And not “puppies”, but scrounging dogs, in the minds of most Jews of the day. Anyone outside of Israel was considered unclean. Nationalism and ethnic pride kept those “dogs” at arm’s length. Being woman and a Gentile, this woman was breaking every rule in the book. But that’s what desperation can do. Desperation will drive you to see your need met, even from outside your comfort zone.

Matthew tells us that she calls Jesus, “Lord, Son of David.” Outside the faith and nation of Israel, she recognizes what many in Israel had not; here was the Messiah, the Lord. And she was unafraid to beg him for his help.

Perhaps, upon hearing that Jesus was in town, she hurried through her duties, asked about where he was staying, and scurried to find him. If only she could find him before him moved on somewhere else. Her mind was a mix of hope, anxiety, expectation and faith. “I’ve heard of Jesus. He has healed many. I think he even healed a Roman’s kid. If for them, then why not for me? But I am a woman, and a Gentile from Tyre. Their prophets have foretold devastation for our region…”

As her thoughts spin, she sees him. Immediately she bows before him with her request. But his answer is like a spear to her heart.

“It’s not right, you know, to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” He told her his message was first for the children of Israel. In the micro-second it takes for a thousand thoughts to echo in our brain, the woman must have shrunk back, wanted to cry, started to blush and perhaps wanted to run. But two things kept her body still: the desperate state of her daughter, and one more, nearly indiscernible thing.

Was that a gleam in his eye when Jesus talked about throwing the food to “dogs”? Surely this compassionate man, who stayed all day, wearing himself out physically and emotionally, to heal all who came to him, surely he wouldn’t really call me a “dog”, would he? Besides, there was that tone of voice. It was like he was saying, “I know what they call you….’dogs’”. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed like he gestured in the direction of Jerusalem as if to say, “that’s what they call you, isn’t it?”

She took courage. She saw more in his eyes and heard more in his tone of voice than the mere piercing words. And she decided that, in some way, he was inviting her forward, not pushing her away. She had heard the words before, with anger and hatred rising at their sound. But when Jesus said it, it was almost like an inside joke. “You know, and I know, there just simply are no ‘dogs’, sister, no matter what others say.”

So, she breathed deep, leaned into the wordplay and ventured one step closer: “Yes, Lord, I know, but even the dogs under that table eat what the children leave.”

Crumbs. That’s all she wanted; crumbs.

She had met Jesus. Before she had only heard about him, and all of it was good. All of it encouraged her to seek him out. But now, face to face, that voice, that invitation to spar, making her an equal, it all convinced her: There is so much grace in this man that even the crumbs are more than I will ever need.

That’s what happens when people truly come face to face with Jesus. The fear is dispelled. The hubris melts. The anger is dispersed. Because, even if all you ever get from Jesus is a little splash from the pool, it is enough. It really is. There is always more where that came from. His grace is both endless and potent.

I don’t think we meditate on the potency of His grace enough. But, for me, that is what this story illustrates. We read it without seeing the look on Jesus’ face nor his tone. But she saw it all. We read what sounds like a rebuff. She heard it as an invitation to engage. We read it as Jesus being stingy. She heard that anything Jesus gives is more than enough.

It isn’t that Jesus measures out a little here and a little there. No, He is lavish. But, from our viewpoint, we must stop looking for the big events. Along with this dear woman, we can be satisfied with “crumbs”, because the crumbs from Jesus’ hand are more powerful than the greatest abilities the earth can provide. The smallest piece of bread that falls from his hand is both more grace than I even need, and the promise that all he ever gives is every-increasing grace.

So Jesus tells her, “If you can answer like that, you can go home! The evil spirit has left your daughter.” Arriving home, she found her child lying quietly in her bed, perfectly at peace.

Every Year or Two

Every Year or Two

(“Christ ended the law so that everyone who believes in him may be right with God.” Romans 10:4)

Obsolete. Stuck in a snow globe with tinted glass,
all I’ve seen for a quarter century past are the gray arcs
of a home without corners to stash new thoughts. Left
with no filing system and trusting the handlers who shake
my occupation, I trust the simulations of winter.

Guarded: Within my residence I keep my thoughts to myself,
(heaven knows spokes are heard around the block and back)
and search every angle for another misdemeanor
in hopes my doctrine will not go missing.

(for the astute reader who is about to point out that my metaphor began with a globe and now describes searching every angle, you are to be saluted)

Incomplete. A closed system with nothing new to think,
nothing novel to drink, and memories of shrinking back
if a theory insisted freedom beyond my well-ordered turn.
Well-orbed living means, no matter which route I choose,
I will arrive. The paths are infinite, the destination prefabricated.

Artifacts. If you find my several parts under glass at the museum,
you may construct, with reasonable certainty, the square meter of space
I occupied. One pristine piece, briefly used and sadly set aside;
the Though Generator has been replaced by a turbine which keeps
every word in line, at its proper time, spaced apart to appear,
new

Every year or two.

Transformed. The lovely art I thought had freed me, deceived me;
the walls curved inward reflecting brief light back into a man-sized
follow spot upon a tiny stage. Centered, I was handcuffed by certainty.
Until the infinite touched my single-set theory and burst the walls
from the crystal ball I inhabited.

(for the previous travelers who have arrived here before me,
I will remember I may reside, even yet, in
a larger version of the globe from which I have been redeemed.)

Stuck in My Head

“Each of the four living creatures had six wings, and their bodies were covered with eyes. Day and night they never stopped singing, ‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord, the all-powerful God, who was and is and is coming!’” Revelation 4:8

Are you a person of habit or routine? I know I am. You could set your watch by my regular trip to the Post Office when I pastored my first church. I would drive the half mile into town, go to the PO Box, smile and greet the others retrieving their mail and head back to the office. On the way I stopped at a convenience store to pick up my second cup of coffee for the morning. Tuesday through Friday that was my routine.

Tethering Our Thoughts

“My friends, God has chosen you to be his holy people. So think about Jesus, the one we call our apostle and high priest!” Hebrews 3:1

I think about a lot of things. I have a mind that keeps spinning, chugging away like a perpetual motion machine. If my thoughts became visible, they would look like some Rube Goldberg creation. The first few motions of thought would seem sensible, but after a few moments the connection between the first and latest thought is lost.