I’d Like to Buy a Thousand Angels

I’d Like to Buy a Thousand Angels

(“God desires everyone to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth.” 1 Timothy 2:4)

Your retail price for a thousand angels ($1000 dollars check or cash)
is far more than I can afford. Incidentally I already know of nearly
a thousand
that surround me day and night.
Some have faces I recognize, some have names I have forgotten,
some are invisible, some as small as butterflies.

Why do you take the money that belongs to individuals,
why do you charge for blessings that are free?
Incidentally, I have wondered how my cash increases my
angelic horde, how they surround me, just based on your word?

I’ve walked in the rain enough times to know
that the range of angelic protection each day does not include
a promise to stay dry. It’s not their fault,
I need the rain to wash away doubts and inhibitions.

You promise an enemy to my enemies,
and I gasp that you call it gospel. You have
drastically raveled up the beautiful story,
the one that gives enemies our love.

The story is plain, the position insanely more pleasant
than prying dollar bills from an old man’s hands.
I’ll keep my angels, thank you, and move my offerings
to someone who refuses to make insane promises,
to someone who has no idea I gave them anything.
I’ll keep my angels, I’ve known them too long now
to start new incidents and replacements for those who
have hung around long enough to put up with my
doubts, suspicions and desires to visit the donut shop.

So, here I stand, with messengers who have walked
with me through swamps and deserts, through inhibitions and
oppositions. But never did I ask them to become an enemy even
to my most ardent foe.

We Forgot About the Bread

We Forgot About the Bread

(“If you had obeyed me, you would have had peace like a full-flowing river. Good things would have flowed to you like the waves of the sea.” Isaiah 48:18)

Waiting for the day to arise,
for the full sun, the faint sky to push
broadly
through the clouds pretending they are
stone walls
between rumors below and
and celestas above.

And we wait for angels.

I would rather an old friend hug
me for one minute longer
than meet an extra-terrestrial, winged
and spinning. When someone told me
they paid for my stay,
I did not assume they were heavenly.
I was happy they lived next door to me.

Once I prayed for days on end for
fire. Once I thirsted privately and
imagined visions suggested to me.
I pounded the carpeted floor,
I petitioned the bronze anatomy of
heaven
to help me convince onlookers
of my spiritual bona fides. There was
little left to hide while I watched for a
wind or a
wave or a
dream or an
angel (so it seemed).

While we knelt behind pianos,
while we were prostrate on antique floorboards,
we hoped for a handout from a messenger to tell us
we had been in the presence of god.

Amens sometimes punctuated the crying. Fierce
words brewed within cauldrons; souls bubbling over with
who knew what or why.

While we prayed just 10 minutes longer to guarantee
our purity,
and did so in all sincerity,
we forgot about the bread and the fishes
and the five and some-odd thousand who waited
for bread.

Scars Lose their Luster

Scars Lose their Luster

(“The Lord gives his people strength; the Lord grants his people security.” Psalm 29:11)

Scars lose their luster only in the eyes of those
who have never seen the strength it takes to
stand in the way while soundwaves encircle
like sharks.

It takes a different breath to blow summer bubbles than
to extinguish birthday candles. The gentle air slides inside
the soapy film and it folds upon itself. The huge inhale and
puffed out cheeks whoosh past the wicks and complete the
next stage of gray. Each, in their own way,
are rainbow art and photography.

Look closely at the cratered face,
there once was something magic there,

that either disintegrated upon impact
or was excised by the scalpels of a thousand tongues.

Look clearly at the furtive eyes,
there once was something sparkling there,
that either evaporated upon drought
or was dispatched by the hackles of a thousand guns.

And still, and swinging on the pendulum of song…

It is the power that allows the widow to cry,
it is the peace that encourages the barroom reply,
it is the abundance that fully walks upon the earth,
it is the language that defines all as equal worth;
all is spiritual in the tongue of the redeemed.

It is gritty, not ghostly;
it is dirt clods not prayer cloths.
It is cattle and hay, new births and old departures.
All and in all, the strength is as the day.

We will, and swaying on the compasses of song…

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.