To See You Dance

To See You Dance

All I want is to see you dance the
way a toddler does at a wedding
in the rain
after the music has stopped
before the cake is cut. All I want is
to see you child and free.

All I want is to hear you sing the
way a robin does before the morning
shines on the dew
after the roosters have crowed. All I want is
to hear you sing for the roses and sunflowers,
for the does and rabbits, for the grass and the breeze.

All I want is to feel the blue of your eyes
scanning the skies for the next joyful song
in the meadow
after the picnic and
before the quiet stroll home. All I want is
to feel you like a cloud embracing the
naming of your day, the meaning of the
beloved, the skipping stones across a crystal
lake.

All I’ve said, and left unsaid,
I’ve stuttered far too often, and muttered
to myself afterward that
everything I say has too many meanings.
I want to play, and simply play, to dig
in the sand,
to tell you the ocean belongs to you.

Here is my heart. It’s damaged I know.
Here is the me-of-me, sometimes making
mud pies I pass off as birthday cakes. Until
you taste it, and somehow say it’s the best cake
you’ve ever had.

Here is the sorrow of me, the hammered part that
only wants to play the music that will help you
dance.
Here is the insanity, only wanting the lyrics that
fill your mouth with songs and joy.

If the morning allows, I will show you the sun
beaming on the tulip fields,
and slowly walk away as your
aches are healed, your face shines
new like noon,
your eyes, sometimes red with tears,
wide open like summer.

If the morning allows I
would bring coffee and conversation,
and tell you I understand,
and will always, until the last dance
on faltering feet,
understand even better than before.

An Underprivileged God?

An Underprivileged God?

(“The angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream, saying, ‘Arise, and take the child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and remain there till I bring you word. For Herod will seek the child to kill him.’” Matthew 2:13)

I have been quite fortunate. Born in the United States I have never had to flee for my life because of political uprisings. I have never been persecuted or jailed because of my race or political leanings. I have never experienced hunger due to famine or the greed of an insatiable ruling class. And, I certainly have not been forced to flee my country out of fear of my life.

That “fortune” is sometimes called “privilege”. Surrounded by provision from the day I was born it can be difficult for me to identify with others who have less. That struggle is yet more real when I try to imagine the lives of those disrupted by war, famine and direct persecution. Though my upbringing was lower middle-class, we never wanted for a thing. Because of that privilege, I must make a determined effort to understand others who experience danger and destitution simply because they live somewhere on the globe where humanity is not respected.

I have never been a refugee. But Jesus was.

One moment the wise men are worshiping Jesus and giving him gold, frankincense and myrrh. In the next, Joseph is warned in a dream to flee to Egypt with Mary and Jesus. Fortunately, Egypt had become a place of asylum for Jews in political danger.

King Herod could not bear to hear a toddler was called “The King of the Jews”. Enraged, he had all the children in and around Bethlehem killed; as many as were two years old and under.

Jesus was a refugee. So was Joseph, and so was Mary. Fortunately, though a historical enemy, Egypt did not close its borders to this young family. They settled in a foreign land until Herod died and an angel again appeared to Joseph telling him to go back to Israel. “They are dead who sought the child’s life,” said the angel.

This is what God is like! God wanted to be a refugee. Scripture continually tells us that Jesus is the exact representation of God. Jesus Himself says, “If you have seen Me, you have seen the Father.” The Apostle John put it this way: “No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.” (John 1:18)

So, for all the angels we sing about at Christmas, for all the gifts the Magi bring, for all the cherub-like scenes of shepherds worshiping the Child, there is another episode that tells us what this New Born King is like.

That episode includes fleeing for His life. That episode includes so much danger in His home country that He is forced to escape and ask asylum in another. That episode includes a young father, mother and son eking out a living in a country where they did not even know the language, not knowing when or if they could return to their native country of Israel.

But Jesus was an immigrant the moment He was born on planet earth. Jesus, King of kings and Lord of lords did not arrive in glorious regalia. We might have rolled out the proverbial red carpet if He had. But, you see, that is not what God is like. He took the low route, the overlooked route, even the despised route. Born to a poor young couple, He slept His first night on straw among barn animals. That was His choice.

Later Jesus would tell a prospective follower, “Do you really want to follow me? Remember, birds have nests and foxes have holes, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.” Jesus, homeless? Maybe so. And again, maybe it is because that is what God is like. Not that God doesn’t have anywhere to live, but that He wants to live among us, even the lowest of us. Even the discarded, the refugee, the disenfranchised, the ridiculed, outcast and ignored.

When Jesus was crucified, they even had to put His body in a borrowed tomb. No room at the inn, no room in His native country, and no tomb of His own. But He does have a home. His birth among the lowly signals God’s intention, as well as the name with which Isaiah described Him, “Emmanuel” or “God with us.”

Jesus’ birth, his refugee status, his wanderings, and even his solitary burial speak of a God who loves us so much that He reduced Himself, emptied Himself, gave up all privilege, to bring us to Him. Let this Christmas remind you what God is truly like.

I Will Sing of the Freedom

I Will Sing of the Freedom

(“Always give thanks for all things to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” Ephesians 5:20)

It was sometimes the precise language that bothered me,

like indigestion after too many doughnuts. I cannot seriously
thank God
for detention camps and quarantined families.

And to offer gratitude in the name of the authorities who put them there;

who do not see the dark-haired mothers scorched upon the road of escape,
who refuse to hear the broken candles of prayers cut off before the answer

who defy the cries of wrinkled notes with grandparent's phone numbers scribble inside.

You tell me to give thanks, and I will, for families with such life that dare our borders
for refuge and asylum from the eardrum-splitting violence of their own homes,
their kindred villages, to seek a hand to help them across the border
to air with less smoke and more invitations to join the
purple majesties and and golden grains. No one told them

half-way through their journey

that families no longer matter in the land they heard was free.

I will give thanks for mother and fathers, for older brothers and sisters,
for baby girls and boys. I will utter praise for the progeny of the Father
who come to our borders and scale the wall if the must, to find just a speck
of justice on
the other side of the fences.

I will sing of the freedom seekers, I will write the songs that urge them on.
I will thank the Father who loves them forward, the Son, the refugee whose long
and ancient Days are full of families who sought a better home, a greater city,
a place where a woman could decide, right or wrong; and where a man could choose,
up or down; until the seeds took root or the boss cut the check

or until the new land of their sojourn
joined the song and thanked the Father of Life
for the spice, the dance, the song, and perchance,
the greater nation that opens its heart to families
like our families
that once upon a time

placed uncertain feet upon the shores of an experimental nation
that hard-pressed, learned the love of freedom as slowly as a toddler
following its mother home.