Kids Playing Giddily

Kids Playing Giddily

(“Here there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all and in all.” Colossians 3:11)

The lenses I used to use only saw the unabused
and kept the battered in the dark. I could see them
if I wanted
but only to point out their obvious flaws.
Did hide them or did they shrink from my view?
I could not help but think their invisibility was their own failing;
my blindness was sanctified by voices from emperors and pulpits.

Then yesterday I was wondering where all the lonely people go
when I refuse to see them in their fully grown human glow. Then yesterday
the light broke in and shattered the mirror I had been primping in.
I looked again and saw the cracks and splinters that had hindered
my access to the truth.

I thought I might be pulled into the uncrafted classrooms
that taught
nothing but invented stories about the minds behind the
eyes of the people I never wanted to see. But yesterday I
sat down in the back of the room and heard languages I
did not understand.

But the cadence was familiar. The emphasis on the third syllable
of a sentence or the rising of a voice after a question. My pilgrimage
had led me here so I decided to stay. They gave me a name tag
for my shirt and I wrote as plainly as I could. I learned these were
all graduates from a school just down the road from the
block I grew up on. Now I heard their voices and they sounded
like my neighbor’s kids playing giddily in the yard. I had to admit
I missed the playfulness and changed my lenses to see

Everyone who was different from me. And I joined them,
learned their language, and sat in their circle learning the
inclusive invitations of the spirit’s voice.

A Pretty Good Day

A Pretty Good Day

(“Then he said, ‘I tell you the truth. You must change and become like little children. If you don’t do this, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’” Matthew 18:3)

Splash is a sound that slaps the salty sidewalks on
summer afternoons. Children take the water seriously,
pointing the hose at the nearest victim. Giggles turn the
corners round the houses of everyone who has come out to see
the joy that fills the street.

They were mostly grandchildren dancing like fountains,
toddlers tasting the sunlight as they hugged the water
spraying over them. They had not learned

(Like so many adults do)

That it feels so much like earning the days that
are given for free. They invite us to misbehave for just
a triangle of time each day.

Children take what is offered, unabashed liberty.
They point the water hose at each other and the liquid
looks like diamonds bouncing off the sod.
The day turns late, the shadows grow long and parents
whistle for children to come home. One more slide down the
wetted grass, one more mouthful of water from the hose,
one more dousing of your crush, and one more towel to
dry everyone off

All in all, it was a pretty good day.
No of a certain age needs to be taught to play.

Questions Don’t Always Have Answers

Questions Don’t Always Have Answers

(“Then he said, ‘I tell you the truth. You must change and become like little children. If you don’t do this, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’” Matthew 18:3)

I’ve seen you playing basketball in the street,
practicing your layups, your three-point plays,
your bounce passes and the hopes you will get to start
the very next game. But, though a teenager now, the child
hasn’t completely left, has it? I know you will even jump
on your trampoline with your 3-year-old sister. Maybe you
just put up with her, but that is what older brothers do.

I’m sure you’ve seen a slew of problems you would like to know
the answers to.
And even though you live right next to me, don’t hold out any hope
for certainty from me.

I know a girl whose mom died when she was 40. She nearly beat that
wicked cancer,
she did. But then her body was done. Her organs began shutting down,
her breathing became labored, and she was compassionately kept as
comfortable as possible.

We laid hands on her, didn’t we? All the relatives; her mom, her grandad,
her sisters, her daughter and their sometime pastor. We were convinced
God could do anything. We were persuaded God would not leave this
5-year-old child alone.

We used to ask for prayer requests at Sunday Services
and Nancy, that was the child’s name,
always asked for prayer for her momma. She asked for prayer when she
was in treatment,
she asked for prayer once she was buried. Nancy only knew God had
to do something good. And the something good would be having
mommy back in the house, laughing with her daughter, making
pumpkin pie together and walking in the fields to collect kindling
for the woodstove through November to February.
God can do anything, the Pastor even said so. But it seems so
unfair
that the God who can do anything refuses to do
everything. Children feel this more deeply than us all. God,
what in the hell did we do to you for you to take away a mom from her
vulnerable child?

My neighbor keeps practicing his shots from the field. I believe
he is getting better, and I’ve never asked him about God.

I only know that I’d rather live with the questions children ask than
the vanilla retorts adults learn from books that give 1000 answers to
questions that are never meant to have answers.

I see Nancy from time to time. She was the last person I every baptized.
Even then, as she went under the water (she did love Jesus), her question floated
just above her head: “Why, why, why, is my mother dead?”

I Want to Lay Down Pretense

I Want to Lay Down Pretense

(“And whoever does not carry their cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.” Luke 14:27)

I want to lay down pretense,
I want to carry nothing with me but the way
truth and love chase the shadows away.
I want to be the old man on the porch who
children come to see. I want to hear about the
new baby, the goal they made in soccer, their first crush,
their questions about leaves in the wind and branches that
break overnight next to their window.
I am too full of stories. I am I too many. I am lately
a receiver with no need to broadcast
what I have heard,
what I have learned,
what I think are the deepest concerns an
old man
should have.

I want to lay down attraction,
I want to exist like clouds pregnant with shade.
I want to listen to silence and let it be the only
healing I need.
I want to be the old man with his dog
who stops to speak to a woman bent with age,
clutching her cane,
carrying shopping bags that pull her closer to
the ground. I want to touch her sun-painted arm
spotted like bark and say something that makes her
feel lighter.

I do not want to fight for attention.

I want to be the white-haired man whose age is
still to be determined. Though mirrors do not lie (but
they do, those 2-dimensional scoundrels) I want the
humor of a teenager,
the wonder of a toddler,
and a day when, though nothing happens,
I find love is always enough to
fill my heart with one more breezy conversation.

Truth Like a Midsummer Day

 Truth Like a Midsummer Day

(“Let your word be ‘Yes, yes’ or ‘No, no.’ More than this is from the evil one.” Matthew 5:37)

Are you going to say the same things as before,
or have you changed your tune?
And how can I trust you when, late and soon,
your promises are mirages, your words subterfuge?

When you speak, all you say
falls through my fingers and fades away
with no weight,
no gravity,
no import,
no impact,
and no honesty at all.
(“I’ll be with you in spirit” are the coveralls
you wear to disguise your vacuous indecision.)
We all know you had decided five years ago.

I may as well try to shoot down asteroids with
a bb gun.

The day can still be saved,
the friendship resurrected with
honest words without blame. Fill the close air
between us with
substance that cannot evaporate by noon.

While you consider your answer, the pain of waiting
is amped up in nervous energy. And when you
finally
show up
how is it you have the answer for everything we are
doing
when
you never met with us before?
I don’t mean to be this sharp (knife or blade),
but how can you pitch your ideas when the
project is almost done?

Deposit your “yes” and let us keep it for future reference.
Or
Speak your “no” and leave and we will continue nicely.
But please, next time,
find a way to say truth like a midsummer day.
We will doubt you less, and though we wish you were here,
we will paint and pitch, roof and stitch the
project together, boundless.

Let Mercy Rain

 

Let Mercy Rain

(“Do not allow mercy and truth to leave you. Fasten them around your neck. Write them on the tablet of your heart.” Proverbs 3:3)

Why shouldn’t we let mercy rain, soak the ground,
awake the grain, turn the curious heads around to
see the dewdrops left on the leaves of grass while
we slept?
A more precious ornament cannot be found
than the opalescent dance of light-strings that play
before our eyes. I am guilty of overlooking miniature
mercies.

Still others erase the common sense that keeps the
dogs of dogma at bay,
loudly announcing facts without existence,
and proudly display their resistance to simple kindnesses
that keep roses alive because the next-door neighbor
loves to view them out her afternoon window, reading
slowly in the autumn afternoon. Her tea steeps, she sips
with each page. She remembers younger days.

Granted, I have not tended my roses well. Spindly and
top heavy,
the last butter-yellow bud sits atop a sunward branch and
may not make it until winter. I will do better this year,
and prune them soon before the first snow flies.

Why shouldn’t we let kindness snow, cover the old,
awake the new baby’s eyes, turn the toddling boy around
to throw the first snowball at mom to make her laugh;
while she barely opens the car door with her eyes half-closed
from waking?

Under the Sun

 

Under the Sun

(“I tell you the truth, you must change and become like little children. Otherwise, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 18:3)

They draw pictures on the back of shopping lists,
they turn their moms into angels,
their dads into astronauts,
and their dogs into superheroes while the
cat sleeps in the sun.

They believe in prayer though they do not understand
the answers,
they believe in hugs and heaven,
they believe in god and tears and smiles and
afternoons spent in the sun.

They will whisper their answer to puzzling questions,
but sing like Elvis with a mic placed in front of them.
They dress up like kings, they dress up like princesses,
they dress up like the preacher and turn their furnace room
into a church. The pets all were saved the very first service.

They count stars and start again where they left off
every night of the summer. They wander through grandma’s
kitchen full of ceramics and pies.
They sneak into grandpa’s garage that smells like something
burning
and discover the pinball machine up against the wall.
They explore the backyard because
Nana and Papa said there was a family of rabbits next to
the south fence last year.

They believe a kiss can heal an owie,
they believe cartoon bandaids heal the fastest of all.
They kiss their puppy’s booboos
and heal the heart of the lonesome neighbor
who sees it all. Mom always took him cookies;
what else are paper plates for?

They sprinkle imagination like confetti,
put notes inside daddy’s books on the shelf.
They compose poems for mom and perform plays
on the porch. They see more than we see

And, faster than motion, they rewrite everything
we thought we believed
under the sun.

Incognito

Incognito

(“But speaking the truth in love, let us grow in every way into Him who is the head—Christ.” Ephesians 4:15)

He often traveled incognito,
he often traveled in disguise,
but no matter where he went,
no matter who he met,
you always knew him by his eyes.

He was a gypsy, a vagabond,
he spoke with swords, he was unarmed,
so no matter who he met,
they knew what he meant
when he said, “no need for alarm.”

He spoke so silent, stirred little dust,
he walked city blocks, slept in parks,
and no matter who saw him,
no one could ignore him,
he knew all of their missing parts.

Some invited him, some walked away,
some hoped forever, or today
that he would always know them,
he would never spare them
the gaze that welcomed them to stay.

As thick as the summer air, as light as ocean foam
Just before dawn;
As quick as a scissortail diving from the trees, as still as
An autumn fawn.
All things to all of us,
Winsome you surround us,
Within, without us,
Before the world was founded,
As true as love, you love us wounded.

Call it Jazz

Call it Jazz

(“I tell you the truth, whoever accepts anyone I send also accepts me. And whoever accepts me also accepts the One who sent me.” John 13:20)

Please accept me,
and by accept I do not mean
tolerate me.

I mean all that I am, my frightened thoughts,
my unsteady frame,
my journey through the wilderness,
my nightmares, my anxiety,
my sins and the irony of a follower full
of doubts,
a flower dusted with thorns,
a friend who needs human touch more than
scripture quotes or attempts to diagnose my condition.

Let me come to your house, lay upon your couch,
shed the tears I will not shed unless I know you’ll not turn away.
And if I do not get better, let me cry myself to sleep.
Let me sit at your table with only coffee and memory,
let me stop pretending for just an hour.

The fingertips of a friend equal the hand of God.

I promise I’ll send you a card, a thank you note,
a gift or a poem. I’ll write on lined paper every
word that describes what taking me into your heart
has meant.

But please accept me,
and by accept I do not mean
put up with me.

Because I cannot become anything other than
what I am today. And I am longing for
the eyes of a friend, the tears of a fellow traveler,
the silent comfort for weeks at a time, the storyteller
who does not care if my poems rhyme. I long,
far and short,
for anyone who will accept this arrhythmic heart
and just call it jazz.

A Christian Dad Sounds Off on the Lies About Transgender People and Restrooms

(Shared from "The Good Men Project: goodmenproject.com)

A Christian Dad Sounds Off on the Lies About Transgender People and Restrooms

Bruce Pagano is a devout Christian with strong principles. He respects those of his faith with whom he may disagree. He has a tough time, however, with those who deal in complete falsehoods. That is what he sees in today’s current discourse. He tells us why.

—

If you had to explain it to someone from another country, what would you tell them appears to be the biggest issues facing our country? Our economy? The millions of people who live in poverty? Our hard broken justice system? The fact that a crazy misogynist has grabbed the GOP nomination essentially unchallenged? Nope, nope, nope and nope. Oddly, you would likely be closer if you said our biggest issue, especially within the conservative Christian camp, is whether a person should be able to use the bathroom of the gender with which they identify. Realistically this has been a point of contention and debate in one form or another for quite a few years, with instances like bakers refusing to make cakes for same gender weddings, the push to legalize same gender marriage, local government officials refusing to execute their civic duty when it comes to issuing said marriage licenses and a myriad of other rights that members of the LGBTQ community are working toward gaining. And in all that, Christians have been some of the loudest voices of opposition.

Until No One

Until No One

(“The sacred vestments of Aaron shall be passed on to his sons after him; they shall be anointed in them and ordained in them.” Exodus 29:29)

I know you want the title,
I heard you’ve been renamed.
You’re the prophet who can change
any ashes that have remained from
the fire we burned last night in the hearth
where we stare at the flames till midnight.
No one blames them for going cold after so long.

But the positions we inherit, the ranks we desire
do not fit us in our longings for something deeper,
something higher, something wiser than the mere headdress
of a priest at his duties,
or the half-Windsor knot of an executive’s silk tie,
we lie to other who know the truth,
we lie to ourselves and remain unmoved.

From the stars whose light fascinates our eyes,
from nebulae and galaxies we pretend to be our playgrounds,
the deepest call, (a Servant’s appellation), lands within our ears
quicker than light from iron-cold stars.

Fasten the nametag now, do not hesitate, serve the meal
with the wine
and take your place among
those who have heard you were once a criminal
or worse.

Today is your choice, today is the final verse of an Amen
louder than the last sound from the first black hole; listen now
to the level ground, the Father’s Son laid everything down

And kicked up the dust he first created so some would
lay down their crowns
to follow, thirsty, through the desert, until no one
knows our name.

Honest Song

Honest Song

(“Now when they saw the boldness of Peter and John, and perceived that they were uneducated, common men, they were astonished. And they recognized that they had been with Jesus.” Acts 4:13)

Now the day played upon their porches like
southern homes and sprawling lawns. Each morning
was the same,
the songs all remained in collective memory; planets
circling the comet tail of unwritten history. Lyrics barely
changed, (a word, a name, he and she), and we always recognized
the melody. Thousands of players and heard it around
the same porches on days as long as these. Some tapped time
to the trains clacking by; others to the crickets hidden from sight.

The children were shy once someone caught their eye, yet,
unobserved, they cartwheeled and caterwauled, ringing the
aging apple tree and whirled like Jupiter’s moons; holding hands,
a human carousel, the laughter lifting above the music until
everyone fell with the dizzying ease of equal parts child and
invisibility.

The old phrases take us home, the unwritten melodies, better
live
than recorded,
are the ones that have courted our hearts to love meadows
more than avenues,
and
maypoles more than
altitude.

With less knowledge than the perfected players,
the sheer truth of honest song presses kisses on the forehead
and grass stains on the knees.

Light...not Smoke!

“He will give light to those who live in the dark and in death’s shadow. He will guide us into the way of peace.” Luke 1:79

A Barna Research Group poll conducted in the summer of 2013 found that atheists commit fewer crimes, divorce less, and are better educated than Christians. According to the survey, fundamentalist Christians have the highest divorce rate, followed by Jews and Baptists. Those professing no faith were tied with Catholics and Lutherans for the lowest divorce rate.

Kindness Like a Necklace

“Don’t ever forget kindness and truth. Wear them like a necklace. Write them on your heart as if on a tablet.” Proverbs 3:3

“Slave Free Earth” is a non-profit organization that exists to bring freedom to those caught up in the sex trafficking world. The vision of Will Henderson, its international headquarters are in Patong Beach City on the Island of Puket, Thailand. Phuket is “Grand Central Station” of sex tourism.

Me and My Models

“Don’t just listen to the word. You fool yourselves if you do that. You must do what it says.” James 1:22

I loved model planes and cars as a young boy. That is to say, I loved the idea of assembling them so they would look just as wonderful as the picture on the box. I loved biplanes, and I also lived in Southern California during the “funny car” era of drag racing. So, those were my two primary choices, plus the one odd Plymouth Barracuda. I chose it because favorite teacher drove one, although reverse didn’t work. He had to always park in a way that could drive straight out.

I Hate Fighting

“Because of his grace he declared us righteous and gave us confidence that we will inherit eternal life.” Titus 3:7

I hate fighting. I hate trying to prove that I am right. I hate arguing my way into being accepted. I cannot stand wrestling to be understood, even at the risk of being even more misunderstood. I hate the energy it takes trying to prove that I’m an okay guy. I hate fighting.

Keep a Close Watch

“Keep a close watch on yourself and on the teaching. Persist in this, for by so doing you will save both yourself and your hearers.” 1 Timothy 4:16

Besides being pastor of a rural church, I also coach the local high school drama club. We try to produce two one act plays per year as well as learning stage techniques and character formation. I try, by the end of four years to have offered my students the equivalent of a first year level of high school theater course work. Since we meet one hour, once a week, that seems an attainable goal.

The Whole Picture

The Whole Picture

(“I will turn you around and drive you on.” Ezekiel 39:2a)

Jigsaw pieces scatter across the wind with one landing

in an opinionated lap, others on babies, some on scholars,

and half lost in the scraps waiting to be recycled on the evening

news again.

Let the highlights ignore the commas, let the soundbites bold case

the dramatic bits until no edges are left to orient the pieces

on our card table come Thanksgiving and Christmas.

That is why

I never buy

jigsaw puzzles

at antique stores.

That is why

I hope to buy

Leon Russell

at Tower Records

or another vinyl store.

“Mama, I cannot tell what color the little girl’s eyes are. The piece is lost

between twisted bookcases or couch cushions with seams unraveled. Mama,

can you help me? What color do you think the little girl’s eyes should be?”

Magog will attack, with Rosh right behind, miniscule references to

Moscow and Russia. Though linguists note no equivalence, some teach

by rote the day-by-day play-by-play of the last days countdown from

10 at 70 AD to 1 at nearly now.

Today I’ve noticed the air is crisp, skin-thin frost on my windshield,

a jacket across my back. Soon we elect the next in line to preside

over a country fat and rich, poor and suffering; hungry for bread,

a bite of truth; aching for work, a portion righteousness, decency;

simple dishes made in the country, chicken to pot, kale to sauce,

and a simple prayer before we eat that thanks Him who created

our feet to fit the earth we walk, our hands to caress the fruit

eat, and our minds to ponder all the truth we can wonder about

Him who created the jigsaw

complete.

To Tell the Truth

“Moreover, the Eternal One of Israel will not lie or change his mind, because he isn’t a mere human being subject to changing his mind.” 1 Samuel 15:29

Truth; perhaps the most foreign concept to most of us. We like to think we are honest and we want to come off as truthful people, but we usually spend more energy maintaining an image than allowing our true selves to be found out. That is why so many relationships lack much intimacy or satisfaction at all. We never are sure whether others are being “who they are”, and we spend the same amount of time buffing up what we hope people will think about us.

Appearances Lie

Appearances Lie

(“And I will raise up for myself a faithful priest, who shall do according to what is in my heart and in my mind.” 1 Samuel 2:35a)

Let the appearances lie upon the hills like the spent shells
of last night’s 4^th of July display. It all smells of gunpowder when
the lilacs should fill the air. For 45 minutes we grunted with the thunder
displayed by experts who know which triggers to pull and which wires to touch
and which mixture must meet like teeth in a gear to fling the flower and stars
further than near.

Let the paper boats float in the puddles we created by hosing
the pavement at the end of our driveways. Muddled with gravel
and soaked like a dog shaking down the house after a rainstorm
it only goes so far before it descends a house, maybe two down
the street, stuck in the spaces of the storm drain, waiting one last
whoosh, a full push of water, and it falls, creases sponged with
no repair.

There is more sham, even among the shameless, than we ever hoped true.
There are speakers who never shut down, broadcasters never editing a word,
newspapers filling pages with paragraphs with words with jots and loose tittles
until the alphabet spills like toddler’s juice from lunch on the floor.

There are more costumes, even among the contestants, than we expected,
it’s true.
Every blue with another hue, iris and navy, sea foam and royal; like glitter painted
with ponytails the smell of greasepaint overpowers the latent effect. Did your
dress aim at meaning? Were you evoking anything from us, save a desire to
quickly shut down the store and send everyone home with a refund and a promise
to let them choose what-to-wear, ready-to-wear; not scotch cotton and plastic
balloons labeled “party fare”?

There is more talk, even among beanstalks that have seen more ingenious ways
to bring produce home than giants would care to disclose. Stand for a moment
and if we were not tricked, we know the words were trimmed just enough to evade
them when the questions come bouncing in. And the response-ads leap high
pretending to catch a big-league fly just about to plunge over the fence. Taped
before a life or death audience, the camera pulls back and we know the secrets
of one more candy store that tried to sell nutrition.

Where is Your Cohen, Father; the Faithful One.
Where is our Cohen Brother; the Truthful One.

Speak to us True as from Calvary’s grave
to the tomb’s incapacity to save the day for
the talkers who figured their way was done.

But You fooled them all, risen before dawn,
to prove truth is better served when offered
first forgiven; not instigated.