Secrets and Wishes

Secrets and Wishes

(“Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live.” Psalm 116:2)

There always seemed too many barriers erected to
keep you from hearing my pain. Sometimes whispered<
sometimes gravely twisting my words, I had shouted like
a lost child threatened with the universe.
Sometimes I drenched the sofa midnight with the tears
poured out every excuse I ever gave for giving up
on the winding path too steep for my age.

I could point to the overnight fasting I tried one
New Year’s Eve locked inside a local church. I planned
to stay there till noon of the first year. I thought I
would break through, that God would show up and pat
me on the back and clothe me with something that finally
covered my instabilities. Instead, I called my girlfriend at 8 to
come and pick me up while I insisted we get some donuts.

I failed.

I thought.

After decades of clawing the dirt, of bawling at altars with
gray indoor/outdoor carpet, of repeating the same prayer over
and over
in the hopes I would be heard. There were decades I studied
the long prayers of an elder who implored God as long as a sermon.
I could not rule out that I simply could not pray. At least not like
long-winded partners who filled the room with time. I knew I did
not shine nearly as long as the power-players who pointed to miracles
someone else who told someone else had told them.

But once I was out of that cocoon, the echo chamber that jailed me,
glass house that only reflected
what other said within it; once I read the classics again and played
with my kids again,
something softly took me into its confidence.

It’s like when my grandson wants to tell me a secret and so
I put my face next to his with my ear by his mouth. He may mumble
something incoherent, but it doesn’t matter to me at all. He knows
I heard and that is good for the both of us.

God, do you truly bend down like that? Can I stop the crying fits
and the long-winded approaches to your throne? Oh wait, if you
bend your ear like that, you have left your loftiness far behind. Do you let
me whisper what I had been afraid to say in the middle of the moments in the
glass housed churches I occupied?

Can I talk and walk and, between verses of the songs I listen to, share a sentence
or two in your inclined ear? Can we hold court, but right here on the earth where
my feet trod, and the sheets I lay in when I have something more to say?

Maybe I will sometimes need to shout, but not to get your attention.
I may even throw a tantrum when the stars refuse to shine, but I’ll
end up whispering my secrets and wishes into your ear.

The Heart Grasps the Sky

The Heart Grasps the Sky

(“Hear my prayer, O God; listen to my words!” Psalm 54:2)

I turned the corner without ever thinking I might meet
my neighbor on the walking path.
We exchanged cherry “hellos”
and traded a little silly talk.
I walked further, toward the cemetery,
and could not find the site where I thought they
laid someone to rest yesterday. I have so many
friends there,
resting there,
that I feel the weight of grief their loved ones feel.
Didn’t they pray for their child,
didn’t they cry out for their wife,
didn’t they name the names of the dying
to the Name of all names?

And didn’t God hear that
I need a friend stronger than death.
And didn’t God listen to
the tears that stained the faces of the beloved.
And didn’t we wish (another word for pray,
though you might disagree) that we could take
their place?

I’ve seen a hundred replacements,
I’ve called a thousand phone numbers,
I’ve listened for the knock on the door,
I’ve waited for a voice to explain it all.

Sandwiched between belief and doubt,
my prayers are not for human ears.
But I would welcome yours, silent as
the first spring night. The heart weeps,
the heart grasps the sky, the heart has
words
that paint a seaside where pain and
relief meet. The heart beats, ready to
write unspoken prayer.

Setting the Thermostat

Setting the Thermostat

(“I’ve sought your favor with all my heart; have mercy on me according to your word.” Psalm 119:58)

Tonight, I dreamed the same dream
I have dreamed for half my life. I was a pastor,
an assistant pastor,
and had been away for a week of vacation.
I returned to my duties: setting the thermostat,
leading worship, and any other tasks, pre-planned
or last-minute,
assigned to me by my boss: the Pastor.
But the thermostats had been replaced while
I was gone,
and no one told me. I broke into a cold sweat,
remembering how sharp the words when I
had failed similar orders before. (Someone standing
by the door took pity on me and instructed me about
the mystery of turning up the heat.)
It was time for worship, it was time for the opening song.
It was time for me to be ready, and I got it all wrong.
I could not find the music, I forgot all the lyrics,
sweat accumulated under my arms. I finally sang
a familiar chorus, “Praise the Name of Jesus”, and only
remember my own voice cracking like last embers dying.

There was a tiger on the prowl, outside, next scene,
in the dream. He turned upon seeing me, back into the
gray hills where dreams unload their fears.
I ventured out again and saw the same tiger,
a giant rendition of a black and white striped kitten
who used to be a pet. And the tiger turned again,
and did not reappear in the dream.
But a cougar did. A mountain lion crouching,
menacing, stalking, and moving toward my scented fear.
 It would not
take the same path as the tiger. It would not walk
away. I kicked at it. I yelled. I tried to crawl away until,
kicking yet harder, I kicked the blanket off the bed
and, waking, the cougar, the tiger, the pastor and the fire
disappeared after I opened my eyes.

Did I say I have dreamed this same dream
for half of my life? Did I mention that the place
where peace should be present
has been the source of nightmares ever since?

Demons do not haunt my night sweats,
it is the abode of those who were good at
what they did
and insisted on perfection: something I never
completed.

So now I ask for favor. Now I ask for mercy.
Now I sit quietly. Now I write my own lyrics.
Now I cherish imperfection. Now I adore the
pet dog and children next door.

Time Hugged the Curves

Time Hugged the Curves

(“For no matter how many promises God has made, they are “Yes” in Christ.” 2 Corinthians 1:20a)

Time hugged the curves and could have turned
bitter (the over-brewed tea in the bottom of the cup.)
The ad libs did not come as easily
and the faces of everyone I’ve ever loved
met my thoughts through the fog.
I have auditioned new recipes, new shortcuts,
new days walking to school a dozen years old.

Today you know what I know,
another hit and the engine sputters to the
bottom of the hill.
It will not climb another, overheating and
coughing, I watch behind me for a ride
up the road.

Today I’ve told you the news,
(though the headline might read differently tomorrow)
I would rather cruise through your world and mine
hiding the wear and tear. Repaired or not,
I hear the voices of my children and Dad
is the sweetest syllable. The generations mix
from memories of floating sticks in the gutter
to the times I muttered my apologies too indistinct
to matter. (The headlines are not always honest.)

Wait for me at the top of the hill,
I’m not there yet, but I can see it from here.
You are my exclamation points; my friends,
my loves, my family. My unmapped
meander seeks an endpoint, a place where
we all can gather. A picnic that will not end
with sunset, a week of improvisation,
a year of touching the skin;
sound waves only wear out the heart.

No matter what I uncover, no matter lost or won,
no matter if my movements are slower than when
I began,
I still watch for a ride up the road,
a split second when everyone I’ve known
sparkles with the wink that says,
“I understand.”

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. 

Goats Have Followed

 

Goats Have Followed

(“They turned away from him. Their spirits were not faithful to him.” Psalm 78:8b)

It was not possible to foresee the guardians of the gate
tearing it all down and insisting
they only
carried the crown of divine glory.

Had they forgotten the peaceful one
who rode through the gates on the back of a donkey?
Instead they let their banners fly all
red, blue, and white and
sentenced him to die upon the bloody earth
and, turning the truth to a lie,
announced their rules
were God’s rules,
as if no one would notice the change in the script.

Today I sit in grief, today my tears will not cease,
the guardians are gone, and goats have followed them
thinking the shepherd is just like them. Say it again:
the shepherd hates everything they hate and they
post it on church signs,
facebook pages,
sanctuary songs,
and still wave their banners while the

Shepherd prefers
the company of those who can afford only
asses to ride
to their next destination, the next notation
of simple chants, barely heard at the gates of power,
but sung by workers in the fields,
children on the hills,
a freedom song that flags of nations can
never give.

Something Turned, Something Shifted

 

Something Turned, Something Shifted

(“Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Lord’s Spirit is, there is freedom.” 2 Corinthians 3:17)

He wished to have anyone,
anyone else all to himself;
he was starving for presence,
hungry for acceptance and so
he stood with holy reticence and waited.

Once he had prophesied from stages,
now he stood where he once had memorized faces
and counted their names carefully. He was so
grounded his feet rarely left the earth. And every
annual report would attest to the numbers and
members that underlined every word.

Now he stood where he spoke so much truth and
was amazed that so little happened at all. The
attendance spiked, and everyone liked him well enough.
But the stuff of heaven had too little grit in it for him
to sit on panel discussions about growing numbers or
training soldiers.

He was tired. His soul felt weighted with the stones
upon his chest
that held him in place, magnetized to death.
And from that position there was no escape,
no speeches, no teachings, that would release his
hands and feet
from under the concrete poured around his soul.

The day ended with everyone knowing the pain that
crashed from his body to his brain. And the long night
began
after the audience all went home
and left him alone
to face the wordless dark of stars a million years old.

Something turned, something shifted. Like
monarchs roosting in the cedars,
like sparrows returning to Capistrano,
his words, he felt, were coming home. But they
were
not his words,
they were their words. They were conversation
without answers, dialogue unscripted, hearts and breath
in a dance of winged butterflies in play. He did not
know what to say
when the silence came. He waited. Everything between
the farthest star and the core of the earth
surrounded the moment in lightness and aboriginal atoms
shared by everyone in the earth, the universe.

And there was darkness, and there was light, and God said
(as if the Spirit hovered between and within everything)

It
Is
Good.