I Think I Understand

 

I Think I Understand

([Jesus said] “Do you love me?” Peter said, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” John 21:17b)

I can’t help but wonder what you might
ask of me.
I’ve finally figured it out, though, that you
do not want to shame me. You meet me here in this moment,
ask me a question about where I live now. Not how I lost it
back then. Not how guilt forced me to forge my way to the one
thing I found comforting before you ever tapped me on the shoulder.

I barely understand you most of the time.
And when I do understand something inside starts off
dreamily
but ends up, quite frankly, wishing I had not heard.
What do you call a casual friend who knows every move
you’re about to make before you have even given a moment’s
thought?

One: I wasn’t ready for the question.

Two: I acted like I had no clue.

Three: I needed to warm my hands by the fire. I swore with
            the maiden who insisted she knew.

And then you had to walk by and look at me. I did not have
time to hide. You were already beaten to an inch of your life
but, that look, that gaze that was a blade to my heart, was a wavelength
that caught me unawares.

You have no reason to think I love you. But you knew my answer
buried deep under the rubble of my shame. You deftly pulled the words
from my tongue like
1,2,3,.
And I felt ready to cry again upon my confessions of love for you.

I turned away when you needed amity; I damned myself the moment
you saw my reddening face. But you never insisted,
never elicited an apology from me. I think you could see it
in how I shrunk back quietly to the previous comforts I practiced
before I knew you.

You told me to feed your sheep, and I felt I had nothing to give.
But I will care for them as if they are mine. Do you trust me so,
given all my stumbles in the dark?

You won’t let me wallow in the past,
you never held it against me at all. I think I
understand
this part.
Why heap shame on a man whose entire face
shows such deep wrinkles of self-administered guilt?
I think I understand.

Let’s Be Clear

Let’s Be Clear

(“Then the Lord put a message in Balaam’s mouth and said, ‘Return to Balak, and speak what I tell you.’” Numbers 23:5)

Let’s be clear,
not everything that is spoken can be heard;
not everything in creation can be seen.
Not every pocket is empty and not every
wallet is full. There are holes in my jeans
I never paid for; there are angels assigned to
lead us, or so we hope, or so we believe,
or so we tell everyone when it was all just
a matter of coincidences. It was two atoms
in the same place at the same time and they pulled
each other apart like the yoke of oxen in the field.

Sitting up straighter I can peer through the window;
my posture has been bent by pain and years. You say
you don’t believe, and I understand. Doubt is a ladder
up or down, depending on how you’re persuaded.
These noises have continued unabated and fill the silence
that anxiety brings.

I would speak if there was anyone to hear. I would talk,
but the varying results make me fear the knocks at my
door and who may be waiting to criticize my past
agony and my present
disquiet mind. I would apologize, but I’ve tried
that before. Forgiveness was granted but the
icy wind still blew through the cracks in the windows.

That has left me suspicious of everyone who possesses ears.
As much as they pretend to hear, I know they have never seen
the authentic me, so I may as well paint a picture they would prefer.
I may as well lock myself away. It is a risk too far
to assume how the highwire will hold the full weight of
my blended truth. I’ve welcomed the vagrant whose
story was as murky as my own. And now, in my spiritual
vagrancy, I look for someone to listen to my vague
incarnations of stories and stumbles.

Let’s Not Pretend

Let’s Not Pretend

(“Even though you are so high above, you care for the lowly, and the proud cannot hide from you.” Psalm 138:6)

>Did you notice that day was new,
and did it seem they had all forgotten you?
Were the walls still stained with grease and pain,
did you ever try standing and found that you were faint?
Where is the mighty magic promised by the priests,
where is the comradery promised; where are the feasts?
It is frosty in their presence, the center is sub-zero;
I want to meet the fiery ones, I want to know another anti-hero.
Maybe being alone is the best option, maybe missing the day:
Maybe my pain is the place God meets me, my ache when I pray.

I don’t discount your stories of falling under the power, healing the blind,
uttering tongues that no one can understand. But from here it looks
like so much showing off (I hope that is ok to say). Jesus kept his
works semi-secret, like only one square of chocolate left,
dark chocolate that only pairs with a good red wine.
I haven’t tasted either for quiet some time. Here is what
I know…lowly to proud…

Life passes at the same rate for all of us. We all have an
end date stamped on our best years, and no hand stamp to
get us back in again.

So, let’s not pretend any longer. Do you see that homeless man
begging for bread or cash or a place to lay his head. That’s where
you can discover everything you have ever wanted to know about God.
Do you see the religious man bellowing, casting lost ones into eternal fire,
scolding struggling ones who have tries so many ways, and proudly announcing
the Second Coming is coming within days or months (apparently he has
an inside track.)

So, let’s not pretend any longer.

Much Simpler

 

Much Simpler

(“You have been given the chance to understand the secrets of the kingdom of Heaven.” Matthew 13:11)

Don’t say a thing. Just listen.

When some see a serpent and call him a saint,
when some see a servant and say he ain’t,
isn’t it about time we stop digging in graveyards
to find a spitting image
that conforms to our fanciful parades about living?

Secrets are not the same as conspiracies,
the kingdom’s keys are much simpler than that.
Power in weakness, tears in strength
are the earthy recipe for heaven’s width and length.

When we see a vagabond and call her a vagrant,
when we see a singer and call her a siren,
isn’t it about time we stop projecting our movies
on the of paperback
bibles that confirm our king james boxes of doctrines.

Shadeless hands are the kingdom’s first gardeners,
no darkness that complicates the fields.
Earthen and single, seeds and cereal,
the seed revives only after burial.

Don’t feign a thing. Parables.

These Days I Rarely Understand

These Days I Rarely Understand

(“All scripture is inspired by God...so that everyone who belongs to God may be proficient, equipped for every good work. 2 Timothy 3:16-17)

These days I never understand a word you say,
while everyone else prophesies about dead end days.
How many days on the calendar,
how many decades in the rear-view mirror,
how many centuries of waiting in caves,
how many isolated on mountain peaks with
their stashes of canned goods and guns?

These days I never understand a word you say,
while everyone else preaches about conspiracy certainty.
How many people does it take
to keep a secret from the rest of us?
You swear everything you see with your eyes
is invented by newscasters and forecasters of death.
But everything you find in your head,
or is invisibly said by unmasked hatred
you swallow like chocolate cake.

These days I never understand a word you say,
while everyone divides the garments of the poor
and casts lots for the leftovers to carpet their bedroom floors.
How many lungs without breath
until you put on your boots and join the rest
who cannot stand for one more chokehold in the name of
law.
Remove the blindfold to see what is in front of you,
and sell all you have to join the hidden,
and tell how long it took to find the forbidden words
that set the prisoners free. Don’t speak of equality
until you can imagine traffic that accelerates the moment
you become a pedestrian. Watch the crosswalk son.

These days I rarely understand a word you say;
but love. I’ll scrape my knees for love,
cross the street for love,
eat what you eat for love,
take the heat for love.

I remember every face that said Christ was a white man’s
religion,
and when I tried to convince them otherwise.
Today I would listen. I don’t know how, but he has become whiter
in this stolen land haunted by its ancestors who knew grandfather better
than we think we know his son.

Please dream with me about undivided skies,
plains that grant us bread,
rains that soften our beards and faces,
and streets that bear the names of original blessing instead
of original sin.

Listen with me and let us understand (grandfather, son and holy ghost)
if we will not love, we have not listened. And if we have not listened,
we have not understood.