No More Feather Pillow

No More Feather Pillow

(“Watch out for people will take you to court and have you beaten in their meeting places.” Matthew 10:17)

No more feather pillow, just a rock for my head;
no more easy money, only the rich get fed;
no more pleasant parades, new words we cried and prayed;
no more banners restreamed, only criminal scenes.

The secrets lie behind the curtains of arrest and handcuffed lips,
the mystery a fragrant scent that wafts above the burial pits,
the wonder a joy that sits beneath the gloom,
a glad day that waves off paper doom.

The child who leads them, the little in the laps
of the imprisoned of this world can tell us more
than the edicts of frightened senators and kings
overdoing their rice skin years of fame.

My salary is only today, just a month from forgotten;
my compositions decay, my shirt’s organic cotton,
my guitars crack in low humidity,
my dollars lack any liquidity
but my eyes can see beyond the sun.

Hearts still race at the angry words that would steal
time from lives a few paragraphs longs;
Hands grow cold when lisps of accusation bring
heavy machinery to trap a life between parentheses.

But above and beyond, I’ll drive my car straight up
for an hour until all atmosphere is gone. From there
I’ll see the funny courtroom scenes that try to
capture the redeemed,
domesticate the wild
and incarcerate the people now set
free.

Here and Now

“So the chief of the butlers told Joseph his dream…Joseph told him, ‘This is its interpretation.’” Genesis 40:9, 12a

Many very sincere Christians get frustrated because they want to do something significant for God, but feel their circumstances prevent it. Some may think their lack of schooling keeps them from being taken seriously when they talk about Christ, or maybe others imagined hosting Bible studies that grew into the hundreds, only to have just two or three friends gathering around their kitchen table.

Happy and Stong

“Nehemiah told the people, ‘Enjoy your good food and wine and share some with those who didn’t have anything to bring. Don’t be sad! This is a special day for the Lord, and he will make you happy and strong.’” Nehemiah 8:10

Sadness is not the end product in repentance. There is no purpose in prolonged anguish or grief in response to our failings before God. There is a sorrow that is altogether appropriate when we are returning, coming back to renewed fellowship; but it is not meant to be the primary result of our return.

The Storm of Love

The Storm of Love

(“The crowd was awestruck, amazed and pleased that God had authorized Jesus to work among them this way.” Matthew 9:8 [The Message]”

Quit looking over your shoulder, frowning at life words launched
like water balloons in summer. Color after color, as close as bread
is to butter, the words with truth, the works with touch,
the walking once wounded roll up their begging sacks
and go home the long way, just to see the sights;
walk home the crooked way, just to stretch their legs.

The love that longs to heal is held back by the smallest fingers,
the tsunami of solace is stopped by the smallest “no” from our lips.

But the storm of love keeps rolling, keeps swelling, keeps curling
along the coast, waiting for the smallest opening to discharge its cargo
through one ill-timed inhalation of “yes” without knowing.

So wide the storm front, countries cannot bind its force,
so high its anvil toward the sky, there is no escape here-under,
though some try to run, or dive beneath the furniture,
the tempest is inevitable, and we will lie horizontal,
prone in the path it took to lay us down.
Because

The storm of love keeps rolling, keeps swelling, keeps curling
from least to most. Looking for the minute twinkling, the reflection from eyes
that invited the lightning and said “yes” barely knowing.

I know you were drenched last time you ventured in the rain.
I know the power shook the sod beneath your feet, the lights went
out near 3 in the afternoon and all became dark and the storm seemed
to bite the world whole. I know you saw three branches fallen on their sides,
empty where life had been shortly strung. I know you held hope that
this afternoon-come-midnight might be the end of damp feet and
makeup always running.

We’ve all been afraid of the dark before, lightning makes us jump
higher than our cats, thunder bowls us underground for safety,
hearing reports of floods growling our direction.

What power that makes us turn away and run afraid.
What power, may we quietly say, with gritted teeth hope,
is simply the announcement of

The Love we believed possible
when we picked snapdragons on the way to school.

Hug Like CornBread

Hugs Like CornBread

Waiting before the coffee spits on,
lying on the blue with the pillow tucked in,
holding to some hope of enjoying the dawn,
inching up from fluttered sleep, barely happy,
halfway living.

I will wait, I will still, for the strength to gain the days
I’ve missed locked inside the pain. I’m a limper, squinter,
with capacity depleted,
common joy deleted.

I’m offered one remedy after the next,
friendly gestures, but wheelbarrow loads of mortar
sealing my smile shut (I must stay silent the next
prescription given by well-meaning non-physicians).

“Why aren’t our prayers answered”, other good-hearts ask me,
(at least these aren’t the ones more concerned about their
spiritual batting average than the object of their petition)
Don’t fix me: you can’t. Just love me: hug the moment
and my pain, learn the holy, the adult refrain that
lets the thoughts of the lonely walk away whistling
for another half day.

Leave me feeling like cornbread and honey,
don’t advise me or give or give me your physician’s name;
Pray me like caramel sweet,
lift my pain-weighted body of its feet for a hour,
take me away to the beach and say we’ll stay only a second
or the rest of the day. Ask me, give me, offer me,
you with suggestions or recommendations.

When your days of pain come round like
hot tar and smothered gasping, I promise to
be the first to bring your favorite dessert
and leave it on your doorstep
or
stay all afternoon.

And if you look on your doorknob, there will not be the latest
article clipped from my search of

Your disease.

Mark, Who?

“Many will say to Me on that Day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in Thy name and in Thy name cast out demons and in Thy name do many wonderful works?’ Then I will frankly say to them, ‘I never knew you! Get away from Me, you mischief workers!’” Matthew 7:22, 23

I admit it, names sometimes escape me. I’m not talking about the second cousin of a passing acquaintance who I met once leaving the coffee shop. The names I forget are people I connect with week to week. I’ll be talking to my wife and saying, “I really like the way…” Blank! No kidding; in place of the name in my memory there is a big black hole. Hopefully I can remember the last name, or the spouse’s name. Like, “Barrett…oh yeah, Jim and Joanne Barrett.” “Honey, I really like the way Jim Barrett sings. It reminds me a lot of…uhm…oops”. That’s right; I have to conjure up another forgotten name.

It really is quite embarrassing, especially when the time it takes to access the person’s name in my brain is a telltale sign I’ve forgotten them. Sometimes I can give myself a little more slack in the rope by adding modifiers and phrases to the sentence. “I really like the way, the beautiful way; he sings those parts in the choir that are lower than the other men’s parts. His singing is like a well-tuned foghorn. (whirr, zzzzip, ccrackle…the gears in my mind finally access the name) Don’t you like Jim’s singing too?” Honestly, I don’t think I fool anyone.

What will be more embarrassing, though, is to have Jesus say, “I never knew you.” Jesus never forgets a name, or a face; so what is this all about? The problem is all the tactics we think we have to use to get Him to take notice. Yes, Jesus plans to be forgetful, but not about our names! Doesn’t God tell us that He will “be merciful to their iniquities and remember their sins no more”? (Hebrews 8:12)

But still we show off, “prophesying in His name” and then looking around to make sure someone noticed how spiritual we are. We see demons behind everything from the common cold to hurricanes and tsunamis, and hope people hear how much authority we take casting out said demons. We claim miracles, but want the credit. All the while Jesus wants something entirely different from us.

As a matter of fact, He calls these people “mischief makers”. People who are so focused on grandstanding can easily miss the simple requirements Jesus makes. We want to cast out demons, He says “Love your neighbor”. We want to miraculously cure the sick, Jesus says, “If someone demands you walk a mile with them, go two.” We want the focus on us while we make great spiritual pronouncements when Jesus said, “When you pray, go into your room privately, and you will be rewarded by Your Father who sees in private.”

On the other hand, there are a whole class of those who call on Jesus’ name that want to simply tack His name on to whatever current lifestyle they live. Jesus doesn’t make a difference, He makes them comfortable. Jesus doesn’t challenge them, He is supposed to coddle them. Jesus doesn’t demand transformation, He doesn’t tell the rich young ruler to give all His money to the poor and follow Him. He doesn’t tell the woman at the well He knows about her five previous husbands and the one she is living with now. He doesn’t insist the thief quit stealing, the adulterer quit being unfaithful.

For these people, Jesus makes them feel good, and they talk about feeling “blessed”, but hardly every talk about obedience. None of us ever will live up to the perfection of God’s holiness. That is why we needed God’s grace through Christ. But, Jesus calls us to changed lives, not excuses. He calls us to be holy, different, a light in the midst of darkness. Instead, many sit in the same darkness and just are glad that “Jesus is here with me.”

Either way, showing off for Jesus, or sloughing off, Jesus may very well say, “Who are you?” And it won’t be because of a lapsed memory. It will be because we never thought about what was really important to Him. We remained unchanged. Oh yes, our language changed. We talked about being blessed, and about miracles, and about demons and such, but our core remained focused on self. We either wanted to continue living our old life and just talk about Jesus “being with me”, or we did ok with the moral side, but still wanted the same attention we craved before we came to Christ.

And what about Jesus, what does He want? Maybe it’s time to stop trying to impress Him and simply read the gospels to discover what He truly wants from those who follow Him. Maybe it’s time to stop justifying behavior we know is disobedient to Him, and act as if we truly trust Him. Jesus couldn’t have said it clearer when He said, “If you love me, you will keep My commands.”

I want Him to know my name. I want, at the end of the age, to be able to hear, “Well done, good and faithful servant”. I want to stop playacting Christianity. I want to bring everything; thoughts, emotions and actions into obedience to Christ. No, we will not be perfect this side of heaven, but we must at least be moving forward in maturity and obedience until He returns.

Forgiveness and Ache

Forgiveness and Ache

(“For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will forgive you, too.” Matthew 6:14)

Forget the attempts to hold hostage the
outcomes by subterfuge (only slight lies and
trivial misdirection) and talk like you understand
no one deserves your heaven,
no one deserves your hell
and grace, mercy, forgiveness,
are treasures received,
stories we retell.

But you were a roper, and set the lasso over
every neck you expected unbending. I hoped to speak
with you unmounted
without the posse writing down each misgiving
you made me expound.

I must say I’ve dropped all my rocks
in a Canadian lake years ago. They nearly wore a
hole in my pocket,
bruised my thumb where
I knocked it
every time I reached in for a quarter or dime.

Your name (and the posse) was on each stone
launched alone early summer. I knew, though you used deception,
my intention was a fresh start. I knew mine had begun,
I hoped you received one too!

The rocks are there, the verdicts are clear,
as they left my hands they were meant to leave my heart,
but a scar does remain (I ruined my fame, it was my failure
we focused upon). So, though I am not white, I am not black
though I was left alone like basement mold in someone’s condemned
home with weeds.

No one deserves your hell, men,
no one your heaven,
and there are no ladders nor rungs
we’ve climbed skyward upon.
Put me to the test, apologize for the rest,
test me and see how quickly, how openly
I speak the words that reach across the anxieties
to truthfully confess I would rather see you free
than tied up by your stubbornness.