Streaks Across

Streaks Across

(“Then turning towards the woman (Jesus) said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair.” Luke 7:44)

What have you heard, from friend or electrons sent
along the insulated wires that ride the same rhythm
as rails across the open plains?

What have you observed, from informed or insinuations
pinging off one closed mind to the other?

Where do we ignore, and what do we redeem;
what brings daylight or smiles, delights or miles
of memory that can wind from the windy peaks above
the bay upriver before morning opens for the day.

Who do we notice; the eyes that have seen more
sadness than the oceans rushing in the backdoor porch?

What can we watch; the wave of hair uncut catching
sun like rain, as it cascades across the cheeks of
the hopeful, streaks across the feet of the forgiver
that turns tears to joyful.

What can we say; the judgments that began that day,
or the tolerance that breathes the perfume of love given

By one who, unloved, had more to give, unbidden,
than all the basins filled with the scent of water
that has remained unmoved for far too long.

May the perfume spiral around our conspiracy theories,
soak and cleanse our acrid memories,
remind of us the exact moment we perceived

The fragrance which forgiveness filled each and every
sense.

Should We Wait for Another?

Should We Wait for Another?

(“Go tell John what you have seen and heard. Blind people see. The lame people walk. People with leprosy are healed. People who could not hear can hear. Dead people are alive again. Poor people hear the good news.” Luke 7:22)

I have had my doubts, my u-turn possibilities;
I have wondered why the sky will not rain when
I am parched and need relief from my recent disabilities.
I wondered about each promise, just like you,
I have sought His solace, questioned his silence too.

Wondering why, at 3 am, someone won’t help me sleep,
or turn these dreams from lame and slipping to strong feet
and mental grip upon the faith I nodded aloud to follow.

I am no prophet, but a quiet shepherd, content to sit upon the hillocks,
the green and yellow moguls of spring or summer. I watch the sheep,
give them water, tend their weak, romp with the strong, and feed the
best fodder before night falls quietly and we gather in the fold.
I would be content to read my book, play pastoral on my mandolin,
and protect the loves, ewes and rams and lambs, upon the spreading
shadows of dawn.

I nodded yes to the Power I knew had every right to my existence,
and yet,
when I needed Authority to rid me of a certain incarceration, subsistence
was my ration.

I have asked the questions, the wonder about inability;
I have pulled God’s hair and turned His head around to see me,
to face me,
to embrace me,
and occasionally be startled by what I saw.

But the sheep have sometimes wondered where the lines were born
that were buried in my brow and cracked beside my eyes. And more
than twice a pair of eyes,
have met me from beneath uncombed wool that, sad before,
a half-dozen years or more,
brightly played like a happy lamb again; and I occasionally
was startled by what I saw.

Oops, Sorry I Said That

“Likewise urge the younger men to control themselves. Show yourself in all respects a model of good deeds, and in your teaching show integrity, gravity, and sound speech that cannot be censured, so that an opponent may be put to shame, having nothing evil to say of us.” Titus 2:6-8

It has always been a source of humor and some puzzlement to me when, in the middle of conversation, someone uses an off-color word, looks at me, and says, “Sorry.” I have been in the ministry for many years, but worked in the secular world off and on as well. When I was a sales manager, no one apologized for colorful language, unless they knew I was a Christian.

Don't Judge

Don’t judge others, and you will not be judged. Don’t accuse others of being guilty, and you will not be accused of being guilty. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” Luke 6:37

I have heard preachers quote this verse more than once as the “favorite Bible verse of this generation”, implying they use it as a cloak to keep people from pointing out their sinful behavior. Of course, the sermon continues with a long list of “contemporary sins”, condemning each one along the way.

To Give You Pause

To Give You Pause

(“As soon as Jehudi finished reading three or four columns, the king cut them off with a small knife and threw them into the fire. He kept doing this until the entire scroll was burned up.” Jeremiah 36:23)

Of all the scripts and quatrains,
plays and prophecy, epics on papyrus,
battles recorded in cuneiform,
or shopping lists on ostraca,
ever discovered in Palestinian caves,
Nag Hammadi or Alexandria;

Of all the word that is written,
from tongue to pen or stylus,
more has been stung by power
masquerading as benevolent
editors for the masses.

Read them while you can, young ears,
dig beneath the pages the poets fill sparsely,
breathe between the words, the

s
t
o
p

meant to give you pause.

Selah.

Form the words round like apples,
tell the tales passed down the annals
from aunts to nieces, the bits and pieces
filled by the color of age and rendition.

From the heroes who fight like gods above us,
to forests where honey runs for deer and cubs;
read the dusty one set down weeks and years,
peek in streaks through anthologies and catalogues
of high jumps and the most burps in a sitting;
and open the locked ones, the blocked ones,
the hidden you’ve only heard talked about in
hushed tones and forbidden.

Open the pages, let them open the sky,
open the vowels, the consonants, sentences,
and paragraphs; tables, columns and dialogue;
the styles adorning the naked truth,
the Word made Flesh by the first utterance:

“Good”.

No Fear

 “God has not given us a spirit of fear. But he has given us a spirit of power and love and self-control.” 2 Timothy 1:7

Comedian Jerry Seinfeld observed that the number one fear is publicly speaking, with number two being the fear of death. He then quipped, “So I guess if you are at a funeral, you would rather be in the coffin than give the eulogy.” Thankfully, God doesn’t ask us all to be public speakers.

Be the Words

"Be the Words"

(“Timothy, my child, Christ Jesus is kind, and you must let him make you strong.” 2 Timothy 2:1)

Where did the fight originate?
The one that started on the street and landed at the feet
of open mouthed bystanders who lived within inches
of the scraped knees that skid across uncrossed words
meant for lower targets.

Flames grab the minds with fist rarely squeezed until
a day, walking past a yesterday friend, she heard the words
that have no more spark than bare feet scuffling across
a dry day shag carpet and shaking hands with the first door
knob
inside.

But the words itched the tiny hairs within her hearing,
the diminutive bones inside her ears and without a snap
or spark to jump the gap from hurt to reason
the battle was drawn, the sides joined, the fight begun,
the coins of the realm minted to buy the truth
to prove who would lose and who had won.

So the strong thought. And so the weak responded.
So the bullies sneered. And so the prey still shivered.
The playgrounds and board rooms,
the courtrooms and ground rules,
the sanctuaries and park benches
are never out of bounds of humanities
skewed frames of reference.

Be strong, be kind; be the strong who is kind,
be the kind who kills with kindness,
be the strength who loves the abuser
without moving, words the firm with a whisper.

Be young and strong, the kind that defies newday dna,
be the kind who loves the victim
without prior approval, words the tender with eyes
unblinking.