Quiet Wisdom

“Who in your community is understanding and wise? Let his example, which is marked by wisdom and gentleness, blaze a trail for others.” James 3:13

I recently enjoyed lunch with a good friend. As topic flowed into topic the name of a well known Christian leader came up. My friend expressed concern that this leader had become somewhat arrogant in the last few years. Not having followed his ministry recently, I did a bit of research and I now think I understand what she meant. There are ripples of harshness that run through even his public materials.

Between Simple Lines

Between Simple Lines

(“Blessed is the man who endures temptation, for when he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life, which the Lord promised to those who love him.” James 1:12)

Between simple lines drawn upon
new pages in a denim-covered three ring binder
lie the words left behind by soft graphite,
the misspelled connection between mind
and paper.

Grammar may not matter, punctuation only
dots in the appropriate places,
but I have labored to remember faces that
made my breath sweeter for a moment,
my space occupied by more stories than permitted.

The sadness exposes every hand I tried to hold
but withdrew for fear my company or my geography
would finally wear thin. Many I hoped to begin
but never initiated the conversation; I only invested
in sure things.

Do not turn away in the fog; the breeze will reveal
the sharp shadows by afternoon. Do not forget the
names we played; the hills will inscribe
the poetry we drank like wine. Do not forsake
the cord we twined; the hardships have tried
to unravel our young design.

Could I open a cedar box and smell every day
that lined the sidewalk with crepe myrtle
I might dance when the money runs out,
I might laugh at the nervous cancellations,
and
I would certainly wait on the corner where the
tennis courts began to crack, to see
if the same friend I looked for a half hour before
school
still walked the same way home today.

Compression

"Compression"

(“Through him, then, let us continually offer a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that confess his name.” Hebrews 13:15)

His life once expanded, people traveled to ask his advice,
to watch his mannerisms and copy his reflexes. He was only
half of what they saw,
though the hidden half frightened him from daylight into
nightmares.

They etched his name on plaques and bylines,
brought babies with coughs for him to cradle,
sat him down around hardwood tables with
state committees. The governor’s wife presented
the award paired with a guitar-man statue on his
haphazard office wall. Musicians applauded,
and the sharp arc of his trajectory was combined with
just the right velocity to land him
happy once the hard work was done.

But his sad half never smiled,
dark side cold, stubbornly deflecting
the weak force attempt to turn it toward the sun.

Blind side hardly smiled,
cold side stark, visionless and pallid
though colors swirled around it,
the hidden half never upgraded,
afraid it would be discovered in its
perpetual monochrome.

His life once expanded, now the diameter of a dime;
pain limits his excursions,
fear authors the versions of every story he remembers.
He is few.

But he cries. He turns the music loud. He keeps the
doctor long to have someone to talk to. He loves
and does not know how to. He faces himself and
wonders how this all will end, with tears and pain
his dinner and desert.

But he cries. He turns to You. He keeps on
asking so he will not have to regret. Tomorrow
still frightens him, with so little room to maneuver.

But he cries…to You. And he knows You,
though all is puzzle and spiral, and thanks You
for hope that seems wickedly illogical. Hold him
now, he lays his lonely assumptions in the strongest
Hands he knows.

Where I Would Like to Live

“Therefore, we must be thankful that we have a kingdom that cannot be shaken. Because we are thankful, we must serve God with fear and awe in a way that pleases him.” Hebrews 12:28

Our daughter Sarah told me recently that she wants to live in Minneapolis. “That just seems like the city for me,” she said. She was raised in North Dakota before moving with us to the Northwest just before high school. So, the familiarity of the territory combined with the fact her only niece lives there makes Minneapolis the obvious choice.

She asked me what city I would most want to live in. I hemmed and hawed a bit, partly because I have enjoyed almost everywhere I have lived based upon the friendships we made along the way. But finally I told her, “Berkeley, California.” I have loved the free-spirited nature of “Berzerkeley” from my high-school days. Our family would often make the 30 mile trip from Concord to hang out there on Saturdays.

I attended the grand opening of the amazing Berkeley Art Museum in 1970 and heard poet Richard Brautigan read. I haunted the shops up and down Telegraph Avenue, wandering up and down the aisles of basement stores. I got lost in the bins of used records and sheet music. It was there I first discovered the riveting and muscular music of Leadbelly. I had never heard guitar work like it, nor voice and lyrics that wouldn’t let go. I also discovered Tom Rush, a pioneer of the new folk music and incredible singer-songwriter.

It was at the Bishops, a coffee shop in Oakland, not far from Berkeley, that I got my start reading original poetry. It had open mike on Friday nights and I would wait my turn with a manila folder holding a dozen or so handwritten pages. It was scary business, but it helped me hone my skills. And it makes for beautiful memories over 40 years later.

But the Bishops is no more. I worked in Oakland in the early 80s and wanted to take some friends to see the old stage where I once sat. I was greatly saddened that it no longer existed. And the stores where I set up camp for long Saturday afternoons now house some other wares, who knows. At least the beautiful Art Museum remains. Today’s city is not the one I grew up with, even if many still think of it as “The People’s Republic of Berkeley”.

Things change. Coffee shops shut down. Stores are sold and become store front churches or furniture warehouses. Some of the buildings themselves have been razed and parking lots put in their place. It is true, if we put our heart in things of this world, we will find our heart broken.

God’s kingdom, though, cannot be shaken. More than a place we go, His kingdom is the way we live out our lives no matter our geographical location. King Jesus presides over the kingdoms of this world and will forever. Berkeley has changed. Nations have come and gone. Poets keep writing, artists keep drawing outside the lines, but even the best will someday be forgotten. I am deeply thankful that God’s kingdom, which He has prepared for those who love Him, is safe from the ravages of time and cultural change.

When I realize that God established His kingdom for the good of humankind, I am overtaken with awe. God didn’t need worship; He is secure in His “ego”. He doesn’t need to conquer nations, He already rules the universe. He does not need masses of followers to affirm greatness; He is already completely great within Himself.

No, His kingdom is for our benefit! He loves us. He created this entire world for us to populate and nurture. He made a world keenly established to keep us alive and offer every sort of pleasure and joy. Had sin not crept in, the universe would have been perfection. Even then, Father God chose to annihilate the infection of sin we caused, and allow us to enjoy all His kingdom’s benefits again.

As we trust in the forgiveness Christ offers through His death on the cross, we place ourselves at the very heart of God’s kingdom. It is about far more than becoming religious folks who no longer sleep in on Sunday and who offer pamphlets full of new rules to follow. We are people set free to live like members of the holy, pleasurable, love-filled and joyful kingdom of God. And that kingdom will never, ever be shaken!

Yes indeed, I stand in fear and awe that God has done such a thing for us who are so insignificant. Time to send Father God a few thank you notes, and dash off a handful to other members of His kingdom as well!

Fixing Potholes

And make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be dislocated but healed instead.” Hebrews 12:13

I don’t think God is against tranquil meandering walks. There is a deep need to slow down, especially in our culture trying to wring one last chore out of the next hour of the day. But, God does desire for us to stay on track, keeping the goal of our lives in focus.

Smallgrove

Smallgrove

(“I will plant it, and it will send out branches and bear fruit. It will grow into a mighty cedar. Birds of every kind will nest in it and find shelter in the shade of its boughs.” Ezekiel 17:23b)

We wished the ground would be more forgiving,
having planted eight fruit trees 4 years ago or five;
the peaches are stretching and dropped their fuzzy
orbs juicy on the sparsely seafoam hill. The apples
are slower, the plums more miserly with a handful
of purple sugar the sun and leaves conspired to create.
Two trees of unknown fruit point grey and tan branches
like upraised hands admitting they wish they had been
ready this spring. The deer are hoping,
and the pie and crumble the kitchen dispenses,
while we wait the next turning of Giant Blue
and listen to the blue jays announce

They have possessed a few branches
as their own.

The Smallest Timbre

The Smallest Timbre

(“And without faith it is impossible to please God, for whoever would approach him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.” Hebrews 11:6)

I spot the impossible in memories and mind,
but miss it on the sod I’ve planted my feet upon.
The clouds increase my resistance,
my willingness lumbers under pretentious imagination
precisely where I left it time ago and
time again.

I have not done with seeking, it is finding that frustrates me,
and I wish the next bush would hold a bird or two with
a welcome song from the home where I know the view
has washed all the grey hues away. The music,
the lyric,
the lilt of fiddle tunes that echo from smokey mountains
to splintered front porches. The work is hard but the
play is better.

I love every word Jesus spoke, and need no others.
But I would like them front and centered,
above the late night memories and happy home rooms
I’ve entered so long ago they’ve come around and
masquerade as my future.

Let the morning carry the words I adore through
the cracks in the shutters, into the spirals that utter
dark expectations about the smallest timbre
and attach meanings to the absence I feel
of every love I’ve made or imagined. I
do not want to feel loved to rid my stomach
of its shivers
nor
my eyes of their tears.

I am nearing the end, and no longer needing proof,
I simply want to hear an answer to help me seek
just a little bit longer.