Carrying

“Four of those who came were carrying a man who could not walk.” Mark 2:3

Dale was my best friend throughout High School. We met our freshman year and both went to First Christian Church in Concord, CA. We were not at all alike. I was an artsy hippy, involved in drama and music. He loved tech work and cars. But, what bound us together initially was a girl. We both had crushes on Sheri. Also our same age, she attended another are High School and went to the same church we did. We both had huge crushes on her.

And That is All

And That is All

(“Come, let us worship and bow down; let us kneel before the Lord our Maker.” Psalm 95:6)

My legs are weak from standing, my mind curled from
hashing out each argument to magnify my own codes of conduct.
I hand out glances at the first action that does not glitter in
angelic gold.

My arms of tired from directing the traffic from darkness to
manufactured tanning stations, pointing out the misdirection,
handing out the reserved exceptions to the better dressed who
avoided every beat of music with stains of mud the silent modifier.

My voice is harsh, is rough, is scraped like a knee on the pavement;
I would speak more kindly if the street corner had received my instructions
more readily. As it is, with all the shouting, I am certain I got through to all
who were doubting the sanity of the speaker.

My ears are plugged, are burst, are filled like garbage bags stuffed with
every castaway vegetable and cutaway insurance bill. Crammed,
the sound waves do not even stop to know, but turn away seeing the
door to my listen is far too full to allow another thought a place to
bunk upon the floor.

I have heard of knees stronger for the kneeling, voices sweeter for their song;
I have seen silence that repented scratch into melody. I have held a camping
mug hot with coffee, the fire off the beaten path, the brown liquid left steaming
from early evening and yet, sweeter than summer wine, it tasted of hand
to
hand

And commanded a second look at unhooking my agonizing attempts at
controlling the earth’s rotation. I look into the fire, back at the golden face
of my benefactor, and, life sometimes sends saints unobserved, unconsciously
we kneel, we bow,

And that is all.

You Have Been our Home

You Have Been our Home

"Our Lord, in all generations you have been our home.” Psalm 90:1

During my late elementary school years, and into junior high, my family lived in Alhambra, CA, part of the East Los Angeles suburbs. In a lower middle class neighborhood, clapboard houses were the books and apartment buildings the bookends of each block. It was a great place to grow up, with a peculiar mix of Caucasian and Latino families. Our school was just up the block with its asphalt playground and covered lunch area. Around the block we spent our dimes and quarters on candy at the drug store and sodas at the little hamburger shack.

Opposite the Tomb

Opposite the Tomb

(“Mary Magdalene and the other Mary were sitting there opposite the tomb.” Matthew 27:61)

The chair was vacant, the air was heavy and still,
the hills groaned as afternoon lumbered toward darkness,
the last words they heard tumbling from above the crowd;

They heard them.
They rehearsed them.
They sat with nothing to occupy their hands.

“It is finished”, it is done, it’s all over, we tried our best,
no more can be done, no more to offer, and the quest-
ions

They thought had been answered landed like geese all at once
upon a distant marsh.

The tomb was sealed, the body cold and rigid,
without torches to meet the night they could not stay
seated across the entrance for long. Their hearts were peeled
like summer fruit, their eyes veiled the hope that disappeared as
quickly as the last breath and word they heard.

One cannot interpret, one should not expect, sunrise only moments
after the dimming of the day.

Their fingers, cold as the moon, twisted, hand to hand, the human
consolation when god has dropped the final word on the subject and
is no longer available for follow-up questions.

And so, late on Friday, their eyes fastened on the massive stone,
they slowly rose for the silent walk home; Sabbath, so quiet,
each heartbeat carried its own conversation.

With little else to say, nothing else to do, the rose early
(they knew the tomb, the place and the way), and would love
their Jesus kindly with burial spices;

Some days are like that…quiet recall on a dewy morning,
an errand of love, and intimate conversation when “It is

Finished”

Is not a dying whimper at all.

Across from their seat, still vacant from Friday,
the stone was moved, the air was linen, and, with angelic reasoning

They knew they were mistaken to seek the

Living among the dead.

Continuing in Grace

“Paul and Barnabas…urged them in long conversations to stick with what they’d started, this living in and by God’s grace.” Acts 13:43 (The Message)

Why is this so hard? This may come off as a rant, so I should apologize right up front. But I am actually as frustrated with myself as I am with the rest of Christianity. Paul and Barnabas had seen people respond to the Best News Possible, that sins are forgiven because of Jesus’ death on the cross. They watched as people received the message with great joy and observed their lives being changed.

Accept us Again

“God, accept us again. Smile down on us and save us!” Psalm 80:3

Even the most optimistic positive-thinkers have to admit that life often doesn’t work out the way we expect. I know that is not a very radical statement, nor a great insight. But I think it goes to the heart of a very common spiritual dilemma: we are, on the one hand, accepted by God by faith in Jesus’ work on the cross, yet often find ourselves well outside the circle of His expectations. We are His children, yet can easily discover a rebel heart still beating proudly.

Only Borrowed

Only Borrowed

(“When you harvest your land’s produce, you must not harvest all the way to the edge of your field; and don’t gather every remaining bit of your harvest. Leave these items for the poor and the immigrant; I am the Lord your God.” Leviticus 23:22)

If you find your place on the planet, clear the land,
plant the seed, amplify the harvest, use what you need,
only what you need. Do not waste your time or edges,
do not consume the fringes, cut back the hedges you built to
protect your investment.

Less hinges on your insurance; more on the emptied closet,
the inches trimmed to feed the rest. More depends on your
radical placement,
responsible payment of debt

For the ground that warmed your seed,
for the seed that raised the value,
for the harvest that graced the avenue
with a golden invitation that nothing
is owned

But only borrowed. Plant your feet,
take a breath,
exhale slowly,
let the lowly come to mind with
the next mouthful of gifted air.

Let your hands be rough from volunteered labor,
your words soft like the evening star,
your face warm as sun-warmed loam,
your eyes jammed full like goose-down pillows;

A new delight, an expansive embrace, the response of
a grace learned from constantly tripping on the roots of trees

That hugged the spot, the suburban plot,
generations before you thought
it was your own.