Binding the Wounds

Binding the Wounds

“This is what the Lord Almighty said: ‘Administer true justice; show mercy and compassion to one another. Do not oppress the widow or the fatherless, the foreigner or the poor.’” Zechariah 7:9, 10a

Jackie Robinson, the player who broke baseball’s color barrier, endured a difficult rookie season with the Brooklyn Dodgers. Fans hurled racial slurs and mailed death threats, opposing pitchers threw beanballs, and even some of his own teammates started a petition against him.

One man who stood by him was shortstop Pee Wee Reese. At one game, fans sitting close to the field abused Robinson mercilessly, and it looked as if he might be near the breaking point. At that moment, Reese walked across the field to where Robinson was playing, and put his arm around his teammate’s shoulders. The crowd fell silent.

Jackie Robinson and Pee Wee Reese showed the courage to stand for what was right, even when the majority opposed them. Similarly, Zechariah encouraged the Israelites to pursue true justice, even when many were practicing hypocrisy and self-centeredness.

We have witnessed much suffering across the world in the past several months. Hurricanes have ripped across Texas, Florida and the Caribbean. Over 350 people have lost their lives in Mexico’s magnitude 7.1 earthquake. In South Asia typhoons and flooding have taken 1,200 lives and forced millions from their homes. And now, just in the past week at least 59 were killed and more than 500 injured by a mass shooter in Las Vegas.

It is easy to feel overloaded with the scope of suffering we encounter. But if there is one thing every follower of Jesus is called to do, it is to continue showing God’s mercy and compassion as much as we can. If anything, disaster and grief can awaken greater depths of empathy within us for those who suffer.

True justice not only reacts in sympathy toward victims, but also acts to prevent future harm. We must open our hearts to the cries of those who endure not only the catastrophe of natural disaster, but to those who endure the continuing trials of poverty and injustice. Just as Pee Wee Reese stood up for Jackie Robinson we need to risk standing for those who are forgotten, misunderstood, and unfairly judged.

When we consider that God in Christ entered the world as a human, becoming a servant to us and suffering violent death at our own hands, our minds can hardly fathom the depths of His love. We did the worst possible thing to the Father of Love; we killed God! And what did Jesus do while hanging upon that instrument of death and violence? He said, “Father forgive them, they do not know what they are doing.”

That should leave no doubt in our minds about God’s heart toward humanity. Like the Good Samaritan, we are not called to tell people “You wouldn’t have gotten hurt if you hadn’t traveled that road.” Instead, exercising “true justice”, we meet the need and go beyond the boundaries of race, religion, poverty or any other human constructs and simply bind the wounds of those who suffer.

My roots are in the South. Though our family moved to Southern California when I was in second grade, I was born in Texas and spent nearly every holiday with grandparents in Tulsa, Okla. After Patti and I were married we moved to Oklahoma to be near my dad. That “southern courtesy” still runs through my veins.

Grandmas call you “hon” and people say, “Well, bless your heart” in response to just about anything. (Sometimes meaning the exact opposite of “bless your heart”, though.)

God is calling for something more than courtesy. The prophet Zechariah reveals the heart of God as he calls the people to more than surface level kindness, but to action rooted in heartfelt affection… “let none of you devise evil against another in your heart.”

That’s the real key, isn’t it? What we say and do is always a product of our inner self. Take some time and reflect God’s actions of compassion as revealed in the Cross. Consider how He sacrificed for us in the middle of all our muck and dysfunction and let His faithful love energize your own.

Silence is Fuller

Silence is Fuller

(“Be silent, all mankind, before the Lord, for he has come to earth from heaven, from his holy home.” Zechariah 2:13)

Silence is fuller than cascades of verbs
that travel from outside our ears into tangled
shortcuts with words.

Silence is deeper than cenotes unfound
where history is buried beneath the muffled

rituals of sound.

Nouns are less concrete than the quiet that
sees
only the bluebird that conversation makes invisible.

I do not wait well in the stillness, nor walk when instruction is unclear.
The buzz in the background; the blues, a movie, a distant campfire circle,

all arc back to short-circuit the wheel of sentences that repeat
like a coffee grinder churning my mind in a closed-loop of fantasy.

Silence is denser than the Dickens
or other deep descriptions of time and rooms,
of seasons and revolutions. Silence is the black hole
that holds nothing and

in which everything exists.

Words have been my language since I heard my name
for the first time, since Mama or Dadda and No and Me.

To believe God speaks with nothing, and to find eternity

in that void,
is to learn, not another dialect or use for words I still need
to find.

It is a new Kingdom of being; of seeing without tongue or ear.
The more I beg Him to speak, the more precious His silence has become.

Simply Put

Simply Put

(“Blessed are those who endure when they are tested. When they pass the test, they will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.” James 1:12)

What is my love compared to the trails You have left with
my heart?
Are my faltering steps enough for the race when I know
I once flew faster? There were friends I once would ask,
but now they do not answer my letters.

Pain is the dungeon, depression the iron door, and where is the
something more,
the crown,
the life,
the speed,
the gown of white,
the reed unbroken and the smoking wick
relit?

Which foot should I put forward now? Which direction, and
how do I know when to lay my head upon the grass because
the world is far too fast for the ache that started in my heart and
now has lasted too long in my head?

Can I tell you the truth, Father-I-hope? I am tired of the test and want
to lay my pencil down. Grade me now and let me finish. I’ll take an
incomplete if I have to.

Suffering and glory, crowns and crosses; that was Your story, but

I need the alphabet to be flesh. I need the paragraphs to be persona;
the stories to be more than mystery; but my contemporary now.

Visit me in more than my dreams, beyond the page, within the schemes
of my undulating hobby of ache. I wander the fields of my youth,
the days of laughter and acoustic songs, flutes and singalongs,
and I was so much smarter than anyone knew.

Now I know how narrow is the science which pulled the blinds so tightly,
that Your light is the sliver of morning where the dust hangs.
And, simply put, I haven’t seen a sunrise since before North Dakota
on the Missouri.

Wisdom to Be

Wisdom to Be

“If any one of you falls short in wisdom, they should ask God for it, and it will be given them. God, after all, gives generously and ungrudgingly to all people.” James 1:5

Almost every Christian who wants guidance knows this verse well. We have been told that God will give us all the wisdom we need when we ask Him, and that He will never begrudge us the gift of His wisdom. That much is true. Our problem, I believe, is that we substitute the word “guidance” for “wisdom”.

Let me explain. Perhaps we need to choose whether to take this job or that one. Or we are considering buying a new house. We rely on this verse, ask God for wisdom (thinking “guidance”) and expect some sign to tell us which choice to make. I do not want to be misunderstood; God often gives specific guidance about choices we face.

But wisdom is a much broader category than simple “guidance”. What if wisdom has to do more with who we are than what we should do? Isn’t God more interested in forming us into men and women who carry the compassion of Christ in our hearts? And, as we ask for His wisdom, what if He responds by transforming us to a greater degree into the likeness of His Son?

Let me share from own recent struggle with wisdom. Most of you know I have suffered from a daily headache for nearly nine years. It hinders everything that I do; writing, reading, physical activity, even taking road trips.

Here is what makes it so challenging. Every "trial" I've endured thus far in my life could be traced either to failings on my part or someone else's, if not entirely, then in part. I could act on it. I could repent. I could confess. I could forgive. I could make amends. I could reconcile.

But there is no cause for this chronic pain that I can tackle with better piety. In fact, the pain hinders most of my spiritual "practices". Prayer is an effort. The pain shortens my attention span when reading Scripture. And acts of mercy are fewer and farther between, as are most of my activities.

I cannot fix this with better devotion to God. And, yes, I understand His strength is made perfect in weakness and that His grace is sufficient. But the pain is an iron door which seems to limit access to experiencing these things.

That's the most honest assessment I can make. My faith is challenged because, for once, I see no cause, no solution and no way forward. I am, in many ways, walking in the dark while I try to walk in the light.

I have asked God for wisdom. I have sought medical advice, spiritual counsel, and poured out my heart to family…and well, Facebook. I cannot keep up the pace I need to as a full-time pastor, yet I am not financially able to retire. There is more to that, but just understand, there seem to be very few choices. And I’ve been asking quite often for “wisdom”. “Show me another way, God.”

Recently (actually, yesterday) I began to think this way. “There is much I can no longer do because of this chronic pain. And, I hate the physical suffering as well. I don’t play tennis, don’t visit friends, don’t read, don’t write my poetry as much. But…I am still me.” That seemed like a breakthrough.

You see, I’ve been focusing on what I feel I need to do, and all the things I can’t do. But the pain has not changed one thing about who I am. For me, God’s wisdom may be to stop seeking to do things better and just be His beloved child, because that has not changed. I am His by faith in Christ, despite the pain.

That does not ease my physical suffering. And, if you are suffering, you may still endure hardship as well. But, ask God for wisdom; not just for what to do, but who to be. The next verse tells us to “ask in faith.”

Faith isn’t a power to gain control over our lives. Instead, it is surrendering our false sense of control into the hands of our loving Heavenly Father. Trusting Him means we no longer convince ourselves that, with enough faith, we can move that mountain. We put that mountain into God’s hands and simply trust Him for the outcome.

Personally, This Letter

Personally, This Letter

“Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.” Luke 21:33

So many letters lie tattered beneath the newer lessons I’ve learned.
Yet the dusty seams bring me back again to the handwritten pages I
said I would never leave behind.
One said Never was sworn for life, and Ever was the bond. Friends
and brothers, square knots and sisters; but the sworn statements
broke upon the letter of the law.

I never wrote on stationary, I rarely used a blank page. Spiral notebooks
used to sleep on the bottom bunk of the old brown bookshelf unsung. I can
see phrases, words playing like “chiseled orphans” and “cacophonies of
Christmas lights” outside a teenager’s window.

Songs remembered, tunes forgotten; I paste the chords with weaker fingers.
I’m not saying I want to go backwards; I only desire the long talks around
the firebush in autumn or summer’s sacred meadow.

Some words I’ve hacked in half, others extended by a vowel or two,
but all I remember (my heart still tarries) is the laughter and tears
that were acceptable in season or out. Our gardens were full; rich loam
and metaphor. Our hugs were held well after harvest and fini.

And Now.

And now, Your words are still my meat, though my palate has changed.
In early fall the smoke from campfires writes another chapter of the book
I’ve laid down. And I hope the same smoke will stir the embers of friends
who I used to know.

With and without; words were the life. The silence, the pale blue lines
crossing the page, the margin asking where to begin. The silence

Is the reason I sometimes cry when no one is watching.

Will You speak in words I know? I am not nearly as old as You,
Ancient of Days. I need Your newer tropes and parables to pack inside
the vulnerable windows.

P.S.

P.S. I would send it personally, this letter, old friend,
but I fear, once more, you might not return my letter again.

The Sheep of My Pasture

The Sheep of My Pasture

“And you, my sheep, the sheep of my pasture, are my people, and I am your God, declares the sovereign Lord.” Ezekiel 34:31

Have you ever thought about what it is like to be a sheep? No? I suppose it is not one of those daydreams many of us have. If we were to imagine being an animal we might choose the stately lion, the majestic eagle or maybe a playful puppy. Sheep just don’t come to mind that often.

Yet God describes us as His sheep numerous times throughout Scripture and Jesus calls us as His “little flock”. Sheep are not solitary animals; they flourish in flocks. And domesticated sheep need a shepherd; a good shepherd. That is God’s primary message in Ezekiel 34. His people had been ruled by “shepherds” who had no cared for the people’s needs at all.

Instead of caring for and feeding the sheep, these rulers had fed themselves. “You eat the fat, you clothe yourselves with the wool, you slaughter the choice animals, but you do not feed the sheep!” God tells them (Ezekiel 34:3) They did not strengthen the weak, heal the sick, bandage the injured, bring back strays or seek the lost. Instead they were harsh and forcefully exerted their power over the people. (Ezekiel 34:4)

As a result, the people were scattered and were, like sheep, put at risk and became “food for every wild beast.” Leaders, whether religious, business or political, are called to look at the needs of those around them and be good shepherds. Instead of finding ways to exert personal power, a good leader seeks out the hurt and brings healing. A good leader finds ways to heal the sick and weak. A good leader refuses to hold back they good they can do for those who have suffered injury.

Think about the goodness of Jesus Himself. Matthew 12:20 say about Jesus: “He will not break a bruised reed or extinguish a smoldering wick, until he brings justice to victory.” Bruised reeds matter to Jesus! We must understand that first and foremost. When God sees our broken places He immediately sets out to heal them. When He sees the fire nearly going out He immediately acts to ignite the flame again. He does not blame, He does not condemn: He heals.

As His followers, we are called to be the same. We are Jesus in the world. Spirit-filled believers are the “flock” of this Good Shepherd. But, we also become shepherds ourselves. When we see injustice in the world, we should also say, “Bruised reeds matter.” We who have received the healing, strength and care of the Almighty are called to take that same compassion into the world.

It is easy to rely on people to gain what we think we need in life, but it is the care of Father-God that truly satisfies. We will make mistakes along the way. We will step forward when we should have waited. We will wait when we should have acted. But, if we are living in complete dependence on God’s loving care, we turn from those mistakes and reach out to the hurting once more.

As a church, I hope we at River of Life are creating a safe space for the flock of God. For a good shepherd, every new lamb is treated with the same care as any other. And, those that are weaker often receive more intimate care because they are more in need. I hope we are creating an environment where people can share the joys and the hurts they feel. I hope we are a place that people do not have to act like all the other sheep to fit in. We will go through ups and downs throughout life, but the love of God will always move us to greater compassion for others and less self-promotion. We love each other well when we point to the hope we have in Christ while never ignoring the painful circumstances that may be present. Remember, to follow Jesus means to be part of a flock. Don’t stay away from the sheep pen.

Let us throw the doors of our hearts wide open. Jesus was constantly stopping to heal those who the world had passed by. Jesus gave His time to despised tax-collectors and prostitutes. They mattered to Him. You matter to Him. And, sheep who have been excluded for one reason or another especially matter to Him.

Father, may we truly follow You as our Shepherd. Let us learn to rely on Your for Your personal care and healing of our lives. Create in us the same heart You have for all people and help us give the same grace we have received.

My Silent Repertoire

My Silent Repertoire

(“And the Lord’s servant mustn’t be a fighter, but must be gentle to all people, able to teach, able to bear evil without resentment.” 2 Timothy 2:24)

It’s been quite murky for a while. Some call it grace,
some just see the space I put between myself and the pain. My
guts would tell you that the fire is tired of burning, the lamps are
turning to evening and the embers to dirty gray.

I need to be tucked in between a lake and metropolis,
a forest with a couch and a café with first friends who don’t mind
that my eyes glaze when the gravity tightens around my face.

I sat on city councils, I advised state projects, I met CEOs and
had alcoholics in my home. Now my visits are silent, my years
are ringing like the foghorns on the river. All my energy has been
sold to the clouds as they pass by.

“Stir it up” they might say, “the gift, the fire, the holyghost desire”.
And that’s what I dream every evening before I wake with the
knife slicing my head again. And I can barely write again.

Doubt is my agent, tears are nearly absent. I’ve spent them on the
clouds that pass by.

Hold my hand again. Bring me a drink again. Touch my brow again
with a towel of mercy. Follow the wrinkles with your fingers, the furrows
caused by cringing that meet the smile lines of ages ago.

It is too slow now to organize. Too murky to plagiarize. The mask is
pulled far too tight across the fog my forehead feels. And so

I only ask forgiveness, and offer the same. My repertoire is limited,

But unashamed.