An Underprivileged God?

An Underprivileged God?

(“The angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream, saying, ‘Arise, and take the child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and remain there till I bring you word. For Herod will seek the child to kill him.’” Matthew 2:13)

I have been quite fortunate. Born in the United States I have never had to flee for my life because of political uprisings. I have never been persecuted or jailed because of my race or political leanings. I have never experienced hunger due to famine or the greed of an insatiable ruling class. And, I certainly have not been forced to flee my country out of fear of my life.

That “fortune” is sometimes called “privilege”. Surrounded by provision from the day I was born it can be difficult for me to identify with others who have less. That struggle is yet more real when I try to imagine the lives of those disrupted by war, famine and direct persecution. Though my upbringing was lower middle-class, we never wanted for a thing. Because of that privilege, I must make a determined effort to understand others who experience danger and destitution simply because they live somewhere on the globe where humanity is not respected.

I have never been a refugee. But Jesus was.

One moment the wise men are worshiping Jesus and giving him gold, frankincense and myrrh. In the next, Joseph is warned in a dream to flee to Egypt with Mary and Jesus. Fortunately, Egypt had become a place of asylum for Jews in political danger.

King Herod could not bear to hear a toddler was called “The King of the Jews”. Enraged, he had all the children in and around Bethlehem killed; as many as were two years old and under.

Jesus was a refugee. So was Joseph, and so was Mary. Fortunately, though a historical enemy, Egypt did not close its borders to this young family. They settled in a foreign land until Herod died and an angel again appeared to Joseph telling him to go back to Israel. “They are dead who sought the child’s life,” said the angel.

This is what God is like! God wanted to be a refugee. Scripture continually tells us that Jesus is the exact representation of God. Jesus Himself says, “If you have seen Me, you have seen the Father.” The Apostle John put it this way: “No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.” (John 1:18)

So, for all the angels we sing about at Christmas, for all the gifts the Magi bring, for all the cherub-like scenes of shepherds worshiping the Child, there is another episode that tells us what this New Born King is like.

That episode includes fleeing for His life. That episode includes so much danger in His home country that He is forced to escape and ask asylum in another. That episode includes a young father, mother and son eking out a living in a country where they did not even know the language, not knowing when or if they could return to their native country of Israel.

But Jesus was an immigrant the moment He was born on planet earth. Jesus, King of kings and Lord of lords did not arrive in glorious regalia. We might have rolled out the proverbial red carpet if He had. But, you see, that is not what God is like. He took the low route, the overlooked route, even the despised route. Born to a poor young couple, He slept His first night on straw among barn animals. That was His choice.

Later Jesus would tell a prospective follower, “Do you really want to follow me? Remember, birds have nests and foxes have holes, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.” Jesus, homeless? Maybe so. And again, maybe it is because that is what God is like. Not that God doesn’t have anywhere to live, but that He wants to live among us, even the lowest of us. Even the discarded, the refugee, the disenfranchised, the ridiculed, outcast and ignored.

When Jesus was crucified, they even had to put His body in a borrowed tomb. No room at the inn, no room in His native country, and no tomb of His own. But He does have a home. His birth among the lowly signals God’s intention, as well as the name with which Isaiah described Him, “Emmanuel” or “God with us.”

Jesus’ birth, his refugee status, his wanderings, and even his solitary burial speak of a God who loves us so much that He reduced Himself, emptied Himself, gave up all privilege, to bring us to Him. Let this Christmas remind you what God is truly like.

When Tapestries are Torn

When Tapestries are Torn

“I know that my Savior lives, and at the end he will stand on this earth.” Job 19:25

What happens when your assumptions about life are disrupted? We all have a certain vision for how we expect life to play out. Shaped by our family and upbringing, moved along by our temperament and gifts, we may have assumed our future would unfold with all the colors of this tapestry intact.

The problem is, we have no idea the barriers, setbacks or struggles we will confront along the way. I have a lifelong friend from High School. She is a comic genius. Her ability to inhabit a character and bring comedic idiosyncrasies to a performance always amazed me. She usually had me in stiches during rehearsals. What was worse, she also could, with a single sound or scrunched up face, make me giggle right before it was my cue to take the stage.

Jeannie and I lost touch after High School. But then came social media and around 2005 I re-met my witty friend. Her sense of humor was just as real. Her posts were sharp and funny, though in recent times have turned to political jabs. As she and I corresponded, she shared her story, and I realized her tapestry had become tattered and unwoven in places.

She has lived in New York City for several years and a little over a decade ago she was assaulted, robbed and beaten. Besides the horror of the attack itself, she lives with its trauma etched upon her memory and a brain injury that will never heal. Jeannie did not plan on living with Traumatic Brain Injury.

Those with TBI often suffer with immediate or delayed symptoms including confusion, blurry vision and difficulty concentrating. They may also experience blackout, dizziness and fatigue. Mood can be affected, ranging from anger and anxiety to apathy or depression. With a lifetime of effects, a “normal” life is often out of the question. My friend Jeannie has not only had to give up her dream of comic theater, but struggles to hold down any job. She lives paycheck to paycheck, while still having to spend precious income on medical bills.

Jeannie rarely complains, but her life hurts. I know it hurts. And, if you knew nothing about her, you might think, “What did she do to get herself into such dire circumstances?” I wonder how often it occurs to us that the homeless person we pass once had a tapestry in mind for their life. Do we consider the caravan of immigrants approaching our border as real-life men and women who wanted to raise families and live in peace, but now are fleeing oppression and violence? They are looking for some way to complete their own tapestries.

In the Bible Job had a masterpiece life. God called him “blameless”. He had a huge ranch, a loving wife, along with sons and daughters who actually remembered his birthday (Job 1:4). But, in a moment all of his livestock are destroyed, his buildings ruined, and his children die as a strong wind wrecks the home where they are all gathered.

Subsequently Job is also struck with terrible sores from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He takes a piece of broken pottery to scratch the painful wounds.

Along come three friends who sit with him in silence for several days. They do well to show up, and they show restraint in not speaking too quickly. The suffering do not need our words, our advice, or even our wisdom: they need “us”.

But eventually they can’t take the silence anymore and decide they must find the mysterious reason behind Job’s suffering. They pontificate about everything, accusing Job of greed, lust, blasphemy, a lack of faith, and just, well, generally being sinful. Silly boys, if they had read the first chapter of the book, they would have known none of that is true.

Job, for his part, decries the day of his birth. Most of his speech is filled with agony as he calls on God to either show Himself or to leave him alone. But, in the tarpit of his pain, occasionally a bubble of hope rises to the top. He says, “I know that my Savior lives, and at the end he will stand on this earth.” (Job 19:25) He longs for God. He longs to present himself and say, “God, Why?”

But, he also simply longs for God. He says, “Yes, I will see him for myself, and I long for that moment.” (Job 19:27). If your tapestry is ragged, if the edges are frayed, if the color is faded or threads are unstrung, let the bubbles of hope rise to the surface. God will not judge you for your doubts during your pain.  He does not condemn His suffering children. Indeed, He comes. Christ came to “stand on this earth.” He became a person of dust just as you and I are dust.

Cry out to Him in your suffering. And, when you see a lump of thread on the side of the road, remember: that once was someone else’s tapestry. Be kind.

The First Thing I Noticed

The First Thing I Noticed

(“For this is the gospel message that you have heard from the beginning: that we should love one another.” 1 John 3:11)

I thought it was love when I tried to
twist your eyes around to see mine.
I thought it might be too late or too long
or never happen at all
if I waited until sunshine
lit the path open between shadows.

I insisted too often, covered up too much,
misheard the lyrics and assumed the world
was just like I imagined in my luster and my lusts.

If I started over I would love like water
and wade simply along the banks. I would
see you like air and not mirrors. I would
listen like a novel and not essays.
If I started over I would be loved by water
and let it seek its own level. I would
float upon its crystal waves and never flail.
I would
befriend like dolphins and drink the rain.

I think it is love when every banquet
is smiles and eyes or tears and salt.

 I think it is love when it finds you early
and you find it late.
I think it is love when “forgiven”
is the word that stops the shivering and
ends the infinite loop where fiery fear
refuses to surrender to peace.

The first thing I noticed was how the ocean embraces
the wrinkles and inches we thought everyone saw.
And the sun splays its quiet orange across the each
silent evening’s wave.

No Power But Surrender

No Power but Surrender

("So you, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus." 2 Timothy 2:1)

Once the pain encircles my day all advice sinks beneath the waves
while the crowds shout from the shore how nice the water is today.
I would float on the crystal Caribbean,
soak in August's alpine lakes
just to view the light from my old point of view.

There are huddles so small that electrons cannot pass through,
moments so long the birds and deer leave only their scent behind;
eyes have focused on silence overridden by bass notes never in the score.
The phone rings; another robocall selling me ways to pay for
an attorney. I would answer, but I've memorized his spiel.
Nights are too short, though syncopated with ghosts who
know everything.

Some of the specters are soothing and drink tea or enjoy my
abstract jazz; my bluegrass grooves.
While others are buckets of words, hot soup on a sweltering day,
undoing the therapy poured out in every lyric.

There are expanses so vast, though I have 2,000 friends,
I cannot see a soul or tree or the horizon where the day should end.
The sun sweats. A high growl lassos the sky and declaims the regrets
that time relentlessly reminds each pulse of my brain.

I would sleep in the shade on a day like this in an East Bay meadow
found only by weaving past the eucalyptus, descending to the stream
and crossing the fallen log waxed with frogs and water and time.

But yesterday no longer exists, though each stab of pain urges
the better days when friends had no answers; only hugs and
chowder and
grilled cheese.

There is no power but surrender left. And surrender may be the
most dangerous power that exists. All this brain can do with its
body of bones is fall back in the ocean, the lake, the meadow;
fall back to a time when, eternity past, all is reassigned. 

Talisman

Talisman

(“When the Lord made a promise to Israel, he commanded, ‘Never worship other gods, bow down to them, serve them, or sacrifice to them.’” 2 Kings 17:35)

I’ve got a stone in my pocket and a coin in my shoe;
I’ve carried the tune, I’ve scratched the surface.
My knuckles are white from hanging on tight to
ever belief I thought would fill in the holes
I dug with lyrics and melodies borrowed from time.

Sleight of hand is no trick in my world;
a handkerchief here, the ace of spades up my sleeve.
I’m holding on tight to all I believe,
though all I believe is coffee and mud.

I’ve fallen flat, I’ve paved the road;
I’ve shouted at demons, I’ve dreamed of angels.
I’m as at fault as the asphalt on August afternoons.

I’ve taken notes on everything she wrote;
jotted down my thoughts when the mighty spoke,
and still my journals are crammed with scrawls.
Was it Adam or Eve? Who made us fall?

I’ve crawled when the waterfalls called,
I’ve knelt all night on New Year’s eve,
baptized thrice (I took first prize),
and I’ve sung every verse to Amazing Grace
twice upon the primary pew.

In my hand I hold every toy truck, every guitar string I’ve plucked,
every glissando, every falsetto, and the earnest failures
like feathers and tar.

I was certain each episode. I bowed deeply and
believed the stories the ancients foretold. I
am
not
a post-modern
poet or critic,

I’ve just walked too far to be taken in again by
manufacturers’ warranties.

So I’ve emptied my pockets, taken off my shoes,
rolled up my sleeves, exposed the blues I was not
supposed to sing.

I still sing the songs and play in the sand, but my idols are
banished. Certainty vanished the moment

The clouds gave way and Love Divine was all my
Hope and Sway.

My Silent Chair

My Silent Chair

(“Peace be with you, dear brothers and sisters, and may God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ give you love with faithfulness. “ Ephesians 6:23)

I wait for the next tick of the clock hoping ease
will find my silent chair.
I've always wanted to be more than I am,
better than I appear,
and I alone know the secret places I've stashed
the inky past.
I cannot rely upon my myriad attempts at regeneration;
the cushions have taken my form. I leave my chair but
my dense impressions remain.

How many times have I begged for peace when yesterday's creases
keep stalking me down?
How many loves have I preached only to envy another fleeting and
manufactured fragrance?
How slowly my faith has weathered, the silt below me all parts
of my beginning?

So they ask me how miserable I am. They ask in love, they ask in concern.
But there is no cure and no end to the pain. More than the decade of arrows
to my brain,
the spears to my soul have gouged me far past my prime.
And I have turned towards and away, inward and awry, passion and pedantic;
only to find the same heart beating, the same blood pulsing, and I wonder where
the new creation begins after far too many endings for my taste.

I will cheer for you. Yes, I know the hunger after the crisis,
the ennui after the knife is removed when all believe the healing has begun.

I've started more times than you realize. I've stopped even more. And I can
only depend on what I hope is the love-of-Christ and
the interests of a
few-dear-friends.

I Will Sing of the Freedom

I Will Sing of the Freedom

(“Always give thanks for all things to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” Ephesians 5:20)

It was sometimes the precise language that bothered me,

like indigestion after too many doughnuts. I cannot seriously
thank God
for detention camps and quarantined families.

And to offer gratitude in the name of the authorities who put them there;

who do not see the dark-haired mothers scorched upon the road of escape,
who refuse to hear the broken candles of prayers cut off before the answer

who defy the cries of wrinkled notes with grandparent's phone numbers scribble inside.

You tell me to give thanks, and I will, for families with such life that dare our borders
for refuge and asylum from the eardrum-splitting violence of their own homes,
their kindred villages, to seek a hand to help them across the border
to air with less smoke and more invitations to join the
purple majesties and and golden grains. No one told them

half-way through their journey

that families no longer matter in the land they heard was free.

I will give thanks for mother and fathers, for older brothers and sisters,
for baby girls and boys. I will utter praise for the progeny of the Father
who come to our borders and scale the wall if the must, to find just a speck
of justice on
the other side of the fences.

I will sing of the freedom seekers, I will write the songs that urge them on.
I will thank the Father who loves them forward, the Son, the refugee whose long
and ancient Days are full of families who sought a better home, a greater city,
a place where a woman could decide, right or wrong; and where a man could choose,
up or down; until the seeds took root or the boss cut the check

or until the new land of their sojourn
joined the song and thanked the Father of Life
for the spice, the dance, the song, and perchance,
the greater nation that opens its heart to families
like our families
that once upon a time

placed uncertain feet upon the shores of an experimental nation
that hard-pressed, learned the love of freedom as slowly as a toddler
following its mother home.