We Auction Our Hopes

We Auction Our Hopes

(“’Tell David that all I want for the bride price is 100 Philistine foreskins! Vengeance on my enemies is all I really want.’ But what Saul had in mind was that David would be killed in the fight.” 1 Samuel 18:25)

I wondered why the universe wouldn’t be placed like
a hologram before us sitting on the kitchen table.
Why couldn’t we put our hands upon the orb, examine
it with our skin on?
Why not orbit its perimeter, experiment with its trajectory,
change the refraction of light and realign the spectrum?

Isn’t that what kings and presidents, ceos and John Does
try to do every day?

We would make the rain fall on flooded plains if we could,
just to show the pains we’ve taken to rise to the top of the mountain
billions of years in the making.

I don’t have to hurt myself to see if I still feel pain,
that’s already been done for me. I could meditate all day in
the desert or
the forest
and be done in a moment to find the spike in my head that
now slices my heart.

I wondered why we can’t just be in the world
and not of it.
Why we can’t refrain from turning the dials and just
learn to love it the way the Master does. The Lover does.
The Mother does. The wild goose and the peaceful dove does.

I wondered what happens when the pain beneath our skin begins
to be the atmosphere we walk in, the ocean we swim in,
the dirt we dig in and the noise that never leaves us a moment
of silence.

100 foreskins, 200 foreskins; we auction our hopes and double
the bribes,
all because raggedy rulers decree a bride-price for
the guarantee of our freedom.

A Mirror to Mine

A Mirror to Mine

(“Do you think all God wants are sacrifices—empty rituals just for show? He wants you to listen to him! Plain listening is the thing, not staging a lavish religious production.” 1 Samuel 15:22 [The Message])

While the corners are piled with the world’s castaways
we play wise men and Herod, Pilate and centurions,
enacting ancient stories with smoke effects and children’s choirs.

Give me a single day of passion. A cloudless vision of the womb-love
of God. Give me lace with mud, scratched silver and old pennies found
at the foot of gnarled apple trees determined to offer their fruit against all
odds.

While the borders are crowded with castoff peasants
we buy better security to protect our audio-visual equipment in
our not-so-sacred places. We dig to the bottom of our blue-jean
pockets to give our last dollar for this year’s software update.

Give me a single year of housing. A flag refurled so the colors bleed
into each other. Give me huts and haunts, swollen knuckles and young babies
brought to the foot of our fears. Show me their faces, and hold a mirror
to mine.

Put the nation on pause, please. Give the pastor some time, this time,
to meet Jesus again. And unlock the doors we closed when we feared
politics might enter and become converted. We have one too many flags
in our churches.

“Give us this day our daily bread”: we’ve forgotten how You broke,
and blessed, and gave Yours away.

“Give us this day…” for our mercy seems to have evaporated away.

“Give us this day…” and we will put it in our knapsacks and give it away.

Give us some time, this time, to meet Jesus again.

A Circle Wider

A Circle Wider

(“I’m amazed that you are so quickly deserting the one who called you by the grace of Christ to follow another gospel.” Galatians 1:6)

With a circle wider than the world God
drew the boundaries and intentions of love.
Galaxies cascading in inertia know it,
black holes heavier than time know it,
angels, demons, rabbits and eagles know it;

But the objects of grace,
the jewels of mercy,
men and women who dance inside
manmade halls hear it,
hope for it,
and build another room for the less deserving.

The comets do not beg, the planets do not petition,
the oaks do not shiver, the squirrels do not position themselves
prostrate to gain the favor

We crave.

There is more grace to inhale than occupants of this planet,
more mercy to give than birth and death.
The shadows await the birth pangs to displace every
quantum of light from within the sphere without
borders.

Believe the space is wider, embrace the kiss of the Beloved.

Stop

And hear the staccato chitter of songbirds rehearsing
the overture composed before
the universe was painted.

And sing, for goodness’ sake,
sing. There is a love that embraces
everything.

Tomorrow the Hurricane

Tomorrow the Hurricane

(“We have been speaking in Christ and before God. You are our dear friends, and everything we do is to make you stronger.” 2 Corinthians 12:19b)

Tomorrow the hurricane may come,
the centrifuge within, hidden from view.
Uprooting trees, disintegrating leaves, and
smothering thought with its humidity.

But we keep the tempests contained, don’t we?
We wrap our skin around the pressure that threatens
to suck us in, and then,
to implode everything we haven’t nailed down.

Till then, of course, our skin looks the same; our eyes,
our hands, our knees, our feet. If we curled one wrinkle
on our anxious foreheads the whole building might explode.

And, gauging from the last time our home was in ruins,
we are unsure how the rebuilding would go. Will people walk by,
wondering why
they escaped the storm that destroyed the corner lot?
Will couples stand just outside the caution tape, filling out forms,
promising help, and going home to air-conditioning and amnesia?
Who can blame them when the catastrophe is blamed on the skin
that refused to hold it in.

So now you know, if you read closely, that mostly we would love
to let the air pressure equalize,
reveal empty earth already denuded by unrealized dreams
and hurricanes trapped within.

And a few have known the scale of the storm, and a few have not
railed that I should have known better. And a few have nailed back
a couple of boards when they could. And a few have mailed love.

And a few, with their own shaking hands, have planted roses in
the dark, bare earth.

With His Own Scars (An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

With His Own Scars
(An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

(“If I must boast, I will boast about the things that show how weak I am.” 2 Corinthians 11:30)

Why the strong-arm when the powers have been broken?
Why the military parade when the victory is spoken?
Power has entered through the dusty sound of love;
Rusty swords and shields are piled to be burned, demons drowned,
soldiers bowed, and laughter from heaven plowed the ashes of
war under the door of a tomb left open; wide open for
round-eyed Sunday drive wonder that peace could be won in
such humiliation.

Power is empty. Weakness is null. Art and love
are etched on eternity’s walls. Empires are vanquished,
poverty canceled. Grace and hymns echo from throats
satisfied after all.

What boasting remains once the King’s refrain is the same
sorrowful tune we’ve sung since invention? What army conquers
when its best proffer is easier ways to make people dead? Instead

The King sang it for us; took the needle, hung by the rope,
enveloped the sword, inhaled the gas, and took the last bite of the apple
every witch ever offered in fairy tales from before time. And so He
won by losing, lived by dying, rules by serving

And dances from sad to pain, from depressed to fame,
the love so unframed it bleeds off the edges of the canvas.
And runs in colors from crimson to snow,
and bandages the trauma of a world in shock
having owned the mocking of immigrants and strangers;
he binds the wounds with his own scars so visible there can
be no mistake;

Boasting is not forbidden; it has simply been forsaken.

Fig Trees, Foam Rubber and Forgiveness

Fig Trees, Foam Rubber and Forgiveness

“When you pray, if you remember anyone who has wronged you, forgive him so that God above can also forgive you. Mark 11:25

Imagine your life is a garden. You’ve planted rows of corn, green beans, tomatoes and other vegetables. You prepared the earth, broke up the clods, added the right fertilizer and placed the seeds in the proper lines. You look forward to a harvest to put on your table in the Fall.

But suppose that is all you did. In my world, that is exactly how gardening should be done. Plant the seeds, come back in a few weeks, put the produce in a basket and enjoy the benefits of your labor. Isn’t that how God does it? I have yet to see Him out and about in the forests making sure the evergreens are sprouting just right.

You see, I think that is part of why Jesus is so upset about a fig tree earlier in this story. Jesus and his disciples were on their way to Jerusalem and spotted a fig tree in full leaf, indicating it should also have fruit. Jesus was hungry, but there was no fruit on the tree. In fact Mark tells us that “fig season had not yet come.” Jesus pronounces a curse on the tree saying, “No one will eat fruit from your branches again.”

I know, that sounds harsh! So, hang with me here. Outwardly the tree showed every evidence that it was producing fruit. Yet, there was not a single sweet fig on the entire tree! Imagine the disappointment.

I can. Years ago I was a youth pastor in southern Oklahoma. The church had a reception to welcome us our first Sunday. So, we all gathered in the basement with everyone congregated around a table with silverware, plates, napkins and a beautifully decorated sheet cake. One of the board members gave me the ceremonial knife and asked me to cut the cake.

Starting in the middle, I ran the serrated edges down through the frosting and into the cake. Unfortunately, the dense cake resisted my efforts. As I sawed unsuccessfully the cake merely compressed under the blade. I wondered if it was angel food cake…the most difficult to cut in the world.

I continued trying to divide the cake with the knife, all the while pretending that nothing was wrong. I mean, someone had taken the time to bake it, there was no way I was going to insult them with a squirming look on my face trying to get through the first cut. So, as unobtrusively as I could, I continued to stab the resistant cake.

I started to notice the looks on the people’s faces. Were they laughing at me? What? Here I am, trying to be diplomatic about somebody’s shoddy cake baking and all I get is derision? What have I gotten myself into with this crowd? (Ok, you just caught two seconds of my inner monologue.)

That’s when the looks broke out into full-on giggles and hoots. The board member took the knife from me, scraped away a square of icing from the cake and showed me the problem. It wasn’t a faulty baker. The cake was a sheet of foam rubber! I laughed with everyone else. Who doesn’t like a prank at their own expense?

At that point I was ready for the “real” cake. Only problem, there wasn’t one. That was it, cake-cutting was over. I mean, this is the South, people. This is hospitality country…and there wasn’t a “real” cake?

I think I understand what Jesus must have been thinking when there wasn’t any “real” fruit on that fig tree.

The disciples notice later that the fig tree has withered to the roots and are amazed. Jesus tells them to trust God, and if they do, they can tell any mountain to throw itself into the sea, and, splash, that mountain takes a dive. “Whatever you pray for or ask from God, believe that you’ll receive it and you will,” he says. 

 Jesus then offers the most important "mountain" many of us need to pray away. He tells us to forgive others immediately when we pray. Withered trees. Swan diving mountains. Foam rubber cakes. Forgiving people who have wronged us. I think I see the connection.

Remember our garden? In the real world it needs to be tended, doesn’t it? A good gardener checks the plot regularly. Weeds must be removed, pests eliminated. Trees need to be pruned. An untended garden, no matter how well planted, will quickly be overrun with undesirable vegetation and will produce little to no fruit.

And so, we must tend our inner garden. We must remove the grudges that grow like weeds and prevent the fruit of God’s grace from coming to full maturity. We must actively forgive the  wrongs done against us as a way to remove the pesky pests of jealousy, bitterness and a host of other fruit-killers.

When you pray, the first order of business is forgiveness. Not your own, by the way. No, Jesus tells us forgiving others comes before asking for our own forgiveness. Isn’t that how it should be? I need the grace of God. I crave it. I cannot live without it. I am a parched man needing the cold springs of grace to quench my thirst.

How, then, knowing how needy I am, can I refuse the same refreshment that God in Christ has offered me? Let’s tend our gardens. Today, as you pray, imagine your heart as a garden, and ask the Holy Spirit to help you do a bit of weeding. Forgive. Today. Your own spiritual wellness depends on it.

help you do a bit of weeding. Forgive. Today. Your own spiritual wellness depends on it.

An Altar to Punch

An Altar to Punch

(“Don’t call me Naomi,” she responded. “Instead, call me Mara the Almighty has made life very bitter for me.’” Ruth 1:20)

Sometimes you need to find
a place to cry alone,
or at least a place where people
do not feel they must atone for the bitter taste
you bring to the gathering.

Sometimes you need those friends
who understand, who see,
that being sad, being angry can be
just as holy as a prayer.

Bitter is just the taste on the tongue when
what you thought would be right
seems to have gone so wrong;

And the Almighty, El Shaddai, is slow on the uptake.

Sometimes you need an altar that you can punch and grind
and rip and tear with no one worried that you ruined the carpeting.

Sometimes you need to tell the Almighty, to complain to
El Shaddai that
the chef seems to have overcooked the burnt offering.