How Unlike Anything

How Unlike Anything

(“When you talk with God, say, ‘Our Father in heaven, may your name be kept holy. May your kingdom come.’” Luke 11:2)

Parent of all,
spending all, the stream of love that nurtures
the hidden fears. Sudden thunders of angel wings,
yet not extreme enough to solo your Eye and Hand;
the See,
the Touch,
the cosmic panorama of untamable passion for
the objects of Your birth and art. We, your children say,
“how unlike anything You are.”

Names, oh the dutch and the spanish of it,
the sound and the echo of them,
the tongue-tied way we pronounce a name
that uses vowels we’ve never uttered before.
A Name, inscrutable and suitable,
before all, in all, over all, under and, after all,
the name without any vowels at all.

We speak it without speaking, and still find ourselves reaching
for a tangible place to put our tongue to say,
“how unlike anything You are.”

Parent of all (not mine, ours, others or assigned to merely heaven’s
mortgaged lots)
how should this bald family clinging to a floating marble
speak to You at all?

We are only specks in Your plan, a kingdom that slays with love.
We have heard Your name, (unknowable), and bestow creatures
and caricatures, in anger as palpable as cheetahs pouncing on their prey,
with the unpronounceable name, hoping they will do our will:

We would pray Your will, but we have listened to the echoes and crevices,
the chiseled remains of our own devices and brains, and barely discern
“how unlike anything You are.”

For now, (and then, in the beginning, without end), restructure our madness,
stop us in the darkness, the sadness that sways our moments away from
simple joy; children and chalk-drawings, artists and broken prison keys,
death and resurrection; the new direction of Heaven’s will

After all.

Why the Quiet

Why the Quiet

(“Jesus said to him, ‘Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests. But the Son of Man has no place to lay His head.’” Luke 9:58)

There were times I waited all night just for a friend to call,
for someone to open the door to my heart.
There were nights I watched the time move,
a minute, a click, an hour, and the glitches crawled
between hellos and hugs.

Did You ever get lonesome with humanity as your posse?
Did You ever climb the hill to pray at night and wonder
why the quiet
was so full of noise and thunder?

There are days I pose like a model for students,
holding my face serene as they trace its natural wrinkles.
Why won’t they draw the inside? Empty. Full of salt and tears.
Why won’t they put down their brushes and join me
clothed only in sheets? Why do they leave once the class is over,
while I hover wanting just one to return and offer me a home?

Did You ever sigh along the lake watching us scramble for a living?
Did You wonder why the talk of the day never swaddled many
for more than an anomaly’s hour? Is it a flaw in our wiring,
a bug in the crawling measurements we know we cannot attain?

There have been years I never felt a home,
30 days, 54 days, 300 days, and a quatrain that felt like
a desert without rain, a forest without sun, a seeker without
someone

To follow.

Did You ever wonder at my lack of faith?
Did You walk into my thin wooden trophy case,
take inventory, and reconsider your choice?
I’m sorry the achievements are so scarce and
that creation (in your image) scares me somehow.
The northern lights, the soulful eyes, the cinnamon delights,
the chords and harmony, the memorized lines and poetry
are old hat or stale. I search the mail each day for a word
to make me feel at home.

There was a day, maybe two, when following You
was more than alright. And You still enchant me, romance me,
remind me and even confine me in Your love.

But home is elusive. My feet long, not for a mansion,
just for the touch of long distance that reaches deeper than
“I wish.”

Don't Blame the Women

Don’t Blame the Women

(“As Solomon got older, some of his wives led him to worship their gods. He wasn’t like his father David, who had worshiped only the Lord God.” 1 Kings 11:4b)

Don’t blame the women;
oh please do not blame the women.
Who knows their wardrobe, their worship, their went as young and
their return as some the kings of the world would trade
for lumber, gold, ships and silver.

Don’t blame the women;
oh please do not blame the women.
King know how to marry to
prevent the ugly videos of dirty faces
gathering at the border. Trade rates rise
for a long-legged concubine or two.

Don’t blame the women;
oh please do not blame the women.
Yes their worship took them to the high places where
they thought the gods dwelt (but demons dined instead.)
They were taught, they were tutored, they were cultured like
pearls, like chattel.

Don’t blame the women;
oh please do not blame the women.
Solomon bought the empire truces with chits
traded for human flesh; a palace full of international treaties
that made for uneasy peace. And the eyes of a
thousand women only wanted a taste of home.

Don’t blame the women;
oh please do not blame the women.
They were mere footnotes on the pages of
contracts aged with the backroom smoke of cigars
struck in secret.

Oh please,
do not blame the women.

Gentle Among You

Gentle Among You

(“As apostles of Christ we certainly had a right to make some demands of you, but instead we were like children among you. Or we were like a mother feeding and caring for her own children. 1 Thessalonians 2:7 NLT)

Paul shares the model of his leadership among the Christians in Thessalonica. As an apostle, he had authority given to him directly from Christ, and he says he could have used that authority to make demands on them. But, in fact, he did not.

He says that he and his team were “like children among you.” A few manuscripts read “we were gentle among you.” I’m not sure it changes the sense a great deal. Paul is contrasting his style with those who were trying to lead the Thessalonians astray. Instead of being know-it-alls, we were like little children. Instead of being harsh and demanding, we were gentle among you.

We desperately need leadership like this today. We have evangelical leaders making harsh and even misleading statements about those with whom they disagree. The majority of white evangelicals zealously support a president who is constantly vulgar, abusive and self-centered. Recently the president of a well-known evangelical college tweeted that a pastor with whom he disagreed should “grow a pair.”

When a fellow Christian commented that this was unbecoming for a “minister of the gospel”, the university president said, “I have never been a minister. I am an educator.” I’m not sure I understand the difference. For me, it is not the crass language, but the attitude that causes me to wince. “Grow a pair” is an appropriate way for a Christian leader to deal with brother in the faith, so long as that leader is not a “minister”? What have we become?

When we lived in North Dakota our family was invited to a farm for the afternoon. Our boys, Michael and Jonathan, had befriended the family’s sons and we looked forward to getting to know all of them better. We loaded up our 1986 Isuzu Trooper and drove the 10 miles to the farm.

It was a beautiful summer day, which was fortunate, because summer only comes one day a year in North Dakota. That year it happened to arrive on June 15.

When we pulled up to the house Michael and Jon, who were 9 and 5 at the time, scurried out to meet their new friends. We stood outside with their mom and dad enjoying the sunshine and getting to know each other. Jay, the father, talked about cloud-seeding to bring more rain to the area that was experiencing drought. It was captivating to hear both his theories on cloud-seeding and how he loaded and flew his Cessna up and over the possible fluffy targets.

The boys had scampered to one of the outbuildings where they mounted four-wheelers and were riding around the property. We watched them circle another building and could tell they were having the time of their life. A few minutes after they disappeared behind the building we heard a loud yell.

At first we thought nothing of it; perhaps a yelp of delight. But we heard it again, and then saw Jonathan running toward us on his little legs as fast as he could. Michael was hurt and he needed our help. We ran to the building to find Michael on the ground with the four-wheeler overturned next to him. Arriving, I knelt down to see what had happened and saw a gash in his calf; a deep and open wound. Making the turn around the corner he lost control and the building’s metal siding sliced into his leg.

We hurried to do what we could. Jay and his wife went inside to get some clean rags and bandages, I ran back to the Trooper and drove it to the spot of the accident. Inspecting the wound closer we could see he was not bleeding out, so we decided to drive into town and take him directly to the doctor. Jay would call ahead for us.

But we also knew how important it was to keep pressure on the wound. We backed the Trooper up next to Michael, lowered the middle seat to make room for him in the back, and we lifted him gently inside. There was not room for Patti in back, so Jonathan got nurse duties. He climbed in the back with his brother.

We told him, “Jon, you have a very important job. You need to keep pressure on that wound using the rags. Don’t be afraid to be firm.” We weren’t sure how Jon would respond, the gash was ugly, cutting all the way through the flesh and revealing the white ligaments beneath. But he bravely kept his little hands firmly on bandage covering the wound for the quick and sometimes bouncy ride to the doctor. Too firm, Michael would wince, and Jon would ease up a bit. Other times Mike would tell him, “You can hold it tighter.”

Arriving at the doctor’s office the staff unloaded our son and took him into an examining room. The doctor was surprised at our little EMT who had held put pressure on the wound so bravely. Michael required two sets of stitches; one beneath the skin, and one set to close the wound entirely.

In some ways, this illustrates what Paul is expressing. We were “gentle”. Gentle does not mean “dainty”, but it does express loving care that is willing to apply just the right amount of pressure and no more. Indeed, Paul describes his attitude when he says, “we were like a mother feeding and caring for her own children.”

Why would Christians ever use anything other than gentleness and nurturing care when dealing with each other? Even more important, why do we think that using crass and harsh methods with non-Christians is appropriate or even effective?

In fact, the only other time this word for “gentle” is used in the New Testament, Paul says, “A servant of the Lord must not quarrel but must be kind to everyone.” (2 Timothy 2:24 NLT) “Kind to everyone” translates the same word rendered “gentle.

Dear friends, let’s be like Christ. Let’s not settle for leadership that looks like the worst the world has to offer. May the Holy Spirit transform our hearts to exercise gentle love because we are all wounded in one way or another.

In Wet Cement

In Wet Cement

(“I will put inside them a new way of thinking. I will take out the stubborn heart of stone from their bodies, and I will give them an obedient heart of flesh.” Ezekiel 11:19)

I’m not sure how it happened, so long ago,
perhaps when I was walking, perhaps fighting the undertow,
but it dropped out of my pocket, it fell out of my chest,
I swear this is how it happened,
I dropped my heart in wet cement.

The sun baked it clearly, cured the sidewalk well,
and for a while I kept on walking, for a few steps no one could tell
that, hardening beneath the pavement, beating slowly to death,
I swear I didn’t realize,
I dropped my heart in wet cement.

Can you walk the foothills, heart out of mind;
can you swim the sparkling rivers with your heart left far behind?
Can you answer the questions, can you offer your best,
when,
I swear this is how it happened,
I dropped my heart in wet cement.

No one walked on me, only over and around,
perhaps their own hearts lie buried deep and glued to the ground.
Did they drop out of their pockets, fall out of their chests?
I swear this is how it happened,
when
I dropped my heart in wet cement,

I kept on singing, praying and spelling
the name of god and his son in proper terms and failing
to hear the absent heartbeat; the cavity in my chest.
I swear this is when it happened
to the heart I dropped in wet cement.

I was undone, unsung, prayed and faded as an
old west calico dress.
I was kneeling, unfeeling, ached and lithic as the
old glacial boulders at rest.
I could not move, though I moved often,
I was not free, though I sang like a strong man.
I was retreating, unseated, frayed and begging as an
old warrior with little left.

But I was sung like morning, I was recited like dew,
I forgot the old, the dusty, the hobbled days
when, new as creation, I welcomed the invasion
of a gentler hand than the sand and grit
that held me so long when
I dropped my heart in wet cement.

Some Recitations

Some Recitations

(“Keep praying. Pay attention when you offer prayers of thanksgiving.” Colossians 4:2)

I woke with my face frozen in hot anxiety,
the result of hard dreams between fitful waking;
a conflict, a comrade, the nightmare lasted only moments,
but went on well into the night.

I woke with time emptied; full of iron and snow,
unknowing and dissonant angles meeting like arrows
shot from the basement of my brain toward full consciousness.

I woke with my face leaden but wanting stained glass panes
between the outlines of the day. Where do I take my complaints
when pain repeats itself like half-tone chords in percussive polyglot?

I left my place in faith and now it feels I’ve climbed the apex of foolishness.
I stay a few steps from home while my mind wanders the prairies and
rivers,
the buttes and blizzards, the pow-wows and county fairs,
the dares and know-how of a more convinced mood and time.

My mind wanders to the places where I sat with friends the best,
ate their bread, drank their coffee, laughed, cried, argued-prayed,
relied on their couch, drank of their confidence, and occasionally

Doubted together what we so loudly professed.

I am thankful for the slim faith, the uncertainty and shyness
that kept us begging for heaven while planted on the ground.

I am thankful that gravity was heavy today and kept the atmosphere
so close I could smell each molecule, feel the air of a birdwing leaping
from the peak of a roof.

I am weary today and should be thankful I have no jobs to do,
no schedules to keep. But I can’t keep from thinking that someone
will pop by, lie back in the chair and just say

“I needed this.”

I am thankful God does not take my melancholy as a sign of
diffidence,
but merely the way I’m made; the way His hands molded the
folds and fissures of my brain. There is a chance of rain,
the summer weighs more than the spring, and life keeps on
rolling past my expectations.

I am thankful some recitations mean simply what they mean.

United in Love

United in Love

“I want their hearts to be encouraged and united in love, so that they may have all the riches of assured understanding and have the knowledge of God’s mystery, that is, Christ himself.” Colossians 2:2

I’ve always loved a good mystery. In fact, one summer during junior high I read one Hardy Boys Mystery book a day! Good mystery authors leave clues throughout their story but are not obvious about them. Hopefully, by the end of the story you look back at characters and plot twists and go, “Aha!”

What God has done in Christ is called a “mystery” by Paul. It is a term borrowed from surrounding religious language. At the time it referred to initiation scripts or rites that allowed only those who were specially trained to access the “hidden” things of their religion. So, people were always on a quest for more knowledge, more understanding and the deeper things of God. Of course, this created classes among the devotees; those who were new to the faith, those who were gaining knowledge, and those, at the top, who had gone to “the next level.”

It is important to note, there is no such language as “the next level” when it comes to Christ. There is no experience that initiates us into another stratosphere of acceptance in God. There is no deeper knowledge that puts us above less mature Christians. There is simply no level of attainment to boast about at all.

What Paul does, in hijacking the term “mystery”, is to turn it upside down and inside out. The “mystery” is what he has already freely proclaimed to them: “this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.” You see, there is no deeper level in Christ; he already dwells within you by faith.

That leaves us free to do exactly what Christ would do: love. Paul says he wants our hearts to be encouraged and united (or knit together) in love. That is the true nature of the church. The greatest mysteries are the simplest ones.

Martin Sheen tells a story about a conversation with a priest. “I was traveling and went to confession in this very remote place, and suddenly he said, ‘Well, we don’t know what God is, do we?’ …Every time we try to identify God, we are sure to identify what she is certainly not. And the genius of God is that he dwells where we would least likely look, within the depths of our own being, our own shallowness, our own darkness, our own humanity.”

The relentless presence of Christ is to be found within each of us! That is why being “united in love” is our highest value. Every time we complain bitterly about another brother, we are complaining about someone within whom Christ dwells. Every time we tell a sister how wrong she is, and insist she change to our expectations, we are mistreating the very temple of God.

That is why I urge people to stay in fellowship where they may have a disagreement or conflict with someone. If the highest value is love, and you feel others are not loving, then you be the loving one! What if, every time our ego got knocked around a bit, we responded with the love of Christ? What if, every time someone challenged us about our abilities, our intelligence or the depth of our commitment, we responded with the love that God showed the world in Christ?

The church is united in this love. That is why so many churches are dying. We have turned love for Christ into rules to follow. We have turned His grace into legislation we want to enforce. We have turned the wonder of worship into a popularity contest for good music. I’ve seen people divorce themselves from fellowship over female ushers, greeters not dressed nice enough, children being too noisy (oh that more churches had that “problem”), not enough “hell” being preached, a “sugar coated” gospel. You can add to the list I’m sure.

What if every group of believers made a six week covenant to be “united in love.” And, what if that was ignited by the simple realization that Christ Himself dwells in each of us? Going further, what if, instead of “helping” those on the margins, we began to actually identify with them in love?

I can tell you what will happen; we will experience “the riches of assured understanding and have the knowledge of God’s mystery, that is, Christ himself.” In other words, the spiritual experience you crave, the “next level” you keep hoping to attain, the “higher knowledge” you think you need will be richer than you can imagine.

So, though there is no “deep mystery” for those who follow Christ, if you truly want a next-level experience; love. It is then that you and I will truly experience God’s mystery, Christ himself. Do you understand? We experience the riches of Christ to the extent that we are being and acting united in love! It is that simple. No deep symbolism. No higher knowledge. Just the hard, day-to-day work of loving your neighbor as yourself. Oh, and Christ is in your neighbor.