Waiting for the Miracle

Waiting for the Miracle

(“Children, guard yourselves against idols.” 1 John 5:21)

We hold our breath, we flip through the hymnal,
we sigh and gasp, we wait for the signal,
we want a sign, we last until midnight
then say goodnight
waiting for the miracle to come.

We erect our flags, prop up our candidates,
we salute the rags we had to fabricate,
red, white and blue; we sing this hymn to you
from wooden pews
waiting for the miracle to come.

We bar the rest, we rebuild torn curtains,
we earn our way, our belief is certain,
we lose our minds, we prize our opinions,
we’re good civilians
waiting for the miracle to come.

We paint the past, we gild it like heaven,
we think we’ll last, our land is god-given,
we walk on tombs, we are immigrants,
it’s just circumstance
waiting for the miracle to come.

And while we wait the poor are limping,
the aged never come down the stairs,
the sick have stopped asking,
their breath reserved for living.

And while we wait the Spirit is calling,
the Father has a banner of his own,
the Son takes down the flagstaff we’ve saluted
far too long

Waiting for the miracle to come.

Some have resorted to self-defense,
others to self-hatred, some to paying the rent;
some have reverted to soil and sawdust,
others imagine gold dust, some do what they must
waiting for the miracle to come.

Some hear in the quiet the cello note underneath it all,
some see graffiti and murals scribbled in a child’s scrawl,
some taste the wine, some touch the bread,
the divine aroma permeates all who know
the miracle has come.

Some Hit the Wall

Some Hit the Wall

(“Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life.’” John 6:68)

Some hit the wall so hard they cannot find their way back
to the panels where icons wrote worship in incense chalk.
The pain spins them, the concrete pins them against the
bricks that scratch their honest diversions.

Where do they go, the innocent failures,
headstrong but too smart to toe the party line?
Impure, though they longed, in short, for more.

To breathe the first blade of grass; silent, unmown,
straight in its posture toward light that pulls it from
dark underground. Sharp and soft,
it shoots in slow-motion toward the explosion of sun.

Is there still time to lie upon a bed of green next to a tree
generations older than hierarchies of men? When?
Are names still uttered from double-scripted scrolls;
is life still the language? And, my name, does it roll
of your tongue like you love the sound of it? The short of it?

Some hit the wall and find themselves cornered. The explanations
no longer soothe the brooding ache, the excuses have exceeded their limit.
Some sit, simply waiting for the next dispensation of miraculous
stories from mighty crowds. Some sit. The waiting has erased
the overheard faith and demands the hand and voice
first-person. This time.

Though struck, though dumb, though deaf to the drumbeat that
once attracted my soul like the first blade of grass,
I have nowhere else to go except the vast uncertainty that
slides in front of me, just out of reach.

I can only write of ache. I apologize. The size of my soul is shrinking.
But buried black, dead at the bottom of the abyss,
a seed remains. A seed awaits (please)
re-germination to become a spindly grain hugging
the wall.

When You Can't Taste the Bread

When You Can’t Taste the Bread

“I am the bread of life,” Jesus told them. “No one who comes to me will ever be hungry, and no one who believes in me will ever be thirsty again.” John 6:35

I think for most people the aroma of baking bread is one of the wonders of scent. Why does something that tastes so yummy also smell so enticing? And, as a staple of life, bread is ubiquitous. Every culture has its breads; flat breads, grilled breads, yeast breads, wheat, rye, oat. Well, you get the idea.

The perfect morning would be to smell both newly brewed coffee and freshly baked bread upon waking. The buttery dough saturates your tongue as the brightly bitter brew washes it down. In most homes, that is enough to get you going for the day.

Smell seems to be connected to memory. In the early 1980s I worked for Laird’s Office Supply and Business Forms. My territory included both San Francisco and the East Bay. I was hired to go to any business that did not have accounts with the firm and cold call, developing new clients.

Once or twice a week I drove across the Bay Bridge from our office in Oakland to San Francisco. If the breeze was just right, at a certain point where the freeway turned north into downtown San Francisco, two aromas met in an atmospheric elixir I’ll never forget. Folger’s Coffee was just to the south and the many sourdough bakeries were northeast. The slightly acrid perfume of roasting coffee beans met the yeasty output of the sourdough ovens. The combination was heaven to the sense of smell.

Jesus had just miraculously fed 5,000 people with a boy’s lunch of loaves and fishes. People were astounded and followed him up and down the coast. He turns to the crowd, telling them they weren’t looking for him because of “signs” but “you ate the loaves and were filled.”

As Jesus often does, he takes something tangible and teaches a spiritual lesson. Bread isn’t really bread as he begins his unusual speech in answer to their inquiries. The crowd knew that God had given the wandering Hebrews manna in the desert and asked Jesus, “So, what sign are you going to perform?”

He first sets them straight. “Moses didn’t give you the bread from heaven, and, my Father gives the true bread from heaven. The bread of God is the one who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”

“Well give us some of that bread, Jesus, then we’ll never have to eat again!” Was there snickering among the crowd? Maybe.

But Jesus tells them, “I am the bread of life. No one who comes to me will ever be hungry, and no one who believes in me will ever be thirsty again.” This is an absolute statement. Jesus doesn’t say “will rarely be hungry”, or “will usually never thirst.” He is positing himself as the full and complete answer to life and human need. It is sad that we have reduced it to one or two propositions.

First, it’s about salvation. “Give your heart to Jesus, you’ll go to heaven, and you’ll never hunger again.” And there is truth behind that. But Jesus is talking about food, something we do every single day of our lives. He is talking about water without which we cannot exist for more than a few days. He is talking about life here and now.

Second, we make it about satisfaction. “Make Jesus your everything. Turn away from the ‘world’s’ bread (fill in anything your church thinks is scary) and fully commit your entire being to Jesus.” The only problem here is that Jesus is offering an invitation to a meal, not a marshal order.

What he is saying is so much richer, so much fuller than either the “heaven when you die” or the “perfect discipleship” picture. Food is life. Water is life. What he is saying is what most of us realize; much of our life can feel very inadequate. Jesus opens up an abundance of life to us through being the very sustenance we need. We do not need to prepare the meal; he is the meal.

I’ve been struggling with this ever since I retired early from ministry this January. I am closing in on 11 years of a never-ending 24/7 headache. It is torture at times. We moved in with my sister in Texas, Patti found a job at a university, and I fill my days with very little of any significance. Without a car at the house during the day and no hangouts or restaurants within walking distance, loneliness and isolation easily take me by the throat.

Add the constant pain, the average of 6 out of 10 pain, the pain that feels like a spear piercing my temples and an iron helmet pressing in on my head, and trying to keep my outlook positive approaches the impossible. I despair of knowing or experiencing Jesus’ presence. Indeed, I have called to him for help over and over, weeping; and here I am. The things I loved to do the best are, for now, out of my reach.

And today I read this passage and I fell into a pit of gloom. “Jesus, if you really are my bread, my sustenance, my satisfaction, then, even in this pain, I should at least be able to rise in spirit and be comforted.” But I am not. I lay quietly, listening to music, stilling my heart, hoping to feel him near. And I do not. I pour out tears on my pillow hoping he will place his hands on me and dry them, but he does not.

And so, I decided to be honest. But, the risk of being honest is that people respond with, “I know what you should do!” Before you write me, let me assure you, I’ve been in evangelical Christianity for 47 years and a Pentecostal for almost that long. I’ve tried and experienced almost everything you could suggest. Recently someone even told me that they “know” what my problem is, and if I just tried crystals, I’d be free! Others suggest I have unforgiveness in my life. Others, sin. Some seem almost more stressed that God hasn’t answered their prayer for my healing instead of simply caring about my well-being. So, with this paragraph done, let me go on.

Imagine an illness where one could not taste or smell food. We’ve already described the delights of both senses. The person would still eat, of course, out of necessity, but the joy of the tasting would be gone. I think, in a way, that is what both the pain and the extremity of my circumstances have done. Jesus is still my bread; but, for now at least, I cannot taste it.

This should help us when dealing with people who are in desperate need. Be present to them. Listen to them. Don’t give them answers. And please don’t tell them about your experience of 20 years ago when God felt “so real to me.” If anything, share a time when God seemed distant to you as well.

The final thought after pondering this all day in the middle of an extremely painful and lonesome day is this: In Jesus’ day, meals were communal. You simply did not drive through the Capernaum McDonald’s on your way to the Sermon on the Mount. If you know someone who is isolated, in chronic pain, economic poverty, deeply depressed or ill, don’t just take them food; have a meal with them. I promise you, that meal, and the blessing that accompanies it, will probably help that person sense the savor of the Bread of Life at least in that moment.

Shortcut

Shortcut

(“Therefore, when Jesus perceived that they would come and take Him to make him a king, He departed again into a mountain by Himself.” John 6:15)

How well have your shortcuts worked
to bring the king down from the mountain to
slay the mongrels that have slobbered all over your
beloved memories, the golden age, the gilded cage
where you hid pretending that you held the key to
bring back the foursquare families only baby

Boomers

Remember.

Your cage is jaded, the statues you’ve erected to
cannons, generals and frightful confederates
stand next to your churches waving the flag
as if god wanted you to sing (OF thee i SING),
off the stinging sun blocked by the stars and stripe forever.

You’ve got to take the long way round,
ride a donkey, ride an ass,
smell the crowd, the peasant class,
watch the sandals worn through the desert’s dust
and the sun bake the faces of those you
thought you could outrun in your glittering limousines.

Who do you want him to overthrow?
What do you want him to enforce?
Your plans? Your course of events?
Did you plan to be left behind?
Did you take the scepter and declare, in the name of

God and

Country

The king was surely on your side?

You want a ruler to enforce your borders while

Christ weeps over the masonry hearts
beautifully mortared just inches outside his hearing.

What No One Else Sees

What No One Else Sees

(“So Hagar named the Lord who spoke to her, ‘You are the God who sees me,’ for she said, ‘Here I have seen one who sees me!’” Genesis 16:13)

It’s another grey dawn and she wonders who
sees her uneventful life.
She’s only a slave, a pawn, someone put upon
by hidden bruises on her arms and brain.

It’s another piercing sunrise and he ponders the
numb outrage that has stunned his best intentions.
He’s only an ant in a hole, undistinguished, anguished
and sometimes wears disguises just to elicit a smile.

It’s another silent morning; though the music swirls
throughout the house,
words from church and worship, how can they feel empty;
but they bring so little to fill this soul; this agony
that so few ever see, hidden even from her sometimes
in the constant tinnitus that is too common.

It’s another isolated morning; though the music meets
him face to ear;
wordless, he’d rather not sing, and still feels empty;
waiting for something so large to heal the composure he
lost along the way. He hides from humans these days,
afraid they will find, see and touch the source of his
daily tears; duly confessed but still a torrent.

It’s another hollow afternoon and she waits for her
children to come home.
Her life, her joy and her frame of reference;
they fill her heart and she fears the day they will leave.
Who sees the tears held back; the words never spoken,
the doubts that make her feel she is worth less than the
perfect people who never speak their pain and never see
the boredom; the weeping fruit of hurts unspoken.

It’s another afternoon of pain and he waits for a simple
word or friend, or anyone who can see how brittle he’s become.
Don’t call him strong just because he writes a few lines when
the daggers are dividing his mind.
Who sees the tears every afternoon? The next-door neighbor,
the friend known forever, anyone who has seen him cringe.
Shouldn’t they know better? Would someone please see better?

Would someone please see what no one else sees and not run away
at the sight of people so out of place, out of time, so out of tears to shed that
by all appearances they are as normal as anyone else who never cries
when the world has left them stranded.

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

(“But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never thirst again; but the water that I will give him will become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life.” John 4:14)

They say water seeks its own level.

The sun swung above us hugging the ragged horizon
as we ascended the narrow trail. It warmed our shoulders
like a shirt just ironed on an autumn day.

We were three as we trod the hardpan and wound our way
between stands of lodgepole pine. The sun followed us,
still kind as midmorning turned to noon.

We ate homemade trail mix, dried fruit and rinds,
enjoyed the pace, the breeze, the river below us
and the climb.

Our music was acoustic, our laughs the lyrics,
the birds our musicians, and our lungs worked full time
to sing and to climb.

What are friends? Travelling trios on an isolated footpath,
sharing the moment the sun takes its toll.

Parched, dry as aged wood fences,
our throats stung for refreshment as we tilted our canteens.

Warm, but clear, the water soothed us for a moment,
seconds of the hour; we were young, we were fine.

But once we stumbled; no, discovered. Once we happed upon
a rivulet meandering across our path and the spring above
which was its source, our tepid drink was forgotten

As we, each in turn, tilted our faces below the icy stream
that sprang from the rocks and wrapped our mouths, our
arms, our torsos, our minds completely around the unexpected offering.

We emptied our canteens there, puddling across the path,
and filled them from the slow trickle that broke through the granite.
We waited without time, the sun aligning with the river below
creating silver dancers where water and air barely kiss. We knew
what all hikers know;

The water is free, abundant, and pure. The spring would continue,
though snow filled the trails, and next year, or the year after that

We could return to find the pristine refreshment, the sacrament, the
grace.

They say water seeks its own level. Older now than young once was,
three hikers scattered across the continent and time
may think, in the same late moment of the day
of water that bore the mixture of earth and divine.

Long After

Long After

(“Most of all, have a true love for each other. Love covers many sins.” 1 Peter 4:8)

Mostly I hear the printed word in tones full of objections;
a growl, a frown, a scowl, an upside-down offer to set me straight.
Lay aside your weapons and I’ll lay aside my wounds;

It’s fascinating the way the mind
inserts moods into the minuscule scribbles on
the back of a napkin or
the screen of a phone.

Happen upon our long history, friend,
not the two or three minutes that have fueled our silence.

What I would really like, you ask?

I would like to still smell the roses
long after you’ve left the room.