Caught in a Maze

Caught in a Maze

(“I said, ‘My foot is slipping.’ But Lord, your faithful love kept me from falling.” Psalm 94:18)

They say labyrinths are spiritual,
but I’ve been caught in a maze without sky or earth
to guide to the center or to the exit.
They say cathedrals are inspiring,
but I’ve heard enough chatter to shake my bottled pain.
They say nature is a sanctuary,
but recently I can only take it a moment at a time.

This ledge cuts my feet, the stones are sharper than politicians,
the moss coats me like unwelcome twine, and the ravens circle
wasting my time.

What was the point of befriending so many
when they will not come find me in the maze?
What was the purpose of days spent together
when they now have so little to say?

Today that includes yUo, gOd. And I know
I’ve made and idol of You, a perfect answer to the questions
I’ve hurled over the cliff for decades without answer.

And I always blamed myself.

What if it is yUo to blame? What if it is true yUo never answered,
because yUo never existed?

They say music is healing,
but I’ve lost my audience and I’m my worst critic.
They say pets are soothing,
but they die.
They say relationships are god-sent,
and I believe that,
but I am never filled.

Because I am on the ledge, do not assume I’m jumping,
Because I am caught in the maze, do not assume I am lost.
Because I cry every day, do not assume anything about me.
Because I ache, I ache, please, oh please, do not stay away.

And the questions tossed over the cliff? Do I think myself divine
that I should know the answer to everything?

So hidden, I cannot know You. So close, I cannot see you.
So transparent, I cannot miss You. So strong, I can only love You.

Unadorned

Unadorned

(“God’s love will come together with his faithful people. Goodness and peace will greet them with a kiss.” Psalm 85:10)

Nature is not afraid to be unadorned.
I took a photo of two trees three days ago
and labeled it beautiful.
The leaves bled red and the
twigs held loosely the pumpkin orange
sticky notes as long as they could.

But walking by again after two nights of wind,
two nights of November,
the trees were bare, save the hangers-on,
gray crepe leaves turning in the breeze.

It is the parallax of beauty, viewed from the vantage
of weeks and months, that sticky green turns to crunchy beige,
while rain and ice take center stage.
It is the puzzle of perception that
stark arms hiding nothing can elicit wonder
as surely as a spring tree flooded with mockingbirds.

I have become raveled with all that is around me.
I am plaited and braided around god and the good earth.
I have my preferences, I like the sun,
I hear something so proud and ordinary it
makes me stop and wonder as much as a butterfly
lunching on a rose.

The rain can be good as the sun at sewing broken hearts
together. The dark can enter the jagged edges where
flesh was cut from flesh, where bruises ooze from barbed
wire trust or speeding through the night without rest.

That God would not fear to be unadorned,
to make dirt his crown, forest roots his footstool,
a sweaty body his home and encrusted feet his transportation.

That, on a bare tree we see his beauty bled red,
and then crepe grey as breath and heartbeat ebbed away.
That God would appear so tragic, frightening, dreadful

And so, absolutely, definitely and without a doubt…

Dead.

That, unlike spring, he did not lie dormant, but…

Died.

And, like spring, he pushed through the crammed earth
to meet us again, still wounded, but more alive than any
of us have ever been.

It is a wonder that God does not fear appearing unadorned.

No Mere Acquaintances

No Mere Acquaintances

(“[The angel addressed] me: ‘Cornelius, your prayer has been heard, and your kindness to the poor has been noticed by God.’” Acts 10:31)

There are times I wish no one would notice me at all;
when I trip on the pavement, when the pieces do not fit,
when my face turns red in ordinary conversation,
when I’m practicing my scales, when tears leave behind
scaly dust in my eyes.

We notice the stranger, the things that make the adolescent shorter,
the teenager slower, the pimples, the black skin, the foreign accent,
the headdress, the thrift store clothes,
and the misbehavior that shows in the kids we did not raise.

There are times I wish I noticed every red leaf in November,
every ice crystal sharpening the air in December,
every barking dog that wants to play,
every school child who had to stay after class because mom
and dad
forgot to send her bus pass.

There are things I wish you noticed; like the mom who hides her bruises,
the preacher who labors in the night to work a second job in the day to
serve the tiny church enclosed by wheat fields or forest,
the mother who weeps twice a week, she had such dreams and is
a taxi driver for her kids,
the immigrant who risked his life (have you asked about his wounds)
for children, a wife, and a chance to dream; to dream the way you dream.

And when God notices your kindness, he does not forget;
he records your love like a Beach Boys song and plays it over
and over to hear the sweet harmonies.
And when God notices your patience, he does not forget;
he paints your hope like a still life and gazes at it from before dawn
until after dusk to see how the light plays on it.

And sometimes angels notice what God notices and wonder;
writing sonnets about strangers who were no mere acquaintances of
the divine.

For Pianos and Wine

For Pianos and Wine

(“People ate until they couldn’t eat any more. He gave them what they had wanted.” Psalm 78:29)

I would give anything for eight candles and a piano,
a light for each visitor in the room, a table of food,
and a tune we all knew by heart.

A draught of ale, bacon wrapped dates with an entrée of duck
or lamb,
or goat or ham,
and dessert imagined by witty minds or luckily stumbled upon
at a Mexican panadería.

I would go back in time if it helped,
to hug the finest friends (some still in arm’s reach,
some across the wireless space,
some closer than before but with back turned to late
comments and figures of speech.)
I am the same friend, only my brain has changed.
I have same love, only the scope is strange to their thinking.
I have the same calloused fingers from playing guitar alone.

I would give anything for two guitars, a flute and a horn.
An evening searching for baptism and listening to the call of
nightingales.

But I would not give up the expanse, the exploded boxes,
the labyrinth that takes me deeper, the hope that takes me sweeter,
the few new friends who think it a wonder that I share
a drink with them at all.

I would give anything to hear a voice on the line:
we heard you are hurting. We heard you’ve changed.
We heard you may be out of the tribe. We heard you’ve remained
the same. We saw your slow exit and your limping. We saw
your tears and the simple goodbye you waved when your heart
wanted to stay.

And we just wanted to say: We don’t care how your brain works today,
just join us again for bread, for candles, for pianos and wine.

Just a Pencil

Just a Pencil

(“But I will sing of your power and in the morning I will shout for joy about your gracious love. For you have been a fortress for me; and a refuge when I am distressed.” Psalm 59:16)

The Santa Monica pier is just a pencil
drawing dots and dashes before the swells sweep in.
The first time I saw the ocean I wondered where it would end,
how the graphite waves inked the beach like slate
and why the sand stayed attached just beyond the ribbons
of asphalt.

The planet Venus is just a candid song
mimicking madrigals and goddesses before the show begins.
The first time I saw the green star I wondered why it blinked,
how it hovered and caught my eye so far from my reach
and why it moved in winter skies from house to house
before it dove into the fields of snow.

The Whirlpool Galaxy is just an artist’s rendition
echoing the smaller circles and spirals spun by ballerinas.
The first time I saw the ageless coil I gasped at its audacity,
how toy-like, how yoyo, how hula-hoop it plays
and why it invites my eyes to see further than light
exists above the tiny steps of earth.

The wide mouth words are just bullets
that explode inside the soul of the drowsy.
The first time I heard, crash or whisper, I wondered where it would end,
how the expelled breath became gray arrows
and why they stuck so deep and so long before
the stingy world swung round the sun again.

And we are shot up, shot down, filed away and
underground
until
a voice sounds, rewound, wild arrays of
love unbound
by time or space,
pencils or bullets,
and gently pulls us deeper in
to the Center of song, the Tower of morning
and dance.

Learning Life's Rhythm

Learning Life’s Rhythm

“After forty years had passed, an angel appeared to Moses in the flames of a burning bush in the desert near Mount Sinai.” Acts 7:30

I revisited some high school memories with a classmate recently. Since I graduated in 1973, our memories were at least 46 years old. Charles would tell a story, then it would prompt a memory buried deep in my subconscious. Then I mentioned a fellow drama geek and he asked how she was doing. He and I haven’t even seen each other since we graduated but have reconnected over the last 10 years through social media. I now live in Texas and he lives in Israel. He studied law but has taken to technical writing as a career. My path took me into ministry with a few right and left turns along the way.

We both agreed that the four years of high school are probably the longest four years in a person’s life. So much happens in that short period. Friendships are made, interests are ignited, trajectories are planned. We can even develop a sort of nostalgia that wants to go back to those days. We explored the world, even if our field trips took us no further than a couple hundred miles from home. We explored relationships, literature, and theater, all while living in the comfort of our family homes. I think what most of us miss about that time is the ability to learn things about ourselves and the world without the stress of earning a living.

But then we eventually have to choose. Some of us feel a calling. I felt called to ministry. Another classmate, a genius in science, loved bowling. His parents promised to support him all the way through college, so he majored in Chemical Engineering, completing his degree at the top of his class. After graduation, he immediately took a full-time job as manager of a bowling alley. That was his love. I don’t know if he bowled when he should have been studying for his degree, but those years of college may have felt like a roadblock to doing what his heart desired.

I’m at a “pause” period in my life currently. Having taken early retirement due to medical reasons, I no longer am a pastor. Finances made it necessary for us to move in with family. We hope to have a home paid off within another year or so, and then can move back “home” and closer to our daughter.

How do you move through those times when your soul feels dormant? How do you handle the periods of life when the deepest desires, the things that brought you greatest joy, seem to no longer be available?

Moses, raised as a prince in Egypt with every privilege that offers, has been in hiding for 40 years. He had previously seen a fellow Hebrew being mistreated by an Egyptian. Coming to his help he took revenge on the Egyptian by killing him. He thought this would make his people understand that God was going to use him to set them free. He thought wrong.

In fact, the next day he saw two Hebrews fighting and he tried to make peace between them. The instigator of the fight pushed Moses aside and said, “Do you want to kill me, just as you killed that Egyptian yesterday?” (Yeah, God’s calling on his life was not working out exactly as he imagined.) So, Moses runs away to Midian where he marries and tends flocks for forty years.

The first forty years of his life were full of responsibility, privilege and meaningful accomplishments. You don’t get adopted as the king’s son without developing a keen sense of importance. And perhaps that was part of Moses’ problem. He felt entitled to make people behave. First, by killing the abusive Egyptian, then second by assuming the role of arbitrator in a scuffle between two fellow Hebrews.

So, the forty years of herding sheep, walking back and forth in the wilderness, day after day, must have felt quite empty to him at first. We have all had those empty times. It might have been a job that felt meaningless; minimum wage, low expectations, with no hope of a career. Or you may have been in a long-term relationship that no longer exists. Where there was once routine, now there are only ghosts. It may be a chronic illness that makes it no longer possible to do things that once filled your life with creativity and joy.

But there is something about emptiness that can open our soul if we let it. The routine of moving in a new way, new patterns, can help to whittle away parts of our life that we once thought were necessary. Moses is described as being “the most humble of men.” I wonder if his wilderness experience had a lot to do with that. Going from finely dressed prince to stinky shepherd can help create a bit of meekness I suppose.

But these “empty” times only work in us if we are attentive. Continuing in his regular routine, staying true to the life he now led in the desert, Moses is amazed at the appearance of a burning bush. The bush is on fire but not burned up, so he goes closer for a better look. That is when he hears God’s voice speaking directly to him.

Remember, this happens after 40 years of a daily pattern of watering, feeding and caring for sheep. He is probably as full of the rhythm of life as the sun rising and setting. He may have gone through frustration, anger at his dilemma, regret over his actions, shame, depression and so many other emotions we experience when life does not fit our plan. But, if we allow, though the circumstances do not change, our soul can begin to feel the rhythm of the life we now lead. We are living in the moment. And sometimes that is when we are surprised.

Moses trembles with fear as he hears God’s voice and looks away from the burning bush. The Lord then tells him to take off his sandals, “for the place where you are standing is holy ground.” God tells him that He has seen His people suffering and will send Moses to set them free.

Think about being barefoot in the presence of God. “Take off your shoes, Moses. This is holy ground. There is nothing here to hurt you.” That is my interpolation of the text. Moses has worn sandals in the desert for forty years, protecting his feet from razor rocks and searing sand. Now, in the presence of the awesome God, he needs no protection.

Every now and then, if we allow ourselves to live in the rhythm of life, we come across a burning bush or two. Perhaps it is a stunning walk in the country at just the right time. Perhaps it is a phone call out of the blue. Maybe it is a reconciliation that you have prayed about for a very long time. Maybe it’s as simple as a day with your grandchild, lunch with your spouse, or a line drawing of your family from your child. Yes, God can still come in the spectacular ways, as He did to Moses. But my experience in life is that He more often shows up in the moments when we are simply “being”.

In this case, God gave Moses a new job. I’m sure he put back on his sandals and did what he could to prepare himself for this new task. But sometimes, our burning bush moments are simply God’s loving reminder that He is with us and He knows exactly where we are, even if it is on the back side of the desert with smelly sheep.

Imperfection, Like Driftwood

Imperfection, Like Driftwood

(“Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty, God shines forth.” Psalm 50:2)

It rained all day yesterday,
was dog day sunny two days before,
and in-between, where bare thoughts meet
the covered skin of wrinkles and sag,
I found another imperfection, like driftwood from
a rotting logging cabin.

We knew that age would show up;
shrinking icebergs and sanded obsidian lie
upon the earth as
testament or
transgression

While I have the skin torn off my back,
an incision to excise
invasive cells I had never noticed;
like the dark side of the moon,
I had no idea what was living there.

My elbows are gritty from leaning on the linen,
my face and back are dotted with pigments from
the sun and from
the ancestors
who transferred nothing but their
DNA
to the thin shield of my skin.

But You (not the sun) shine on me in
perfection.
In my fading cells Your fascination with me
(all dying is resurrection)
aligns my soul to lie upon the water,
my face to the Bright,
let the wings of Your love
hum the song I’ve forgotten but
known all along.

As the scars will prove,
nothing here lasts forever;
not even the words I struggle to strap to the page.
This house I live is showing its age. But the
love of a thousand friends times ten thousand days
will stay
as my echoed song in frequencies of tranquil
days,
blazing worship and
uncovered praise.