Turning into Puppets

Turning into Puppets

(Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever welcomes this child in my name welcomes me. Whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever is least among you all is the greatest.” Luke 9:48)

I’ve seen my brothers turning into puppets,
my sisters into marionettes. I never imagined this spectacle
of recited lines and managed movements.
They are not alive; they are stranded in their own
imaginations. They have made no room for their own thinking,
having crammed others’ brains into their craniums.

A prince was born today, but too few would know it.
In urban Detroit, or a dusty reservation,
in an Alaskan fishing village, or the streets of L.A.
A prince was born today, he eats from WIC and SNAP,
he’s bound to his mother’s back while she vacuums the world.

A princess was born today, but too few would see her.
Her neck is smeared with yesterday’s mud, she does not wash behind her ears,
she gets lost too easily and sits apart in the geometric classroom.
A princess was born today, she plays with ashtrays and envelopes,
she’s bound to her father’s side while he taxis the world.

I’ve seen the puppet shows where you applaud the pompous lectures,
where you adopted conspiracy as your main dish
and missed out on the best. You’ve let an
alien wind, more bluster,
blow away the innocence you learned before you made
cemented churches your master.

Listen to the littles, hear them for once or twice again,
come down off your stage, burn down the curtain,
there is no us and them, there is no actor and audience,
only children and servants who play in a kingdom
where Jesus rides the carousel with them. Undress the
hand that molds you like the rest,
cut the strings and hang limp like the day you were born.
The royalty of the kingdom is found gazing at butterflies
and running outside without their shoes on.

No One Leaves Hungry

No One Leaves Hungry

(“He took the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to the sky, he blessed them, broke them, and gave them to the disciples to set before the multitude.” Luke 9:16)

I do not know who you are
reading these words,
seeing this page online,
but I want to share my bread with you,
my skin with you,
the tent I live within.

The dirt that I am made from,
the mud that molds my frame
is the same as every other earther,
we are 6 billion and the same.

And Jesus loved the bread of the land,
he love the fruit of the vine,
he shared it like a baker,
he blessed it like a priest,
he divided it like a maître d,
he held it like a grandfather on
Christmas eve.

No one leaves hungry when we share our bread,
no one leaves angry when we keep our skin on,
no one deserves our judgment, no one knows the story
from first to last, from vast lifetimes birthed without
our consent.

So we set the table; no we dine on the couch or
the picnic blanket closer to the soil. We are broken,
we are one,
we are open,
we are children aching for the sun
with our unanswered prayers and losses,
our good fortune and the gossips that talked
out of time.

We invite the one who spoke behind our back,
(our own words were swords not long ago).
We make room for the loneliest widow,
for the offkey and off the mark beliefs
we are certain are mistaken.

But this is becoming too unwieldy,
I only want you to know my story
and listen like it is bread that has been baking
and filling your head like yeast, and filling your
heart to
love the least and just join the band of humanity
that multiplies in the hands of dusty people
who still hunger for a shared loaf of bread.

From mud to grain, there is no better explanation
than a preoccupation with love.

After Lunch

After Lunch

(“Then he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.’” Luke 8:48)

He had just finished lunch and his hands
were still greasy;
he needed to wash them before touching anything.
He wasn’t sure where the pain would take him,
it had struck him nearly dead the day before.
He wasn’t sure what friends would believe him,
or if they would talk about their aches too.
Or would they leave him thinking every word was
another complaint from a faithless mind?

It struck him, a mallet to the head, that so many who
once loved his words,
now barely heard what he had been saying
for years. Certainly, since they could not see,
the invisible pain must be a cry for attention.
(or at least something he should become strong for,
should overcome for the sake of those who walked past
him in phases like the moon who heard the same tune
and nothing new.)

He washed his hands with dishwasher Dawn
And cut the grease, deleted the germs and viruses
just in case someone might hug him back into the world.

Some even asked him, face to face, why his prayers
were not answered or
why he felt God fell silent
when he inquired as to causes and sources.
There must be a reason for the secreted decade
of pain.

Just the same, he wondered too, but with more passion
than suspicion. Just in case, he took to asking, in the
fashion of the day,
what the the definition of love was
among those who stayed away. 

A trace of mustard remained between his fingers;
he noticed the spicy notes as he scratched his nose.
He wanted to spill the beans, empty his heart of everything,
but there was no one nearby who would do the same,
and he feared losing his sanity over silences that remained
when he asked the rest of his friends why God had not
answered them.

But someone saw, the decade of bleeding, someone obscured
by humanity’s crush, someone surrounded by heaven’s attendants,
someone, it seemed, just like us.

He braved the cloud of unknowing, reached past the murky air
into the other world that crams this world complete. He found,
still with pain unabated, someone who knew before
he was known. His hand still stained, he moved in closer,
and remained until he was finally noticed. And then

He withdrew

still laid flat by the relentless plague; still chased by the
the unshakeable isolation of the unclean issue of nerves
he had spent a fortune to heal.

If anyone had seen him reach beyond the veil,
then saw him the next day, and a month after that,
they would swear he had failed, and knock less often
at the door of his heartache.

But there were moments, shorter than lightning, when
he knew
there was less wrong and righting than this world knows,
and only love that heals whos and whys and those
who wait uncurled for the new kingdom,
the new world,
the--your will on earth as in heaven world--

World without end, amen.

Walking on Sunday

Walking on Sunday

(“I will be your Father. You will be my sons and daughters, says the Lord who rules over all.” 2 Corinthians 6:18)

The gutters run full of muddy water,
sticks and burger wrappers, return addresses and leaves.
The windows weren’t broken, the glass worked just fine,
but he could not see out of them, they were boarded up, they
left him blind.

If someone stopped over, he might not answer the door,
too many friendly amputations had made him live in his head.
Besides, he had nothing much to say today, or maybe it had all been said.

He would sometimes move from the darkening dining room,
he sometimes would write what no one wanted to hear
from the front porch if the sun befriended him.

He gave up looking for letters, his heart had shrunk too small
to begin again.
He only trusts his children, his wife, and one or two he’s still afraid
to sit still with the truth.

And so the winds bring the thunder, the thunder brings the rain,
he hopes another day won’t plunder the wandering in his brain.
The lightning flashes at the boundary of his eyes,
he would let it go further, speak of his demise, but
too many would comment that they weren’t all that surprised.

So he holds off the wind with a parka, he holds the wounds inside with a pen,
he listens for the thunder, hopes the windows will come crashing,
and maybe he’ll find (under the excavation) something that passes for passion,
and speak his heart one more time again.

Would the one who died and was buried, the one crucified and dead,
take what others had rejected, wash his feet, anoint his head?
Would the one who slept on Saturday’s slab, the one who left us
with our hopes in our hands,
come walking on Sunday past the boarded up windows and
sit with the rejected, the fearful, the Shepherd with
his lambs?

One Morning in a Garden

One Morning in a Garden

(“And what we believe is that the One who raised up the Master Jesus will just as certainly raise us up with you, alive.” 2 Corinthians 4:14 [The Message])

The pungent scent of dew still wafted from the meadow,
the spice of the earth,
the residue of a warm front raising the humidity high on a mid-morning
April.
“90 degrees in the shade,” they said it would be,
so handfuls of souls followed paths at an acceptable distance
and then to find refuge in their homes later in the day.

A rabbit ran across the trail, pecan-brown and cottontail,
and disappeared inside the silver leaves still gleaming in morning anticipation.
He knew, we presume, the humans would try to capture
his very soul if he let them.

Trails hardly change from day to day,
but the sky, the atmosphere does. Halfway around
the mown down grass, dime-size butterflies surprise
the hikes of those who crave wildflowers, silence and
outdoor exercise.

What could be better, croissant and coffee in hand, to ignore the demands
of a Wednesday workday with everyone sheltered at home?
Alone on a mudded path, ascending the knob to see the
pond; it was
occupied by a
girl and her dog.

Early Spring still has winter in its breath, minty and sharp,
though the hammer will drop by midafternoon. All the school
children are home
spelling numerals and words with chalk on the ground.

But before summer’s prophecy, the meadow invites footprints,
pruning, blooming and life.

Why wouldn’t a family be impressed by a meadow bursting with bluebells?
Why wouldn’t they pose their tiny daughters in cerulean like
Caribbean beaches
with orange bows happily balanced upon their
blonde curling in the heavy air.
Why wouldn’t they take every photo possible,
babies in blue on blue; babies who may renew the memory
decades from now and visit the meadow with their own littles
in tow,
to show them the time, one Easter time, when life was found
in the open, in a meadow, in laughter, in the outflow of
love and necessity. The first resurrection, after all,
was discovered one morning in a garden.

Incognito in the Neighborhood

Incognito in the Neighborhood

(“Every day we experience something of the death of the Lord Jesus, so that we may also know the power of the life of Jesus in these bodies of ours.” 2 Corinthians 4:11)

Here is why I hesitate to write,
or at least for now. Truth has become the
newest enemy,
and honesty
the horrendous foe.

For years I stayed within the lines,
no one could question my faith.
For years I wrote without pain; only the pangs
of guilt that drove me deeper into myself,
and sounded like the words the overseers
could hear.

But now, as days feel like death,
I will not describe them with sunrises.
My body begins its slow disintegration,
my mind thinks like a rusty armadillo,
and numb as a glacier until another
hot wind blows.

Alright, though the truth seems unwanted,
I do not desire to write of the seeping wounds.
But it was the wounds of my friends that
lanced my sleep,
the adjudication of those who knew be best.
But all I became was a repository of ideas,
thoughts newly formed,
but formerly rejected.

A mother I do not know was teaching her daughter
how to spell on the driveway with chalk.

I wanted to stop, I walk to dam the thinking,
or to promote the tears I’m told are simply ungrateful.

A mother was teaching her daughter,
and I wanted to stop to know their story.
One doesn’t do that incognito in the neighborhood.
But life has stopped for me; give and take,
up and down, seesaws and jungle gyms,
third base coach and football in the mud.
Exchanges have turned to iron-tipped scalpels.

A mother was teaching her daughter,
and I do not even know their names.

I walk anonymously, I wave at cars to pretend I know the driver,
children are blowing bubbles, a grandmother gives me space as
she struggles to place her trash upon the curb.

But I am nameless; and those who know my name have forgotten
my address.

If this is dying; then what will the living be?

To Those Who Only Pray

To Those Who Only Pray

(“I’ll put my Law within them and will write it on their hearts. I’ll be their God and they will be my people.” Jeremiah 31:33b)

Why follow around the latest train of thought
when deep in your own heart, within your finest mind,
the love that transcends every judgement is dwelling,
just waiting for you to use it.

We sing refrains, pray down the rain,
lay hands on the sick and practice singing
(except if we sit next to the last one to give us offense.)

Why keep praying for the one whose pain
has not abated in over a decade? If your prayer for healing
has not been answered,
could it be there is a different dance you are being asked to learn?

Please pray, but when the pain does not subside,
why continue to hide in your prayer closet while the
sufferer resides with his pain? One remarks, “I thought
God answered prayer.” And he replies, “I thought so too.”

What does the heart of God say when the disability threatens
to destroy the livelihood of one you’ve prayed for this long?
Have you visited him to hear his story?
Do you wither when you hear he is angry?
Who needed more faith? And so, with no promise,
he waves goodbye while the prayers keep humming.

Did you know you have within you
the love that can destroy mountains?
Did you know, planted in the heart of you,
there are treasures to give to the one who has gone

From anger, to depression, to
fully numb. Where has the love gone, and where
does it come from? Would you open your gifts
and sing to him on his blazing days? Would you open
your gifts and break bread with him on his darkening days?
Would you fend off judgement and fear, and simply listen to hear
the silence of the days when he is stunned into wordlessness?
Would you buy him a one way ticket home?

Hear the hurt without your doctor’s degree. Receive the story
without the gavel in your hand. Love his sorrow without the jokes
or aphorisms, the words that meant so little when your heart was
broken too. See his silence as the evidence that
he feels no one has listened to a word he said. Take his head
at face value.

Naturally, we want miracles. Miraculously, God gives us nature and
love that steps into the deepest pain; the pain our prayers have not broken,
and stays, simply stays

The way Jesus stayed on the cross of suffering,
and stays with us still when pain is unexplained by any
verse of scripture, any sharpened sermon, or platitudes the
faithful have memorized forever.

You, dearest friend, have the very presence of God written in your heart.
Go, see, cry, awake and be
the answer to the prayers that for a decade
you have sought.