An Epistle, a Prayer

 

An Epistle, a Prayer

(“In order to set us free from this present evil age, Christ gave himself for our sins, in obedience to the will of our God and Father.” Galatians 1:4)

Dear Jesus,
having set us free from the present evil age,
it makes me wonder why
so many of your disciples use
bullying and
sometimes billy clubs
to get your point across.

I know, Jesus,
this has caused such a poor reflection on you
that many have twisted every bit of wrath out
of any graceful act you performed. And, honestly,
I have been scorned for suggesting we pause a bit
in our
list of sins that we no longer participate in. We know
damn well
most of our inclinations did not change the
moment we decided that a rearrangement was in
order. We dined at camps where the noise level
made us slink out to the bench behind the tabernacle
just to rest. Just to rest. Just to refresh
and rewash our ears
from the assault of decibels that convinced
most everybody else
that the holyghost was soon to appear. Yes,
my tear stains are on that carpeted stage as well.

But Jesus,
the one time I stayed quietly in my pew while angry
men and
women who wore it well
dragged seatmates and cousins to their knees before
the cacophony right in front of the evangelist’s feet,
the one time I sat tight halfway back
I was accused of quenching the spirit.
(All I wanted was to peacefully meet with you,
Jesus,
without the sound and sweat and salty tears
writing my script.)

And yet I cannot argue, Jesus,
the present age has much evil,
and you, in love of humanity and
humility of private conversations,
you absorbed the violence that

The state sponsored

That

The religionists supported

and

The crowd roared in scorn

While

Disciples fled

And

The women stayed to the end.

My dear Jesus,
may your church,
the one which storms the gates of the dead,
be delivered once again
from this white-ghost addiction
to spelling out the sharper notes of
everyone else’s sin.

I Hear/Bread and Wine

 I Hear/Bread and Wine

(“Or do you not know this about yourselves: that Jesus Christ is in you.” 2 Corinthians 13:5b)

At this point it is so hard to remember
chocolate or
guitar songs with my clan
or
warm beaches with my toes in the sand.

(I am in no mood for stoic meditations. Some
days it’s so easy,
but mostly I’ve forgotten.)

I don’t mean to be grumpy or
self-indulgent or
sorry for my plight.
I just wish I got get-well cards
from someone
other than my
nurses.

My house is cozy,
my family loves me,
but I am lonely
inside these days that pass
while I breathe and
eat and
live and
sleep
under the radar.

My soul is taxed,
my brain no match for the bass drum
of days that advance without my permission.
At this point
(let me make it clear)
Christ is more than all
while I wonder why the snow falls
so late this year.

Today the hours taunt me with self-made
stories
and the sadnesses I remember.

And then I hear, yes, only faintly,
the bread and the wine and the
voice that has never minded my questions:

“Remember me.”

A Song so Incomplete

 A Song so Incomplete

(“Embarrassingly I admit that next to them we must look very weak!” 2 Corinthians 11:21a [The Message])

I wanted to dash off a quick note to tell you
how sorry I am
I never brought the hammer down
or
embarrassed your misgivings on purpose.
Was I too weak for that?

It also has been brought to my attention that,
because I refused to force certain wanderers
to return
I lost a few sheep along the way.
Was I too silent for that?

Here and now,
as I look back,
I only wish I had whispered more often,
embraced the granite wills,
and let them find their way
among the walls and mazes of
uncertainty.
I hope I refrained and left no punched holes
in the pulpit.

I wanted you to see me without my disguise,
a fool, a clown, a brow with lines of doubt
even when faith was the word. I wanted to
unmask myself
before myself
became glued too far forward.

I hope you recognize in these lines,
not some guru eating gelato,
but another ant on the hill trying to
make sense of a world
far too large to paint in a lifetime.

The few I hammered only hid their
mask beneath more greasepaint and
shoe polish. The few who hammered me
never asked where I am living now.

Come, let us design a song so
incomplete it
leaves us nothing at all
to brag about.

Piggy Banks and Walkie Talkies

 Piggy Banks and Walkie Talkies

(“Watch yourselves! Keep from wanting all kinds of things you should not have. A man’s life is not made up of things, even if he has many riches.” Luke 12:15)

He had the piggy bank since before he could remember.
Perhaps a grandparent or uncle had given it to him,
or maybe it was a premium for opening a youth bank account
at the downtown savings and loan.
All he knew, he put all his extra coins through the slot
in the pig’s ceramic back and loved the idea that one day
the piggy would be full.

It was true that kids in his neighborhood played
cops and robbers
with sticks and six-shooters made of wood.
One boy had a bb gun, but he kept it at home.

Most of them had pet dogs, mongrels, and mutts their
parents
made them keep rounded up in the back yard. If
they had allowed
the friends might have used them to herd the cattle they
pretended to rustle. His was named
Frisky.

They made a fort beneath the lowering limbs
of a neighbor’s pine tree. As dusk settled
they became dark as the shadows and could wait out
the search party sent by the day’s prepubescent sheriff.
They sent out scouts out across the street and around the block
to inform them when the den might be attacked.

Some days later he happened upon an ad in the back
of a Superman comic book. In 1966 everyone read
Batman, The Green Hornet, The Archies, and Mad Magazine.

Two army green walkie talkies: $12.99!

The perfect advantage when scouts and robbers needed
secret communication.

He went to the piggy bank, perhaps three quarters full,
and turned it over to pull out the rubber stopper in
the piggy’s stomach. But there was none.

How had he never noticed? Had he never thought of spending
his treasure on candy, or firecrackers, or cinnamon toothpicks before?

He showed the bank to his mom who laughed at his predicament.
“You have to break the bank”, she said, “like a pinata.”

Embarrassed at his lack of knowledge
he tiptoed back to his room. On the way he
grabbed a hammer from the junk drawer
and set the piggy bank on his dresser. With
a few taps dampened by a towel from the laundry
the pig split open like easter morning.

Counting his bounty (he had enough plus a dime
or two for candy), he put it all in a plastic bag
and walked downtown to shop for his walkie talkies.
And there they were, perfect, green like a jeep,
with volume dials and batteries included.
He poured the money onto the counter while
the shop owner smiled.

The next night the usual rustlers showed up
running in and out of the yards and bushes.
The thieves hurried to their hideout while the
cops started the hunt. With walkie talkie
in hand
he was ready to take the coppers down.

Their scout followed the posse across to houses
and past the apartment complex at the corner.
He pushed the button, “Cops on the move. Over.”

No one heard the call in the hideout, just the buzz
like am radio makes at night. So

The boy with the broken piggy bank
snuck out from the hideout and was duly arrested
before he could turn around.

He read the instructions the next day, the ones he
used when he tested them with his brother. And,
though the walkie talkies worked just fine in the house,
in the yard, and next door

He read, “Range, up to 200 feet.”

At 11 he was unsure how far that was. But it was too far.
He had to admit defeat. And
find another piggy bank of plastic
with a door to remove coins on
the installment plan.

An Extra Can of Soup

 

An Extra Can of Soup

(“Now He who supplies seed to the sower and supplies bread for your food will also multiply your seed sown and increase the fruits of your righteousness.” 2 Corinthians 9:10)

Please don’t follow me home only to
turn around and leave me
there alone.
I have no money, but an extra can of
soup and an apple or two. Perhaps Spring
will allow us this modest repast
so I have someone to talk to.

I don’t want to be selfish,
I don’t need the attention,
I don’t want the focus on myself,
I don’t need to lengthen your stay
beyond darkening evening.

I need someone to walk up my gravel driveway,
someone I once prayed for,
or
someone I once stayed with
past the shock, past the incongruent murmurs
of friends with no words.
Someone I delayed with
until the tears were rivers,
until the rivers were dry,
until the sentences became only sighs.

I’ve had offers, I admit. And then the trauma insists
I’ll freeze in the sun
the moment anyone
enters my door. Something keeps the words
choking in my throat. I want someone
I can cry with.

Will you do me the kindness,
(and perhaps I can find a loaf of bread)
to wait with me on days when I am tired of
being brave,
when courage is too exhausting,
when I cannot answer with faith or certainty,
when I only want to nap for an eternity.

Will you do me the kindness,
and hand me a handkerchief, please.
I’ve been waiting for seeds to be planted,
for bread to be abundant,
and a place to lay my head.

Heaven’s Candlelight

Heaven’s Candlelight

(“As a pleasing aroma I will accept you. Ezekiel 20:41a)

The stars are heaven’s candlelight,
the horizon an altar of prayer.
The grass and fields are hymns of praise,
the wind the gentle voice singing in unknown tongues.

There is nothing to contain you,
there are no walls to constrain you,
we sing our refrains and hope you interpret
our silly theologies into ballads of love.
Every doctrine has its holes,
every fabric we try to stretch
across the universe
is bound to show its imperfections viewed
so close.
There is nothing to explain you,
we will sing what we barely know.

So, take this sandy stalk, let it be the wick
you light,
the smell of sage or alfalfa wafting
from the pasture to the river. Let our
bonfires light the hills with sweetness,
our laughter the mere beginnings of holy
chants and song.

Our eyes are your candlelight,
our hands an altar of prayer.
The friends we hold and opponents we invite
shall ever bring you praise.
We breathe the spirit’s gentle voice singing
in unknown tongues.

Campfires and Timeless Tales

 Campfires and Timeless Tales

(“I will be a Father to you. You will be My sons and daughters, says the All-powerful God.” 2 Corinthians 6:18)

Entrusted with mere existence I
often
cannot keep from trying to control
time as if the hands on the clock
can be speeded up by my anxieties.
It does not pass, it flows like jet-streams
laden with weather.

On the days when I can lay my machinery
down
and simply listen to the cranking of the gears,
the creaking of the years,
the friction of time against space
I discover something far beyond the face
of things.
Far slower than the pace of things.
Far nearer, by the grace of things.
A table filled with aunts and uncles,
a yard filled with first degree cousins,
an afternoon filled with siblings who happen upon
the bbq we serve whenever the summer sneaks
up on us unaware.

Did you see your brother waiting to cross the street,
stalled on the corner because the light stays red?
Did you see your sister ragged in the corner,
breathing on the backstreets waiting for the
curfew to be lifted?

Did you see the Power. like. love.
Did you see the campfires lit on a thousand hills
with no fences around them? Did you see
the maternal love latent in the universe?
Did you see the paternal care lately calling to
all of us?

Did you stop and stay though the wind blew the
smoke in your face? Existence will not wait
while we measure the time in nitpicking packages of
hills to die on. Instead, we rely on
the stories told that take the whole night to tell

And do notice the hours slip away while we pass around
flagons of wine, crumbles of cheese,
and more bread than we need as we
hear the kindling crack.

And each new tale begins.