There is More

There is More

(“Then Abishai said to David, ‘Today God has handed your enemy over to you. Let me thrust the spear through him into the ground just once. I won’t have to strike him twice!’” 1 Samuel 26:8)

It is true, the belly lies exposed.
His head still as night while the late fire glows.
There is more trauma than you know,
more caves that hide my innocent soul.
You have seen the spear pierce the doorway twice
within inches of my breathless life.
But I will not press my advantage here
before the sorry face that reflects only
stars and flames
here at rest before my feet.

How long does the piercing take before the
sainthood begins?
How long the weary suppression of every
song I love to write?

It is true, my judgments lie exposed.
My words shake like dice thrown for someone’s clothes.
There is more madness than we know,
more kings that chase some innocent soul.
We have seen beyond the inflated price
stuck upon the heads of breathless life.
But if I did press my advantage here
before the hoping eyes that borrow only
stars and sky;
won the day, night the defeat.

How deep does the weeping dig before the
morning is joy?
How far the pebbles in my shoe on every
shore I yearn to see?

And into another afternoon of waiting for
a voice still too far away to identify. Surely You
know
I wait only because
You promised to arrive before my
pain has taken its toll.

Of Freckles and Favor

Of Freckles and Favor

"There is no one holy like the Lord. There is no one but you, O Lord. There is no Rock like our God.” 1 Samuel 2:2

Can you imagine being harassed over something you had no control over? And, worse than that, can you imagine living in a world that viewed you as cursed by God for the same reasons? What if the world saw freckles as a sign of God’s disfavor? You were born with DNA that handed out those speckles that dot your face, and you had no say in the matter. (Just for the record, I sort of like freckles.)

And it wasn’t just a fringe religious group that thought freckles were a curse, it was your entire culture. You never knew a moment in your life where a freckled friend was held up as an example for others. Even worse, your spotted friends were the subject of torment and harass ment without consequence.

That is the place Hannah found herself in the story of the Bible. She was one Elkanah’s two wives. Hannah had borne no children while Penninah, the other wife, had children. To Elkanah’s credit, he treated Hannah well because he loved her. When he offered sacrifices, he gave portions of meat to Penninah and to each of her sons and daughters. This left Hannah only receiving a single portion. Most likely her husband doubled that, and yet, she would still receive less. Her place in the home and society was threatened because she had no children.

To add to the social ostracism she experienced, Penninah constantly taunted her because “the Lord had kept Hannah from conceiving.” (1 Samuel 1:6). Penninah taunted her this way every year at during the annual sacrifice causing Hannah so much anxiety she would weep and be unable to eat.

Deeply hurt, Hannah goes to the tabernacle and prays to the Lord, weeping as the tears fall in a continual stream from her eyes. She begs God to see her affliction and give her a son. As she continues to cry out to God her speech become unintelligible. Her grief is so great that “though her lips were moving, her voice could not be heard.” (1:13). Eli, the priest, thought she was drunk!

Eli encourages her to go in peace and says, “May the God of Israel grant your petition.” Before she even knows how God will respond to her grief, she went home, “ate and no longer looked despondent.” Eventually she does bear a child, Samuel, who she offers to the Lord’s service.

Hopefully we no longer tell people they are cursed or blessed based upon their pregnancy rate! But I know there are many other issues that can make us think we are either God’s chosen or His rejected. Financial status, race, gender, intelligence, immigrant or citizen; these have all been used to rank people’s worth. And, just like Hannah, the targets of this sort of judgment can also feel tormented and harassed.

Those who follow Christ must learn that in Him there is “there is no Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28). As His people, we have come out of the “worldly” classifications and become simply the beloved of God! It is this beloved state we learn to heal and be healers of those who have been judged by society.

In fact, I would rather hang out with followers of Jesus who admit to sometimes feeling lost, than ones who never acknowledge any doubts. He is perfect...we are not. I personally gain more reassurance hearing the stories of fellow travelers who, though smitten to the heart by Christ, know the ebb and flow between certainty and question-marks. With Hannah, we take our questions to the One like no other.

Our fragile hearts are no indication of the strength of our love for Him, nor the perfection of His for us. That is why "fellowship" is so deeply important. But "fellowship" means real sharing, transparent honesty--not propping ourselves up as mighty warriors of faith. I am more at ease with a Christian who says, "I doubt sometimes" than one that says, "Never had a doubt."

There is a place where you can take the deepest doubts or wounds and pour them without fear of reproach. Father God allowed His own Son to become a curse for us that we should never, ever be called cursed again! Find fellowship with those whose deepest desire is reveal their true self before the Healer of hearts, and where each person is the Beloved of the Lord. There is no Rock like Him!

Forced Me

Forced Me

(“So I thought, ‘The Philistines are going to attack me here in Gilgal, and I have not tried to win the Lord's favor.’ So I felt I had to offer a sacrifice.” 1 Samuel 13:12)

You have forced me to this.
My veins pop from my skin as I
arm-wrestle God for His favor.
My brow pulses after waiting so long.
Surely He knew my obeisance was uwaxed.
My anxiety drove me to this. I do not offer
a tariff or a tax…I am certain He knows my acts
and my heart are one.

And yet at every impulsive devotion I feel my
thoughts mocking the next in a number of deals
I thought I could strike
with the King who heals the stop-motion method
of my appeals.

Twenty words written; half are unbidden while the rest
grip the hardpack of my mind, refusing (unkindly) to
form cogent portraits of what I cannot see.

The ravens cackle twenty feet from my window,
the seals bark a quarter-mile away,
and I still wish there were better ways to play.

Three deer bounded across my lawn last night as my
dog, with fading sight, caught their movement like
beach balls wedged in the breeze. She barked as well,
and would have given chase if not for the knees that
addled with time.

You have forced me to this.
For all the tiny vibrations of joy I still feel
I must grapple to find my place, my home.
My temples ache. Surely, though I cannot shake
the ennui, You know I aspirate prayers like cracks.
My anxiety guided me here. I no more offer
a deal behind Your back…I am certain You know my acts
and my heart are dung. Buried and done.
Alive in the nothing and the whole I have become.

Out of Mud

Out of Mud

(“You will indeed go out with joy and be peacefully guided; the mountains and the hills will break into singing before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.” Isaiah 55:12)

Spirit move me like gloved trees, leaves reaching upward
toward every shaft and molecule of life. Make the forest wave
with hands and feet, with saplings casting skinny branches
in amplitudes of praise.

Spirit split me like creviced peaks, crests returned eastward
toward every ray and upheaval of change. Make the glaciers pine
with cracks and ice, with alpine lilacs framing the lakes
in lavender worship.

Spirit soak me like muddy hills, paths left by the hooves
of goats and lambs circling coat verdant coat. Make the grassy slope
with earth and dark, with happy comfort a soft blanket
in choruses of song.

Spirit, I am not clothed with foliage.
Spirit, I am full of fractures and caves.
Spirit, I am not soaked, but dry and would
rely upon Your hidden springs

For a new day when silence simply means
I’m drawing a new breath to sing to You again.

I do not mean to be impatient, nor pedestrian.
I only mean I have mostly run out of mud to run in,
sprinklers to jump in,
hills to nap upon and
words that once flowed free and fresh as

An alpine lake with necklaces of lilac.

I Reach For

I Reach For

(“I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand and say to you, ‘Don’t be afraid; I will help you.’” Isaiah 41:13)

Before melodies reach the boundaries where snow and
summer meet
I reach beyond the arid breath for someone’s forgotten smile.

The heat of uncertainty and the chill of maxims

leave me shoeless to cross the expanse of cracked earth
riverbeds. The petrified trees no longer wave in the breeze,
while gray lizards examine the painted desert as if they had
imagined every stroke of the brush.

I have loved more and seen less,
have ached deeper and floated so shallow my legs
dragged the bottom of flooded ponds. It all depends
on the weather this year, or next. Or the invitations
to dine on a wraparound porch (which I would likely accept)

Except

By the time we arrive my pain beckons me back home inside.

But the melodies will not cease, though they are harder to hear.
The monotony increases the white noise, the silence creases my
affections in perforated sections torn by the distant vistas unvisited.

Shall I stay quiet and go along for the ride? And yet the Mojave and
its wildness
invites me to find the others who wander out of time. I might have
been inclined to join them, or climb the butte, or descend the canyon

before the criminal pain that squeezes me dry became my calendar
and clockwork.

How shall I appease the voracious cry for more than sitting inside?
How shall I embrace a dearest friend when I have only a few minutes to lend?
How shall I explore, discover, seek and find what I started as a mission
and now is stuck dry?

How shall I know that the hand I reach for has already reached for
and taken mine?

When Silence Speaks (a meditation on Holy Week and the "March for our Lives")

"When Silence Speaks"

“The Son of Man will be handed over to people, and they will kill him. After three days, he will rise from the dead.” Mark 9:31

Emma Gonzalez stood on the stage before 80,000 people last Saturday on the Washington Mall. A Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School student, she has become one of the most prominent voices in the #NeverAgain movement. The day was electric. But, not for the words, nor the rhetoric, but for a stunning silence of nearly four minutes as she stood grieving behind the microphones.

“Six minutes and about 20 seconds," she said. "In a little over 6 minutes, 17 of our friends were taken from us, 15 were injured and everyone in the Douglas community was forever altered."

"Everyone who was there understands. Everyone who has been touched by the cold grip of gun violence understands. For us, long, tearful, chaotic hours in the scorching afternoon sun were spent not knowing. No one understood the extent of what had happened."

She repeated the names of the 17 students and faculty that had died and the things they would never do again. Then, she stood silent. Tears rolled down her cheeks while the crowd broke out in isolated chants. But, mostly there was silence.

The “moment of silence” we often call for to respect the fallen usually lasts no more than 30 seconds. But there, among a crowd that had come together to march for their lives, the silence hovered like a cloud for over four minutes. The chants faded. The murmuring of casual movement ceased. All that was left was the air between the sea of humans and an 18-year-old girl bravely honoring her friends and crying to be heard; a silence that must be heard.

After 4 minutes and 25 seconds, a timer went off. "Since the time that I came out here," she said, "it has been 6 minutes and 20 seconds. The shooter has ceased shooting and will soon abandon his rifle, blend in with the students as they escape and walk free for an hour before arrest."

On a Friday afternoon outside Jerusalem another crowd had gathered. The man people called the Messiah was being crucified. Strangely, he had stayed mostly silent during the mock trial performed by the state and religious leaders. Jesus knew what was coming and had made it clear to His disciples on more than one occasion.

“The Son of Man will be handed over to the people, and they will kill him. After three days, he will rise from the dead.” Then, silence. His followers had no idea what Jesus meant and were afraid to ask him.

And I wonder if we struggle with what He meant as well. We call this week “Holy”. We attend church on Easter, wear new clothes, enjoy brunches and happily celebrate the Risen King. But we cannot understand the resurrection of Christ apart from the agony of Friday and the silence of the tomb.

Ms. Gonzalez and her student friends have experienced the cycle of death and violence and now want something to be done. What if Jesus’ death was an invitation for us to give up that same cycle of violence and choose real life? What if these students are echoing what Jesus did on the cross as they “March for our Lives”?

Pastor and writer Brian Zahnd has said, "The cross is not where God inflicts violence on Jesus in order to vent his wrath; the cross is where God in Christ endures human inflicted violence and forgives it all." We who follow Jesus do well to remember how He “triumphed”. We cannot celebrate Resurrection without understanding the violence He willingly endured from humanity.

The cross with its seeming humiliation and defeat was actually God’s way of overcoming our nasty addiction to harm and violence. No warrior ever triumphed by being executed; but Jesus did. The tomb with its seeming silence and death was actually God’s statement that a new way was coming, and indeed, had already arrived.

When Jesus rose from the dead He invited us to lay down our arms, to say “no” to harmful words and actions, and to say “yes” to our lives, our new lives connected to Him. God refused to drop the “Mother of all Bombs” on the human race. Instead He sent His Beloved Son into enemy territory to absorb the hatred, violence and sin of us all, and return it fully forgiven.

That is enough to shut my own mouth for four minutes and consider: How shall I follow my Master’s way?

Well Seasoned

Well Seasoned

(“Jesus said to him, ‘If you are able!—All things can be done for the one who believes.’” Mark 9:23)

I had hoped to be well-seasoned by now,
a cast-iron skillet passed down from each generation.
Instead I watch the robins arrive and notice them for the
second time
out my back window days before Spring.
They know nothing of my, nor describe my fashions.
But they, attired in their puffy red shirts, skip across the
hill behind my house…as they have done each Spring despite
absent eyes full of seeing.

They did not ask my permission, nor was it required. They
are not an intrusion, they are not a new obsession; but I started
looking for them this year
before they arrived.

I had hoped to be well-reasoned by now,
a vast basin of academia attested by my decorations.
Instead I muddle; my arguments are more subtle,
and my conclusions less sharp than last I was tested.
My interest in prooftexts has abated.

I’ll take that second glass of wine now.

No, I do not have a boy thrown into the water and the fire;
no demons, no foaming, no froth and no briar,
my anxieties lie much deeper and higher.

I am pregnant with something that will not be born,
my chest heaves with leaden air and my mind reboots the
assumptions I placed each bet upon.
The gestation is decades and will not be stillborn but
my fear is
it will not be born at all.

I do not have a boy thrown into water or fire,
but the robins return and I ask where I fit
after their nests are built, the blue eggs crack
and I sit on the same couch from which
I watched them arrive.

I had hoped to be well-pleasing by now,
a scholar in my field, a golden apple from the tree.
Tomorrow may tell; tonight the daffodils
will push through the clods like butter and I

Will wonder how to love You better since the
seasons are shortening and my longings are unborn.