Between If and Then

Between If and Then

(“A woman came to Jesus with a special sealed jar of very expensive perfume. She poured the perfume on his head while he was at the table.” Matthew 26:7)

Can I be honest?
I’ve reached the end of my vial. The contents were not costly,
(more ordinary than rare), but I’ve emptied them now, and somehow,
feel quite unsatisfied.

How do you feel?

I thought
if
I poured out all I could
then
You would appreciate the effort, though
not up to the standards
of your usual saints.

So here I am now, in the weightlessness between the
if
and
then,
still looking for Your face, still listening for Your song,
still wanting to be pleased with Your pleasure in me.

Do we need this ritual throughout my lifetime? I
believe,
I think,
that Your pleasure arises in simple being and presence.

But my brain (that unwieldy part of my body) sends weeping
over apparent acts unnoticed. And now it upbraids me for
wanting notice at all.

I would pour out more, but I’m dry as the desert in winter,
weary as the old man I’ve become,
and yet have more miles to traverse than treasures stored
heaven or earth.

I’ve failed more than the woman who perfumed your feet,
and failed after faith, after baptism, after profession, after vows
and bows before myriad altars.

I would create more, but the words are these words,
nonsense without incense, assumptions without perfume.

Is it unholy and sacrilege to say; if there is any way,
would You pour from Your vial (the smallest spray of mist)
to let me know this time between times
contains as much grace as the moments I could barrel my way
and unload kegs of devotion, or know Your voice so present that,
between breath and breath,
if and then,
I would still weep for better reasons;
mercy at banquets and love in lepers’ homes where
extravagance is misunderstood.

All Tattered and Perfection

All Tattered and Perfection

(“For the kingdom of God is not eating and drinking, but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.” Romans 14:17)

Where lives intersect; eat and play and love,
we can dance the steps of the joyful,
we can hear the melody redeemed,
we can note the steps, follow the quarter-tones,
and wonder at rounds geometrically opposed to
the strict sounds that stayed within the walls of
our protected subdivisions.

But we must not journalize the stranger; bell and chant and candle.

Here in the day we are reduced to children again who
play by the rules until the rules hinder the play. Why can’t
the newest one have four strikes, not three? Why shouldn’t the
corner boy paint portraits in pink and green?

Once we have discovered our New World we die if we think
the discovering is done.
Each coast is clearly concocted of sand dropped in new
frameworks against the horizon.
Each cavern is deep or dry, shallow or dripping with stalagmites
dialed by time slower than the kitchen wall ticking.

Dry eyes, warm clouds, sand crabs, foreign sounds,
hands raised, knees bowed, hymns sung, voices loud.

A hush at supper, a shout at soccer; vespers and incense,
chocolate and cadences; each soul is its own invocation,
and benediction can begin

The moment we embrace the introspection that longs for
the dances we’ve never learned or seen or heard.

The Dancer is not of this world or your world,
The Dancer spreads the music through every crack in time.
The Dancer indwells each space between movements
and encircles the down-beats tapped or clapped or missed
in our tripping attempts to follow.

The Dancer is invitation; all tattered and perfection,
torn and covered with the crash of waterfalls and the
force of hurricanes. The Dancer is whisper; the epicenter
of creation’s silence fully alive.

Mud and Roses

Mud and Roses

("What do you think about the Messiah? Whose son is he?")

The smell of mud and roses,
that is how the chosen perceive the world.
We cannot embrace perfection, but love the spaces between
earth and bud, bloom and dirt. First the rain leaves pockmarks upon
the garden bed,
then the earthworms sneak along the perimeter before light plays
upon the newly broken clods. Robins meet for morning breakfast
and coffee
and a little to go to feed their young.

The perfect green stems with new rubbery needles embrace
last year's old growth now gray and stiff, their thorns more apt
for a Messiah's crown.

You cannot work the ground alone. You cannot inhale the garden's perfume
in a florist's shop. One is rich, one is sterile. And yet in the garden they are
the prelude to the day, the annunciation of sun, the breeze's benediction at
the lowering of the afternoon.

The chosen do not consume doctrine devoid of mud nor roses apart from
the dusty hands that tended them.

Faith is the moment where earth and roses meet, where lotuses bloom on
muddy ponds, where divine and human see each other in the beloved space
of imperfection's grace.

Sometimes the Desert

Sometimes the Desert

(“But you were unwilling to go up. You rebelled against the command of the Lord your God.” Deuteronomy 1:26)

The drive is too far, the desert cold;
the needles bite the sky and capture the clouds in their teeth.
How quiet the pain when mountains crowd the horizon;
but it shouts when the road becomes too full of ghosts.


We leave one giant to face another. We hope to leave the effort behind.
For more than the best of us, and careful for the rest of us, they loom after one hour’s nap at a midlevel rest stop.

The rest is never our final destination, another winter wind whips the sand in our face.
Crossways it captures our coats and our hats and tosses them into the desert alone.
We stand at the edge of designated borders, feet obedient to the signs and fences.
It does not enter our minds to seek another passage.But we have come too far, resigned our bridges, retired our employment and
vacated our tents a long time ago. To return from our turning only postpones
the new land of promise. But we fear. 

So we wake the next morning, manage our pain, and venture on the next leg
that leads us closer to anonymous towns where life is larger, names are sharper,
roads are confusing and the earth harder than before. 

How do we face the giant when it was the giant we thought we had left behind?
When pain is the master, the driver and the passenger, even pebbles threaten the
passage of time. 

Sometimes faith is not having a choice. Sometimes forward is the only gear left.
Sometimes the corner forces you out into the cold. Sometimes the desert opens your eyes.

Faith is the Reality

Faith is the Reality

“Now faith is the reality of what is hoped for, the proof of what is not seen.” Hebrews 11:1

When I was young, maybe nine or ten, I knew my parents’ income. My dad said at one time that he was making $7,000 per year. Now, remember, that is 1964 or 65. A couple of years later my mom announced that she had received a raise of $700 per year. I was smart enough to know we weren’t millionaires, but not quite savvy enough economically to realize we were on the lower end of “middle class”.

In fact, one year my dad bought my mom a car for Christmas. He liked making her search through the house for her main gift. So, he would decorate a box which she would open. Inside the box was another box with a note in it. The note told her to look inside the oven. Once there she found a second box with a note saying, “Look in the hall closet”. This went on for half a dozen boxes. Finally, the note said, “Go to the driveway.” We all followed mom and dad outside to see the car.

It was a Fiat. An old Fiat. A very old Fiat. Indeed, it was even missing the passenger’s seat which dad quickly explained he would replace as soon as possible. Mom’s big gift was an old, tiny, rusty Fiat that cost $50! To this day I’m not sure if that was a result of our economic situation or my dad’s bit of Irish parsimony.

Mom worked three jobs while Dad pastored a church in Pasadena, CA. My brother and I both had paper routes. My sisters, too young to have jobs yet, helped us prep our bundles before we went into the neighborhood tossing newspapers that slid right up to our customers’ doors. Usually.

I really had little evidence of how much money my family had. I knew we went to McDonald’s occasionally and we could each order a hamburger. But, if we wanted a cheeseburger, we had to pay for the cheese ourselves. As an adult I have come to realize my dad was a child of the Great Depression. It has helped me understand his penny-pinching ways.

The only access I had to real “cash” was Dad’s wallet which usually sat on top of the blonde chest of drawers in their bedroom. I was inquisitive, and often looked through the contents of that leather envelope. There were S&H Green stamps, a Gulf gas card, his driver’s license, pictures of mom and us kids. And then I would find the cash. I don’t think I ever found more than $20 in Dad’s wallet. Usually only a handful of $1s. Nope, the evidence told me we were right to get by with a $50-dollar car!

What I didn’t realize, of course, was my dad’s wallet was not the only evidence of the family’s assets. There was the banking account, the savings account, a retirement account and a huge coin collection that, at least in my dad’s mind, was worth thousands!

What if I lived each day in fear that the only assets we had were the few bills I discovered in Dad’s wallet? What if I thought I would drive a $50 Fiat’s with a missing seat for the rest of my life?

But there was something more than the “evidence” I personally discovered. There were two loving, though imperfect, parents doing all they could to provide for their kids. We took in every sight that was free or inexpensive in greater Los Angeles. We frolicked at the beach. We wandered through Huntington Gardens. We drove up to Mount Baldy.

For me, this is an earthly picture of what faith in my Heavenly Father is all about. I know Christ from the Gospels. And I know Him from the witness of His Spirit in my heart. But, I do not see Him, I cannot see His eyes, feel His human hand on my shoulder.

But, my faith in Him is the same as the faith I had in my parents; only so much greater because He is greater. Trials are the opportunity to trust in the bank account of the patience Jesus offers. Failings are a chance to draw upon the sweetness of His mercy and forgiveness. Days of clouds and wildflowers are like looking through Dad’s wallet. They are the dollar bills, but Father-God has so much more prepared for us.

Today, trust the abundant reserves of Father-God. He has more grace, more power, more compassion and comfort than is possible to imagine.

An Underprivileged God?

An Underprivileged God?

(“The angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream, saying, ‘Arise, and take the child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and remain there till I bring you word. For Herod will seek the child to kill him.’” Matthew 2:13)

I have been quite fortunate. Born in the United States I have never had to flee for my life because of political uprisings. I have never been persecuted or jailed because of my race or political leanings. I have never experienced hunger due to famine or the greed of an insatiable ruling class. And, I certainly have not been forced to flee my country out of fear of my life.

That “fortune” is sometimes called “privilege”. Surrounded by provision from the day I was born it can be difficult for me to identify with others who have less. That struggle is yet more real when I try to imagine the lives of those disrupted by war, famine and direct persecution. Though my upbringing was lower middle-class, we never wanted for a thing. Because of that privilege, I must make a determined effort to understand others who experience danger and destitution simply because they live somewhere on the globe where humanity is not respected.

I have never been a refugee. But Jesus was.

One moment the wise men are worshiping Jesus and giving him gold, frankincense and myrrh. In the next, Joseph is warned in a dream to flee to Egypt with Mary and Jesus. Fortunately, Egypt had become a place of asylum for Jews in political danger.

King Herod could not bear to hear a toddler was called “The King of the Jews”. Enraged, he had all the children in and around Bethlehem killed; as many as were two years old and under.

Jesus was a refugee. So was Joseph, and so was Mary. Fortunately, though a historical enemy, Egypt did not close its borders to this young family. They settled in a foreign land until Herod died and an angel again appeared to Joseph telling him to go back to Israel. “They are dead who sought the child’s life,” said the angel.

This is what God is like! God wanted to be a refugee. Scripture continually tells us that Jesus is the exact representation of God. Jesus Himself says, “If you have seen Me, you have seen the Father.” The Apostle John put it this way: “No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.” (John 1:18)

So, for all the angels we sing about at Christmas, for all the gifts the Magi bring, for all the cherub-like scenes of shepherds worshiping the Child, there is another episode that tells us what this New Born King is like.

That episode includes fleeing for His life. That episode includes so much danger in His home country that He is forced to escape and ask asylum in another. That episode includes a young father, mother and son eking out a living in a country where they did not even know the language, not knowing when or if they could return to their native country of Israel.

But Jesus was an immigrant the moment He was born on planet earth. Jesus, King of kings and Lord of lords did not arrive in glorious regalia. We might have rolled out the proverbial red carpet if He had. But, you see, that is not what God is like. He took the low route, the overlooked route, even the despised route. Born to a poor young couple, He slept His first night on straw among barn animals. That was His choice.

Later Jesus would tell a prospective follower, “Do you really want to follow me? Remember, birds have nests and foxes have holes, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.” Jesus, homeless? Maybe so. And again, maybe it is because that is what God is like. Not that God doesn’t have anywhere to live, but that He wants to live among us, even the lowest of us. Even the discarded, the refugee, the disenfranchised, the ridiculed, outcast and ignored.

When Jesus was crucified, they even had to put His body in a borrowed tomb. No room at the inn, no room in His native country, and no tomb of His own. But He does have a home. His birth among the lowly signals God’s intention, as well as the name with which Isaiah described Him, “Emmanuel” or “God with us.”

Jesus’ birth, his refugee status, his wanderings, and even his solitary burial speak of a God who loves us so much that He reduced Himself, emptied Himself, gave up all privilege, to bring us to Him. Let this Christmas remind you what God is truly like.

When Tapestries are Torn

When Tapestries are Torn

“I know that my Savior lives, and at the end he will stand on this earth.” Job 19:25

What happens when your assumptions about life are disrupted? We all have a certain vision for how we expect life to play out. Shaped by our family and upbringing, moved along by our temperament and gifts, we may have assumed our future would unfold with all the colors of this tapestry intact.

The problem is, we have no idea the barriers, setbacks or struggles we will confront along the way. I have a lifelong friend from High School. She is a comic genius. Her ability to inhabit a character and bring comedic idiosyncrasies to a performance always amazed me. She usually had me in stiches during rehearsals. What was worse, she also could, with a single sound or scrunched up face, make me giggle right before it was my cue to take the stage.

Jeannie and I lost touch after High School. But then came social media and around 2005 I re-met my witty friend. Her sense of humor was just as real. Her posts were sharp and funny, though in recent times have turned to political jabs. As she and I corresponded, she shared her story, and I realized her tapestry had become tattered and unwoven in places.

She has lived in New York City for several years and a little over a decade ago she was assaulted, robbed and beaten. Besides the horror of the attack itself, she lives with its trauma etched upon her memory and a brain injury that will never heal. Jeannie did not plan on living with Traumatic Brain Injury.

Those with TBI often suffer with immediate or delayed symptoms including confusion, blurry vision and difficulty concentrating. They may also experience blackout, dizziness and fatigue. Mood can be affected, ranging from anger and anxiety to apathy or depression. With a lifetime of effects, a “normal” life is often out of the question. My friend Jeannie has not only had to give up her dream of comic theater, but struggles to hold down any job. She lives paycheck to paycheck, while still having to spend precious income on medical bills.

Jeannie rarely complains, but her life hurts. I know it hurts. And, if you knew nothing about her, you might think, “What did she do to get herself into such dire circumstances?” I wonder how often it occurs to us that the homeless person we pass once had a tapestry in mind for their life. Do we consider the caravan of immigrants approaching our border as real-life men and women who wanted to raise families and live in peace, but now are fleeing oppression and violence? They are looking for some way to complete their own tapestries.

In the Bible Job had a masterpiece life. God called him “blameless”. He had a huge ranch, a loving wife, along with sons and daughters who actually remembered his birthday (Job 1:4). But, in a moment all of his livestock are destroyed, his buildings ruined, and his children die as a strong wind wrecks the home where they are all gathered.

Subsequently Job is also struck with terrible sores from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He takes a piece of broken pottery to scratch the painful wounds.

Along come three friends who sit with him in silence for several days. They do well to show up, and they show restraint in not speaking too quickly. The suffering do not need our words, our advice, or even our wisdom: they need “us”.

But eventually they can’t take the silence anymore and decide they must find the mysterious reason behind Job’s suffering. They pontificate about everything, accusing Job of greed, lust, blasphemy, a lack of faith, and just, well, generally being sinful. Silly boys, if they had read the first chapter of the book, they would have known none of that is true.

Job, for his part, decries the day of his birth. Most of his speech is filled with agony as he calls on God to either show Himself or to leave him alone. But, in the tarpit of his pain, occasionally a bubble of hope rises to the top. He says, “I know that my Savior lives, and at the end he will stand on this earth.” (Job 19:25) He longs for God. He longs to present himself and say, “God, Why?”

But, he also simply longs for God. He says, “Yes, I will see him for myself, and I long for that moment.” (Job 19:27). If your tapestry is ragged, if the edges are frayed, if the color is faded or threads are unstrung, let the bubbles of hope rise to the surface. God will not judge you for your doubts during your pain.  He does not condemn His suffering children. Indeed, He comes. Christ came to “stand on this earth.” He became a person of dust just as you and I are dust.

Cry out to Him in your suffering. And, when you see a lump of thread on the side of the road, remember: that once was someone else’s tapestry. Be kind.