higher calling

funny odd
how judgment
travels lighter
than empathy
this man, my age
maybe older
not my peer
bandless finger
first hint of gray
pushing the cart
pouring the juice—
attending
my flight from work
is his

why I assume
he’s settled
I don’t know
his eyes untroubled
my nose running
the remnant
of a stubborn virus
that, for all our science
I can’t avoid
no Kleenex on hand
but, happily, a pen—
my voice
fresh from a month’s vacation
caught up with me on mine
while traveling
inhumanly fast

stifle a throat tickle
fruitless cough
expectorate

now he gathers
my tiny empty pretzel bag
a virulent backwash juice cup
and my funny odd
kneejerk wonderings
about who’s higher up
and what’s in a calling

built-in appraisals
ready valuations
quick sort
fast read
the silent rendering
inside me like
a stubborn virus
I can’t evade

October 2006

hand jive

too self-aware
to join in
I wonder
at the worship
thumbing
through a stack
of misgivings
dodging the offering plate
chorus of rapturous mumbles
semi-whispered affirmations
rhythmic amens
it is so
but most alien:
the sea of raised hands

I’m in this room
but not of it
watching worship
through a plexiglass shield
barring my entry
to this holy of holies

did I miss the tutorial
the inquirer session
I cannot go through motions
emotionless
those are not my hands
not my arms
not my response
to what must be
the same Spirit
it works for them
but it’s works to me

this sacrifice of praise
leaves me nothing
to offer
but muted guilt
at my hyper-awareness
of self
is it a crisis of faith
or am I tripping
on the trappings
their unabashed genuineness
feels phony on me
an outfit I just can’t
pull off
not wrong
just not me

aghast
at my infantile objections
annoying neuroses
how their freedom
could cause me to stumble
will I never
wipe clean
this milk moustache
and savor the meat
of weightier matters
long for new wineskins
teeming with rich, earthy
complex flavors
pray for a more astute palate
and spontaneous
joyful
unobtrusive
unthinking
uplifted, even
holy hands

but for now
stuff them
conspicuously
in my pockets
close my eyes
and whisper a prayer
to the big God
of small-minded men

October 2006

a void

sick of other losers
telling me how to live
I stink
I reek
I get it

I don’t need a seminar
but a trip
to the woodshed
a holy asswhuppin’
if nothing else
to wake me up

this empty hour
each week
fails to fill
the aching void
I can choose better songs
to sing in my car
I worship mowing the lawn
teach me!
not with obvious illustrations
three more tired points
tried-and-true scriptures
and praise of dead men

surely God still speaks!
where is He now?
not in church

I am way past tense
now strangely numb
I know the words
but have trouble meaning them
there’s no service in this worship

do we need another church
do we need a church at all
I’m tired of redistricting
endless gerrymandering
moving the cattle
from one pen to another
while the other animals
shake their heads
at our fenced-in
concepts of freedom
our obsolete language
of mooing mooing
at animals
that aren’t cows
and chewing chewing
the same cud—
if we won’t swallow it
why would they

I am exhausted
with the fruitless work
of evangelism
the helpless self-help
blindness to poverties
blinded by addictions
to power and wealth
and being right
my heart’s checked out
and my head’s on its heels
frantic
I search for the temple
for the sacred altar within
to cling to its horns

save yourself
and us too

October 2006

cloudheads

I emerged enveloped today
in an endless sea of grey
water water everywhere
made me stop to think
I had to decide
how to perceive
these ubiquitous
molecules of mist
some days it’s fog—
stultifying
impairing
negating vision
making movements
perilous
magnifying aloneness
a ready stepstone
to a lingering despair

but other days

my head is in the clouds
low-lying though they be
and I peer through haze
at the inevitable light behind
for even in my blindness
a laughing truth reminds:
the sun always burns through

faith is a journey
of learning to see
with new eyes
these momentary blinds
can also be signs
leading a people in exodus
or marking a sacred crossing

how will I spend this time
with whom will I align
the fog-goggled
or the cloudheads.

November 2006