the message

making my way
through suburbia the other day
I spied a church sign
with a message
so shamelessly provocative
that I could not decide
if it was meant
for anyone
but the people that posted it—
it was not a welcome
nor an invitation
but an intentional dig
a flaming fork in the road
a smug t-shirt
a polarizing
bumper sticker of a sign
the good news
poisoned and watered down
to a single misleading concept:
“Jesus or hell, the choice is ours”

I cringed as I read it
embarrassed to see
such bold-faced
antitheology
such a fear-mongering
brand of evangelism
such a revisionist
simplistic
angry
just plain mean
misrepresentation
of the Truth
of the Way
of the gospel
of the Father of Lights
and the Son of Man
who perfectly mirrors Him
I was enflamed to see
such venom at work
a public desecration
of a purported
house of worship
I wondered who
in their right minds
would respond
to such a sign
and dare venture inside
with any hope
of finding anything like love
or grace
or acceptance
or mercy
or peace
or God

an hour later
I was still tense
indignant
ashamed
defensive
head swimming
in righteous offense
pacing between
possible retorts
then I tripped
on an important fact
that eased—and changed—
my thinking:
I had chosen
to read that sign
with the same eyes
with which it was written
I knowingly bought
what they sold
but both parties missed
the potential power
the real message
buried in the words
I chose to revise my reading
I had to admit
on a perhaps unintended level
they were right after all
we do have a choice—
how we will live
whether we will be guided
by love or fear
we have to choose
what our message will be—
Jesus or hell?

every day
so many people
are driving by
our sign

January 2008

at will

there is undeniable tension
built in
to the human paradigm
coloring our view
and our views
of the world we call ours
a kneejerk response
a premise of inequity
a common complaint:
“it’s not fair”
and it applies
to everything—
weather
traffic
our income statement
our relationships
our reflection in the mirror
our moods
our concept of God

the tension lies
in the universality
of the plea
but make no mistake:
the tension lies

we have no more earned
a dirt floor
than a feather bed
or our next breath
than we did our last
we fancy
a firm set of guidelines
layers of recourse
poised to protect us
from sleight or misfortune
but fancy
it remains

we have imagined
what simply is not
and staked our decency
our economics
our theology
in petulant insistence
to the contrary
we have demanded
what is not rightfully ours
and stepped over
a gleaming pearl

the truth
may be merciless
or merciful
depending on your view
of its author
we have no contract
by which we are owed
no obligation
born of birthright
(nor penalty, to be sure)
no signing bonus
for choosing the right side
we are completely
at will
free agents
we simply get to be
we simply get to choose
we simply are chosen
the whole lot of us
it looks like luck
and it is
though universally applied
it appears a fluke
and a divine one at that
it sounds like a joke
but there is
nothing
cruel
about it

January 2008

brackish

I find
as I grow
increasingly grey
that I am better suited
clothing myself
accordingly
blacks fade
whites stain
and I can only stand
so much bleach

can fresh and salt water
flow from one source?
they can, I know,
flow through one soul
witness Exhibit A
the perplexing problem
that is people:
beauty and ugliness
in juxtaposed
symbiosis
so close
they are liplocked
the apparent paradox
the contradiction
would be maddening
if you did not love them
so much

as one such person
with a wardrobe
full of contradictions
I’ve discovered
that between the poles
of absolute white
and hopeless dark
lives a glorious spectrum
a world of colors
whose beauty
helps me live
a little lighter
hear music more clearly
laugh with more gusto
weep more honestly
and forget
to be embarrassed
or to draw distinctions
like dirty or clean

I’ve found
I look dapper in grey
and I am hopelessly
incorrigibly
irreversibly
brackish

January 2008

common meal

sitting in a darkened theater
in West Knoxville
taking part
in the common meal
the open table
the communion
the eucharist
the body and the blood
I realized
the tide had gone out
after decades
of dutiful observance
I listened
and heard
with new ears
and understood
the shift that had occurred
without my noticing:
in taking part
in the remembrance of Him
I had forgotten
to enumerate my inequities
to name my shortcomings
to list my failures
and to articulate
the depth of my sorrow
and sorryness
I simply forgot
entirely
to respond with penance
and my face
did not burn with shame
but genuinely glowed
with an effortless smile

grace had silently
surely
won the day
and my most natural
and rote
response
had given way
changed
from guilt
to gratitude

it only took 36 years
how long
for a thirsty
and hungry world

December 2007

vehicle

engine light’s on again
reminding me to focus
on small details
(that tend to grow)
routine checks
that I am too lax to schedule
and are not, in fact, routine
a hundred tiny hints
now maintenance required
could be nothing
but how many minors
add up to a major repair?

how many hours spent
in this traveling temple
this sacred space
carrier of precious cargo:
blood, bones, dreams
and the progeny of all three
one-sided snippets of conversation
thousands of thoughts
holy silences
and zoned-out, spaced-out,
exhausted, unaccounted
blocks of time
awe
paranoia
fear
outright terror
joy
giddiness
gut-aching laughter
prayers
poetry
rage
howls
all the profane sacraments

when will this vehicle
break down
finally?
will it succumb slowly
to a last illness
sputtering, stalling
expiring quietly
unable to awake one morning?
or will it burn out fantastically
exploding in a crash
of noise, fire, glass and light?
it was not, after all,
designed, engineered or built
to last forever

I hope, when it happens
that I am not surprised
or angry
or sad
but simply able to walk away
from this beautiful wreck
created for motion
but now still,
starting its slow slump
back to its earthly elements
useless but for what it carried
I hope I remember to remember,
humbled by the prosaic—
and precious—
relics it housed,
having carried them
across varied geographies
of space and time:
purposeful dashes
aimless cruising
errands, treks
emergencies,
celebrations,
pilgrimages,
meccas,
and homecomings,
that I can humbly
and gratefully
acknowledge
its simple, divine utility
and let it go

January 08