Good Friday Poem

I read the following poem at the Good Friday service last night. Bear in mind that it was written to be performed, not merely read. Cadence and texture are lost in text. But for what it’s worth, here it is:

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It’s been thousands of years in the works,

rattling chains, and dust shaking dances

But still the orphans wander,

still the lost boys bed down in the dust,

with angry black hearts on lock

and headaches on fire.

A nation with dirt caked eyes, blurred

against the underside of mourning

44,000 fingers made of thorns scratching

open backs like a thousand year warning

for the man of sorrow, riding

wounded doves’ wings

singing bloody kennings

for a people, dark-spirit wandering.

Each one’s got a shovel and is digging,

Preparing a grave for the living God,

casting bone shaped flowers into the mouth of it,

sin-touched dowries for the bride of love,

guilty offerings on the back of God,

leaving red lines like ropes to hell,

but by the lines of the veil,

and the love-song of his will,

these lines build the red rungs to heaven.

We climb on the broken back of an innocent

dirty footsteps by the millions

the whole world despising a face

while bathing red brilliant

under the wrists of Jesus.

We transgress wisdom and

make the victor our victim

We hammer coffin nails in blind-fisted circadian rhythm

as heaven plays witness

and the meek one is stricken;

Hand of God, tongue of man,

rising like a violent promise

against the man of glory

rising as peace and pardon upon us:

Awaken us from dust, o’ Jesus

Pour upon these dead lips your tonic.

Your blood and your body, our splendor,

Your spirit, our water,

baptizing nations from dust to honor,

the curve of the tree, our door to promise,

the blood in your eyes, sight of the righteous,

ignored by heaven that his grace might reach us,

that his glory might touch us,

under heaven, under dust,

justifying wretches, making feast for the violent and helpless,

making peace for the broken and reckless,

singing grace to the addicts and victims,

building homes for the widows and immigrants,

lifting prayers for the beaten children whose bruises are familiar to you,

whose cries are love-songs to you,

whose stuttering supplications are incense to you,

whose lives are bound up in you,

whose every fear is buried in the lines of your back and the holes in your sides,

breath of heaven, savior and hope,

Kingdom treasure, key to my heart,

man of suffering, the only one worthy,

Awaken your name on our lips,

Awaken our eyes for your glory,

Awaken the purpose in these finger tips, long spent on violence

Awaken a nation of orphans to the light of your promise.

Awaken us now, as we bow before you,

dust in hand, with our eyes set upon you,

Call our names loudly, as from the mire

we raise our weary voices and mud-caked souls to adore you.

Unfinished Prose

The below is the introductory section to a short story I was writing a while ago. I abandoned it a few months ago and haven’t taken the time to pick it up again. I wanted to post it here in hopes that I would be stimulated to work on it.

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“If you watch closely enough, you will see the shape of your future in a cloud of cigarette smoke and your dreams in tv static. My job is to teach you vision.”

The green double doors led into a reflective hallway that lasted too long. It was a school or a hospital or some conference building. He had a speech to give in three minutes, and he was winded from rushing jaggedly through the people traffic of city streets to get to those miserable double doors on time. He was half-way business-like, and the other half was kind of ‘don’t bother me, I’m taking a nap in an alleyway.’

Numbers on doors, lockers, bathroom signs, and graffitied porcelain drinking fountains populated the hallway. It was a long, squeaky trek to the end of the corridor. There was a man standing in the distance, shaped like a needle with a hairpiece – shaped like a blade of grass waiting to be trimmed. He was the color of a sneeze and smelled like sheets, tucked-in hospital style.

The two men collided as opposing hemispheres being forced together by the acceleration of gravity. Hand shake – an awkward exchange of uncomfortable fingers, each one screaming at the others – there was a recognition that our speaker had indeed arrived at the correct place. Both men melted into the room hurriedly, with the needle taking his seat to the left of our speaker.

The night commenced with throat clearing and an adjustment of his tie; it looked like he was trying straighten everything crooked in the room. It was a ritual that had developed after countless sweaty initiations to rooms of strangers. It was a mating dance of sorts, in which our speaker attempted to woo the crowd to his den: cough, straighten the tie dramatically, shuffle papers, jiggle lectern, smile at the first row, crinkle eyebrows abashedly, and commence with a deep and disarming voice that sounds like the lower keys of ten well-tuned pianos playing scales, softly.

The lateness never mattered. In fact, it only served to entrance a room full of religious adherents, pulling their deepest interests into the hands of this appropriately charming figure.

“You are here because you know the world is going to hell. You see the dead walking among us, feigning breath – pretending to know the meaning of the words they speak. And you do not love their words – you are not fooled. You are not fools. I am not a fool.”

The night lasted for four hours. There were testimonies from mothers and grandfathers, from babysitters and boy scouts. There were tears and there were violent words spit from the teeth of gentlemen. This room at Arlington Elementary played host, that night, to a terrified remnant, fifty-seven strong. These little pockets of stubborn but fading men and women were crying out all over the western part of the state. They were both nervous and committed – waiting with fists and checkbooks for change and the man to engineer it. And he was willing. Ten years of a storm brewing. Ten years of short speeches to groups of men in living rooms. Ten years to pick the right tie and the right squeaky shoes. And he was finally standing at full height. The man that sounded like a slow building hurricane and looked like the clean-up crew.

“Let’s pray,” he said.

Together in chorus:
“Forgive us for stopping short. Forgive us for settling. Forgive us for letting it get out of hand. Forgive us for the blood that was spilled and the blood that will be spilled. Strengthen us to be victorious. Teach us vision. AMEN”

And with that, our speaker left the way he came – in a hurried and bothered gate, like some terrible itch was working its way up the back of his brain, and he knew he couldn’t reach it. He adjusted his tie and smiled vaguely as he exited the double doors of the school, blending with the blur of traffic outside.

Ambiguity as Flirtation

Ambiguity, it occurred to me, is the essential element of flirtation. It is the fuel that powers those giddily awkward bantering matches between starry-eyed idiots. It’s the flourish and parry present in pre-romance sparring sessions. It is both defense and attack. Ambiguity of speech assures that both parties can be engaged in flirtatious discourse without the pesky detail of vulnerability.

Poets use linguistic ambiguity to bait their readers. They dangle prismatic words before their audience in order to bloat their artfulness. After all, no one reads poetry for its prescriptive efficiency. We read it to be wooed. We read it because it flirts with us – good poetry, that is. It is the coy “first date” of literature. It refuses to show its hand until we are already devoted to its form. You can’t understand a complex and shaded poem until you devote yourself to dialoguing with it. Again, ambiguity as flirtation.

In simple communication, however, the use of ambiguous language has a thoroughly different connotation. When clear communication is prized, ambiguity is the mark of an ill-equipped, lingually clumsy speaker. These days, it seems that the collective vocabulary is shrinking. Expressions of joy are being melted down to “lol” and “:)”; expressions of surprise, to “omg.” The technological culture is so over simplifying communication, that precise meaning in standard speech is being sacrificed. When succinct, specific vocabulary is not possessed by a speaker, he results to the use of easy, ambiguous language. It’s a reversion to grunts and gestures.

“Bad” now means “good,” “rebellious,” “sad,” “frustrated,” “unskillful,” “mad,” “ill,” and a host of other things. Granted, colloquialisms are fun ways of coloring a language. But when colloquialisms are the most common form of speech, I start to worry that not enough time is being spent on the “a, b, c’s” of vocabulary.

And hey, I’m all for contextual communication and non-linguistic communication, but it scares me a bit when it seems that people are becoming less and less able to say what they truly mean. But I digress. I started writing to discuss flirtation.

The difference between communication that occurs in a flirtatious setting and communication that occurs in war is specificity and duration. In war, one would not say, “Hey, shoot those guys over there near the thing with the stick on top. No, not that one… the other one with the big stick. No, the guys in the weird clothes.” One would offer precise and succinct coordinates and/or thorough description of a target. After all, lives are at stake. While many comparisons can be drawn between mating rituals and the rules of engagement, ambiguity in language is not one of them.

Metaphysics is inherently ambiguous, for it is the exploration of things not easily testable — for every assertion in metaphysics, there is an opposite assertion (as well as hundreds that fall in between). In Christianity, ambiguity is often invaluable. Jesus is frequently ambiguous in his conversations with his disciples in order to compel them to search out his meaning – to partner with him on a heart and spirit level that transcends simple language. In the spiritual arena, the use of ambiguity is an intentional veiling, that is both invitation and requirement. God freely welcomes us to Himself, but we must be willing to SEE and to HEAR. He will not play vending machine for our whims, but asks us to search Him out… to wait on Him… to give Him our ears. In that sense, ambiguity is for our good. It is training. Now, of course, God responds at other times in crystal clear communication, leaving nothing to speculation. Both types of communication are valuable and have their place.

So what’s the point of all this in regard to human interaction? Is ambiguity a precious part of our interactions with one another, or is it a blight on communication? Do we flirtatiously dance about one another with ambiguous language for some good purpose that produces some good result, or is it merely protracted falseness? Why don’t we say what we mean? And should we? I guess my only answer to those questions would be: ambiguity sure is…. interesting.

Let’s Talk about the Kingdom

I’ve been asking myself, what does the Kingdom of God look like? It’s an important question. If you ascribe to the basic biblical tenant that as Christians, we both have the Kingdom inside of us and are called to spread the gospel of the Kingdom until the return of Jesus, then you best get to answering that question. Is it, as some would emphatically espouse, the presence of God’s perfect dwelling place (heaven) invading earth like a magic makeover, undoing millenia of chaos? Is the kingdom of God supposed to look the same before Jesus comes back as after? Are we really the ushers for this kick-butt, heal ‘em all, grab the wheat, fling the tares, get ‘em drunk, bring the fire, theatre production? Ok, too many question marks.

Maybe a more appropriate question, and a better starting place, would be: what is the primary, essential, high-value item of the Kingdom of God?

For that question, we should rewind the tape all the way back to the beginning where we meet some bygone, lovable screw ups – mom and pop: Adam and Eve. In the beginning of Genesis, it seems like they had it all: personal petting zoo, tasty grub, unobtrusive fashions, perpetual wellness, and free reign over history’s sweetest digs. But above all these material benefits, they had the only thing that truly mattered: unmediated communion with their creator. Prior to to the fall, Adam and Eve had no reason to hide from God. He had no reason to be distant from them. The relationship was intact. When they sinned, the greatest loss was not merely material. The gravest consequence was not physical pain, toil, or even their impending death; it was the fracturing of this relationship with their Father. This can be seen in Genesis 3 as they hide in fear when they hear God’s voice. They know their nakedness, their unworthiness, their sin.

Fast forward a bit to Exodus 32-33. Israel has screwed up again. Even though God has delivered his people from bondage, attempting to bring them into the land promised to them – a new garden of sorts, a new experience of his providence and love – they reject Him as Adam and Eve, choosing to worship a shiny bovine like impatient little ingrates. On behalf of the people, Moses goes to the Tent of Meeting to plead with God. God tells Moses that He will still allow the people to go on to the promised land but that He, their Father, would not be leading them. Again, God would temporarily separate Himself from His people because of their sin. Now, you can say a lot of things about Moses, but one undeniable element of his character was his earnestness. He knew that he must have God. He must see God. He must not be separated from God. At that moment, Moses cared little about the promised land (little about the promises, it seems); he didn’t want the benefits if he couldn’t have the benefactor. He declares that if God will not stay with them, he does not want to go. He doesn’t want the kingdom if it doesn’t have the king. In this moment we see a picture of what is missing and what is desperately needed. We see revealed in this dialog, the greatest commodity in the whole of existence: the presence of the Almighty God.

Because God was pleased with Moses and because of their relationship – maybe because Moses truly realized what was important – God saw fit to stay with the people.

Now fast forward to a bustling market-place in 30 A.D. as Jesus heals lame beggars, casts out demons, and generally wows onlookers. One day He chooses to miraculously feed 5,000 hungry listeners with a few loaves of bread a few fish. They’re amazed at the miracle and get it in their mind that this type of power-house would be a great king. This is someone who could overthrow the Romans and get the Jews some payback for years of oppression. And hey, at the very least, they might’ve thought, He could do some healings and feed them when they were hungry.

But was this the Kingdom Jesus came to bring (ref. to Romans 14:16-19)? It says in John 6 that Jesus withdrew from the crowd, for He knew that they meant to make Him their king by force. They misunderstood Him. HE wanted to be their sufficiency, not his miracles, HE wanted to be their portion, not some multiplied seafood, HE wanted to comfort them, not just through healing but through His life. As much as He tried to get this across – through word and deed – they still left Him. A huge number of Jesus’ disciples left after a controversial speech He gave about their need for saving. They wanted the show. They wanted some feel-good stuff. They didn’t want some weirdo telling them to eat his flesh and drink his blood. They didn’t know how badly broken their relationship with God truly was.

They did not understand the Kingdom of God. Or more accurately, they only understood an introductory element to the Kingdom of God.

But do you know who understood the Kingdom? That wonderful zealot, that impetuous quaker, that needy little rock n’ roller, Peter. After the crowds had left and Jesus asked his disciples if they were going to leave too, Peter echoed the heart of Moses back in the Tent of Meeting: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God” (John 6:68-69 ) Peter got it. He knew that he was in the presence of the living God. He knew that in Jesus were the words of eternal life. He knew that nothing… nothing… NOTHING… compared to Jesus. Now of course, Peter screwed up like all of us. He folded when the pressure was on, but Jesus, by his loving kindness, restored His relationship with Peter as we see in the end of John.

It is no coincidence that Peter was the rock upon which the church was built. He understood the essentials of the Kingdom. He knew what needed to be built. Like Moses, like all of us, he was a mess-up, a work in progress, a pretty humble vessel. But he had a hold of what was important: God and His saving love.

If the greatest loss incurred by humanity through the fall was a loss of relationship with God, then the greatest thing gained through the incarnation, death, and resurrection of Jesus was a restoration of that broken relationship. We can now cling to God as Peter did. We can cling as Moses did. We can cling to Him with the knowledge that nothing else matters. We can make Him our everything, counting the rest of our life as cheap in comparison with the incomprehensible value of our repaired relationship with our Abba!

And this — in this child’s humble opinion — is the greatest element of the Kingdom of God: that the King is present and delights in being with his people, in mending their broken relationship with Him, and in being their everything. No number of healings, prophesies, deliverances, or other sundry miracles can compare to a mended intimacy with our Father. They are merely manifestations of that primary thing – that relationship.

As we pray for God’s kingdom on this earth, let us believe that signs and wonders will come! But let us not elevate them as the chief aim or item of the Kingdom of God. For God’s Kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven, we must rabidly lay hold of Him who laid hold of us. We must hold tight with all we are worth. We must let word of this King flow from our lips constantly, that others might hear and be saved – that they might draw near to Him, thereby carrying out the will of the King. We must pray as Jesus prayed:

“Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done
on earth as it is in heaven” (Matthew 6: 9-10).

May we never forget that the Kingdom’s greatest treasure is its King.

On the Subject of Being Paralyzed

A friend asked me tonight as we were sitting under a dingy gray sky at 1:00am, if I ever feel paralyzed by life. I do. I sometimes feel so stuck in the machine that I swear I can hear the gears grinding. I can smell oil, and I can anticipate the moment at which the machine will malfunction and will rocket a seemingly unimportant spring through my left eye-ball, rendering me blind for the rest of my life. Just like that: paralyzed by the inertia of the thing, as counter-intuitive as that sounds. I’m pretty sure my friend was just wondering if I worry about getting a good job and being ready to support a family. I took it to the philosophically meth-ridden level.

After all, I am so wide-eyed aware of my lack of control over this life, that I have little choice but to feel helpless. Call me a sinking paralytic or a dyscalculic mathlete. And as I realized tonight while staring at an uncomfortably blank sky (starless and ominous), I’ve needed to get to this place for 23 years. And I’m still getting there. At this point, I don’t really expect any job, any relationship, any thrill to have a reliable shelf-life. I don’t expect anything to be pure cause and effect. I’m a gen-X kid, so I guess I have to embrace that mysterious x-istential conundrum that ruins the math of things. Right now, I wait for things to fall apart, and I wait for things to be built in their place, and I wait for the pain and the joy that accompany the process.

And before you start thinking I’m a terrible pessimist, I offer this: I’m actually starting to enjoy looking at things this way. And what’s more, I think it’s actually an apropriate interpretation. All of this uncertainty has brought me to a deeper understanding of the glory of God. I don’t see the glory of God most in his omnipotence – for that would be like idolizing a machine. I see the glory of God in his lovingkindness informed by his omnicience. It is only an all-knowing and all-loving God who could facilitate good through what seems to be chaos. When I think the machine is breaking, and I’m doomed to be crushed in its failing parts, I have to pause and realize that the operation of the machine doesn’t really matter all that much. It doesn’t matter how well I can manipulate cause and effect to bogart a good job. It doesn’t matter how old I am when I get married. It doesn’t matter if I lose a leg or if I die. It only matters that as long as I live, I remember that God is good and I’m along for the ride. And when I hurt, it may be his mercy. And when the spring flies into my eye-ball, it may be his grace. And when loved ones go home to him, it may be his love for them and his instruction for me. And when I feel paralyzed, like I can’t control anything – like I can’t make the stars burn through the fog, like I can’t change the world – it only matters that I speak the truth in love and live like I am proud to know Jesus.

So I guess I feel paralized. I feel out of control. I feel wide awake and anxious – like things are about ready to blow.  But I know that it’s of little consequence what happens in this life, only who gets the glory and the love when it’s happening.

Postmodern Nihilism for Minors

Children can be really philosophical these days. It’s usually unintentional. Sometimes it’s a bit scary, though, when they start talking about politics, religion, and what it means to be violent, because it makes you feel like you should have a better handle on these things. The children aren’t giving us enough time to fix our mistakes anymore. They’re discussing the stuff that’s messed up and trying to figure out who broke it, and while they have every right to do so, it’s pretty harsh of them, because it so brutally exposes a painful secret: most adults don’t understand this life thing.

When third graders start talking about presidential candidates and the environment like they really know the difference between party lines, it sounds like they have a neurotic parent shoved down their throat. But it gets really twisted when you realize that it’s not even the parent talking but more accurately, the parent’s parents; or therapy nuggets, or economic ocd, or God-phobia. It’s like this army of over eager, hyper-conscientious believers is being created, and they are now marching down replica streets, punching through antiquated walls with fists they don’t understand. Kids are messed up these days because they’re taught to care without being taught to love. It’s passion gumming itself to death because it has no teeth. It’s a church building without God. It’s a heart pumping air and sounding like a broken vacuum. Kids can spout knowledge like a poetic version of the Pope, but so many lack a reason to live other than inertia or some ultra-young form of pleasure seeking. I really worry that kids are being taught the taste for efficiency and pragmatism over the taste for truth.

Maybe children are not more philosophical these days, maybe they’re just more desperate. Maybe they just more loudly parrot the ethos of their generation like sad robots malfunctioning. There are so many kids who say stuff they don’t mean just so you’ll tell them what’s true. If you want to hurt for a while, look into a kid’s eyes while he’s trying to understand divorce. Talk to one who who plays arbiter for his angry and wounded parents. Listen to a kid who’s dad knows more about stock market fluctuation than parenting. It really hurts when you get to know kids these days. And it also changes you. It makes you want to speak more reliably. It makes you want to wake up without complaining. It makes you want to truly know God and know how to explain why that’s important.

It’s a good thing when you listen to children. But make sure to listen beyond the static that we’ve birthed in them – that stuff that sounds like whining and teen angst and rebellion – and hear the real whisper that’s trying to survive. I hope you hurt every once and a while, because that’s the only way you’ll learn how to love.