Compartments

The glory of hope
lures us,
makes cowards of us,
leaves us to squirm in darkness
and unbearable light.
Can we give thanks for such unease?
Can we be grateful for our need?

The choice is ours to make.
When we run out of options,
the next door
waits.

The Repairman
sands off the rust,
lubricates the handle --
are we ready?
What could happen
if we believe
that God will not
deceive?

The Mystery of Healing

We are designed to be
self-healing,
but results vary.

A macho man can die
from an infected thumb,
a cancer-riddled crone
may carry on for decades.

Sometimes God seems to take
a special interest.
When people get better
unexpectedly,
we ask:
Miracle -- or misdiagnosis?

There must be rules,
but how do we apply them?

Despite the propaganda,
"only believe"
is not a magic key.

Faith runs deeper than placebos.

Outcasts

The outcast barges in,
unclaimed, unwanted, resented, alone.
Clouds of disapproval.
Whispers. Insults. Shouts.
Her breaking heart pays no attention.
She hurls herself at Jesus' feet.
"Help, Lord. Mercy!
Whatever I have done,
let vengeance fall on me,
but spare my daughter.
She's just a child --
her whole life ahead --
I did not nurture her to be
a tabernacle for demons."

Jesus looks down from infinite distance.
His words are harsh,
but his eyes tell a different story.

"I am here for the Chosen.
I cannot give the children's bread to dogs."

Murmurs of approval.

She gasps, then withers.
"Then give me the dregs, the leavings,
what they refuse.
Look around -- not all are eager.
Some eat the bread of life,
but others spit it out.
If I am a dog,
let me lick at crumbs under the table."

Jesus smiles.
"A faithful dog
loves more than a treacherous child.
Your faith will be rewarded.
Go! Your daughter is well."

Dismissed, she backs away,
then turns towards the door.
Hard stares follow her.
No one wishes her luck.

On the street,
her feet move faster and faster,
breath gasping, heart pounding,
mind roiling doubt and hope.

Her home seems quiet,
ordinary,
no place for a miracle.
Her daugher is asleep.

Gently, fearfully,
the outcast touches her child's shoulder.
The girl awakens, stretches, and smiles.
Her eyes are clear.
"Mother!
I had such a wonderful dream.
God held me in his arms
and told me I am his."

Torrents of tears,
living water,
new life.
Outcasts no longer.
Who are the clean, the chosen?
God, and only God, decides.

Buzz Words

I've dutifully memorized
the holy buzz words.

If they don't work for me,
am I going to hell?

What if
I had to watch
my family being murdered,
and then endure
gang rape
by jeering soldiers?

Would I see the human
desperate pain
in their hard eyes?
Could I love them
in God's name?
Could I believe
in love at all?
Where would God
be in all this?

If I falter,
God is still God.
If I turn away,
God's love is the same.
It's not up to me
to keep the
galaxies in order.
I can't even add
a millimetre
to my stature.

It's not up to me.
I don't like that,
but it's all I have.

When Love Meets Love

They make it sound so easy.
But Jesus said, "Count the cost."

First the plow breaks up the land,
then the harrow breaks up the lumps.
Then it is planting time.

The seed waits in damp darkness.
seemingly abandoned,
surrounded by worms and shit.
Finally, it dies.

Then Life begins.

Is there an alternate route?

If truth be told,
the narrow path
of crucified love
holds no appeal for me.
Let's leave that to the super-saints!

Being a holy head-liner
has its appeal,
but what if it costs
my daily ease?

But there's a problem.
What's the alternative?
Sooner or later,
everything else
rusts into dust.
End of story.
Boredom and futility.

Like addictions:
-- so much fun at first,
soon savage taskmasters
that give nothing back.

ABBA: There is a way that seems good to a man,
but it leads to death.

All that is left in the end is
to surrender the grime-covered fragments--
"Daddy fix, please?"

The narrow road
(the one Jesus mentioned)
looks so much harder
at the beginning,
when we worry, count the cost.
In retrospect,
it looks quite different.
We are flooded
with endless gratitude
for all You have done
in us and
through us.

Our lives here must mean something.
If not, why would You give them to us?
Why would You bother invading our existence?

I Need Your Help

ABBA: I need your help.

ME: Really?

ABBA: Really. I work through my creatures.

ME: But why bother, when You can do everything on Your own?

ABBA: I did not create you to be sterile ornaments,
or household pets to be exploited.

ME: Not pets or slaves, but friends.
When I read that,
I didn't know what to make of it.

ABBA: Live the friendship and learn from it.
Otherwise, I will always be a mystery to you.

No Exit

Wherever I go,

there I am.

My past,

even what I can't

recall--

there I am.

Every scar,

every question,

every tangled web--

there I am.

Can't I change my skin,

lighten my load?

What's wrong with

love and laughter,

simple tasks,

easy nights?

I'm so tired

of dragging

these burdening tales

behind me

like Bo-Peep's sheep.

I don't believe airplanes can fly

I don't believe
that airplanes can fly.

And yet,
I feel more comfortable
in a jet
than in a car.

Four times, I've survived
colliding cars,
but never a plane crash.

Seek and ye shall seek

Gods that are seen
are illusions.
Signs and wonders puff us up.

What are we waiting for?
Nothing that is not already ours.

Ecstasy is not the key;
grasp the moment,
find eternity here.

Fruitless to strain our eyes
scanning the horizon:
the Kingdom is in me, in you,
in seekers and mystics and skeptics,
in all.

This is too easy,
so we mistrust;
Grace begets grace
while we limp,
lost and determined,
through mazes of distortion,
seeking ourselves.