A large brown dog’s rear end, visible

through the chain link, says, do not come in.
She perks, moves from sight, then
appears again: wide jaw and dark eyes
heeled behind the coverall jeans of
a sun burnt man, her master.

She waits while he checks the gate.
Their long shadows cross the earthen lot as
a flatbed truck backs up, stops,
grinds to first, and turns to blacktop.
A red-dirt flag of dust unfurls and

worn out tires rest in regal heaps.

The two friends walk to a yellow trailer.
He fills her bowl from a spigot
and places himself in a lawn chair
beneath an oak’s vast arms.  She laps,
then settles on a smooth bare spot.

He lights a cigarette and leans back.
Her gray muzzle drips and
eyes begin to shut as

kudzu vines stretch their broad leaves over
a crumpled blue Volkswagen, on its side,

unseen, in a corner of her yard.

Between us, on a tabletop of glass,
a working hand becomes a hammer.

The silver paths beneath me rise, they brighten and sustain;
and I, by measured stride, rejoin their whited old refrain.

Amid old friends, a working hand
comes down hard.  Fear falls on the land,
as a fist becomes a hammer,
a glass tabletop to shatter.
A man, afraid, will take a stand

when, not according to his plan,
he receives a humble brand
and is loath to drop the matter
amid old friends.

Shards sing out how rage will expand
into violence, will demand,
with a loud rattle of anger
and a bang of bad behavior,
that we heed a fool’s reprimand
amid old friends.

3.  The Violence Bearer

To recap, there is no virtue in me that changed the meaning of violence in my life.  But there is Jesus, who was subjected (in humble reliance on his Father’s goodness and loving-kindness) to the collective brutality of every sin.  On the cross He absorbed every violence that ever was, and ever would be.  By doing this he enabled the forgiveness of every sin (past, present, and future) for everyone who would call on him for forgiveness.

After all, every violation of God’s good law is ultimately against God and his son Jesus (and the Holy Spirit).  The historical figure of King David makes this very clear in his response to the prophet Nathan’s rebuke of him for killing Uriah and taking Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba.  (Continue…)

Your second death, this.  The first you cheated—
buried alive, then resurrected to describe
paralysis beneath a cave-in.

2.  The Denial Of Violence

It was in a seminary lecture on violence that God spoke, quietly and clearly, “John, violence is a problem for you.  You need some help.”  I went to my professor after class and told him about some of my failures.  Later, we met and he told me to participate in an anger management group and other counseling if I wanted to continue taking classes at that school.

I was embarrassed and alarmed again.  But I followed his recommendation and began to see how my angry, vengeful violence could be changed; that, in fact, the very meaning of my violence could be changed.  (continue)

1.  The Violence Of The Cross

Late one night, over Dunkin Donuts and coffee, I made this offhanded comment about the crucifixion to my college roommate, “At least he [Christ] didn’t have to hang there too long.”  My friend was indignant, “What?!  John, let me tell you a little bit about a crucifixion!” And he went on to describe the horrors of the cross in great detail.  Everything about a cross-death was designed to cause maximum suffering.  It is, perhaps, the cruelest tool of human torture ever devised.  The word excruciate is derived from Latin words that mean “out of the cross.”

At some point during the description, I cut him off.  I was embarrassed and alarmed.  (continue…)

Early morning, the lake is rising.
A shroud of mists veils
sullen surface tensions and conceals
murky passions.

Generous, drab, the lake donates
an evolving portrait:
The Triumphant Return
(of wind and light, cloud and song).
Strains of “No Night There” are ringing
twixt the glints and ruffles of the offered painting.

…not a creature failed–
No Blossom stayed away…
~Emily Dickinson

Mockingbird, where do you begin?
What deep source feeds your spring?
No matter,
I will listen—
Flawless chirps and whistles.
You, a feathered prophet,
a truth-teller;
I, beguiled and beguiler.
Do you have a word for me?
Please allow me this:
Your name does not befit.
To scorn or imitate is not your wish.
How about Dickinsonbird?…

So great is your reward.
Fly to a high branch.
Your drab plumes lift my head.
Though I am a little hurt,
I cannot deny you are fine.
You glance at me and I stare,
surprised by each pensive, lofty line.
Then, wiser,
I once more spread my wings
against the counsel sky.
I do believe.
It’s with my given voice
I will finally be content.