Broken

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

A man wants his way.
He won’t take no.

Blood, though not spilled, boils.
Shards ring out and sing

the ways we will not mend—
how the heart, like a fractal,
repeats a pattern of breaks
and splits when magnified.

My heart rages.  It pushes blood
along a crooked line of strife

until I heed the rattle-crack
and attend the bang of anger.

The embittered rackets rise until
the broken pieces lay at rest between us.

The Violence Bearer

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…)

Suffering: A Poem To Joel Osteen

Joel Osteen you are a Champion.
Even your name sounds like
esteem.  You are reassuring,
unable to offend, and I cannot
help but like you.  Yet I wonder,
where do you put pain?  You
manage headaches and American
depression, but what about big
suffering, like that mentioned in
Hebrews five, verse seven?  Are
people who obey God happy and
content?  Sinless Jesus learned
obedience by what he underwent.

Well meant are your admonitions.
You believe in good decisions and in
Jesus by whom promises are given.
Don’t forget, as Christians, we
confess best intentions as hankerings
to be a mannequin or a magician.
Listen, one pastor said, you’ll know
you’ve encountered God when
you limp.  We are inexorable.
Happiness feels foreign.  Oh, to be
sleek like plastic, to live with
faith-expectant.  If only our ragged,
souls were not so bent.

Words are power, but
we don’t hear them.  Coaxing
can’t turn us, we must be caught!
We have a worship problem.
We won’t receive a gift until
our hands are shaking.
Ask the poet, ask Bob Dylan—
behind every beautiful thing
there is persistent aching.
Where are your sick, your sad,
your malcontents?  We read
your books to become smooth and
stiff.  Prop us up behind plate glass.
We want to be convinced.  But
we must

ask ourselves, do we love the poor;
do we pay attention?  Imagine
you visit the slums of Kolkata with
Mother Teresa.  You are
both smiling.  She sees
the people, you look at them.
You stand straight, full of promise.
She is crooked from leaning into
their faces.  You want to
help them, but you’re stuck in that
position.  The masses are borne up by
her cracks and creases.
Gleaming teeth shame them.  So

let’s close our mouths for a season.
You’ve built an empire on
your congenial smile.  Swap it
every so often, for a look of
desperation.  Do you want people to
be like you or be forgiven?
If the idol fell you would
get bruised, but you might
stop encouraging belief in
a god who gives his best only
to those who follow the rules.
That god is ruthless and his
face is never at rest.

Elephant

The elephant, the thick-heavy
Wrinkle, shows no movement.  He
Stands in the room like a defendant.
Like boots put in a box, he may
Never walk again.

I’d like to read, or watch TV, but
Everywhere is his—the crushed
Sofa, the love seat; there’s
No place to be—so, busily,
We make the elephant a pet.

Busily, busily we ignore; and
He remains.  Once,
I reach around him.  Twice,
You try to find me and (I know)
There’s almost-absolutely-no-one

There.  The ghost of my shadow
Tells you to not worry the beast;
To not even think of mice or
Make a move that might disrupt
The elephanty peace.

And though we want to forgive,
We cannot forget HIM.  So,
We go on tiptoe; and he stands
There: a sad-sturdy brow and
Four enormous feet.

The Pastor-Beggar

The pastor-beggar drifted
‘cause the way is never clear when
the chips and blows and
glances form an idol out of fear.
He

bobbed along in bluster
till he almost blew away.
The ones they call his demons
said he held a hand
to play. So he

laid down his last dollar, kept
an ace down in a hole, till
the queen of hearts came
steady on and seared him
like a coal. Now his heart is

shreds and tatters and
his heart is filled with ruth where
the teeth of self-
deception gnawed
the corners of the truth…still,

the broken plate of comfort
that once served his precious
wish must, in time, become
a banquet on a fine and
costly dish. And

the pastor will be proven
by the testing of the years
as a beggar who gained
riches; as a king who
reigned with tears.