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…)

Elegy For An Uncle

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

They dug you out, but no hands reach you now.
Your story is complete.  The tumor pressed you
down in ways no one could defeat and

I despise it.  You would have wanted to
assure me that you’re in a better place;
I want that for you.  But here,

I fight the enemy of your absence.
I can’t get another handshake or hardy laugh.
There is no father, no husband,

no uncle who donned an apron and cooked
chicken halves at picnics on a giant barbecue
he welded in the garage;

no quick joke or story to bring a smile;
no soft voice—the sound of a Vermonter—asking,
well hi John, what’s going on with you?

I have an early memory: you’re on Grandma’s sofa,
snoring loudly; I am only five or six and
a bit afraid of the great rasp.  Now,

I just hurt—God gave you for my Uncle;
I’ve known some love through you—I miss you,
but I’m willing to believe that is good news.

Sidewalks And Signals

I drive on hard and hallowed roads
Until the blue sky stoops, until
My radio receives these bright and
Strong November days. They

Transmit Dylan’s boot leg
Release number eight. The
Buzz of amplifiers rises when he
Breathes. “Once,” he says,

“I had a pretty girl, but she did
Me wrong. Now I’m marching to
The city and the road ain’t long.”
I join the sacred melody; I join

Everyone who moves over these
Highways. We drive, and the
Sidewalks are beside us. We sing,
And the signals bend to find us.

In Tenderness He Sought Me by W. Spencer Walton

Jesus said, “I am the gate for the sheep.  All who ever came before me were thieves and robbers, but the sheep did not listen to them.  I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved” (John 10: 7-9).

In tenderness He sought me,
Weary and sick with sin,
And on His shoulders brought me
Back to His fold again.
While angels in His presence sang
Until the courts of heaven rang.

Refrain:
Oh, the love that sought me!
Oh, the blood that bought me!
Oh, the grace that brought me to the fold,
Wondrous grace that brought me to the fold!

He washed the bleeding sin-wounds,
And poured in oil and wine;
He whispered to assure me,
“I’ve found thee; thou art Mine”;
I never heard a sweeter voice;
It made my aching heart rejoice!

He pointed to the nailprints;
For me His blood was shed;
A mocking crown so thorny
Was placed upon His head:
I wondered what He saw in me
To suffer such deep agony.

I’m sitting in His presence,
The sunshine of His face,
While with adoring wonder
His blessings I retrace.
It seems as if eternal days
Are far too short to sound His praise.

So, while the hours are passing,
All now is perfect rest;
I’m waiting for the morning,
The brightest and the best,
When He will call us to His side,
To be with Him, His spotless bride.

---

On The Early Miscarriages Of Two Children

Death, you feckless enemy.
In vain, you took two children.
You cannot hold them
anymore than I can grip

the wind.  We are good parents.
We will endure miscarriages
and family absences.
We long for the ones taken,

but you are defeated.
Their names—Speck,
and Pickle—were given before,
given because, given, and

you cannot claim them.
You were uninvited, but we
still took our seats for dinner,
with our living kin,

to pray, to see another’s face,
to consider life in a womb
and form a space
between our digits—About

this big?  Yes!  Can you believe
it!?—We do not want for grief.
O Death, you made us weep.
But here, beneath the Wing,

you may not reach.  You’ll never
grasp the strength that forms
the frailest tiny living
human beings.

Help My Unbelief by John Newton

Albert Finney as John Newton in Amazing Grace

I know the Lord is nigh,
and would but cannot pray,
For Satan meets me when I try,
and frights my soul away.
And frights my soul away.

I would but can’t repent,
though I endeavor oft;
This stony heart can ne’er relent
till Jesus makes it soft.
Till Jesus make it soft.

Help my unbelief.
Help my unbelief
Help my unbelief.
My help must come from Thee.

I would but cannot love,
though wooed by love divine;
No arguments have power to move
a soul as base as mine.
A soul so base as mine.

I would but cannot rest,
in God’s most holy will;
I know what He appoints is best,
and murmur at it still.
I murmur at it still.

The Enabler’s Lament

If I should ever stand, it is to
Quick back-over bend.
I say I’m fine, but bear the
marks of torture-from-a-friend.

I want to be courageous, but
I melt like snow in May.
I pray to yet be faithful, then
I fade into the fray.

There is no me, no wall, no tree
To climb above the harm.
There is no time when I will
Reach to shut off the alarm.

This god that I still fashion is
A chain of paper dolls.
This love that I imagine
Holds my hand to let me fall.

Motorcycle Memories: One Day The Graceful Rider Caught Me

I remember the asphalt: how it felt when
I colored outside the lines on a bike.
I remember the rowdy night-spot
Where speed got up to pick a fight.
My bright wheels cannot forget
A full-leather form, the turns,
The quick and careless course, or the
Fateful blur on the periphery.
The hardtop hit like hard luck times.

I recall the throttle: a twist and clutch
Made sudden emblems in the road.
It sounded good, but the ditch stood
Close by; the pavement took a toll.
I think of parking lots that demanded
Wheelies: I never did say no to them.
Close calls, falls, spills and crashes—
Some lay it down, but mine were wrecks.
My graceful arc crossed double lines.

Still, I wouldn’t slow the pace. Then
One day the graceful rider caught me.
How he chased! How his engine raced!
He had new tires and tattoos of fire.
His eyes were like mirrors, and
When I looked, I shattered. But
To every piece he whispered;
For each shard he stood and shouted.
His voice could not be unkind.

His hands, like living stone, never tired.
He made pursuit his standard.
I rolled with bent desires, but
He anticipated every deviation. He
Broke my bones, then mended.
He determined my route. I fled
Until he pierced and purchased, until
He caught me with the look of love—
A look that saw a man born blind.

He gripped when my will failed.
He healed my road-rash knees.
He knew my make and model.
He saw parts no one sees. Now,
I listen as gears make changes,
As rubber on roadway moves me,
As I approach new signs and places,
As chain and sprocket go humbly
Beneath me, and narrow roads unwind.

Beautiful Girl

Beautiful girl, you draw me.
I anticipate. My eyes gaze, like
On a starlit night—they
Rise to your skies and remain.

Though I am sometimes stuck
In the city you still appear, still
Come through. I look for you.
You are more than mere light.

So take me tonight, take me
To that country place. Go with
Me to that dark freedom and
Give me your full glory. Let us

Lie close.  Bring a kiss. Capture
Me with your bright face.
The stars are at the window;
They are drawn by our embrace.

If Home Is Where You Go

If home is where you go; if
It is here you strike accords
Between the sometimes
Angry parties at the table;
If you are able to heed
The bell’s harmonic as
Another round begins,
You stand on solid ground.

If your facades and pulp
Fictions hit the trash bin
By the gate before you
Stump over the step
And through the door;
If home is where you log
The daily lore, your
Feet are on the floor.

If this is where you laugh,
Cry, get surprised, listen,
Touch, desire someone’s eyes,
Believe that they believe
That you are wise, then
You are wise. If you
Think of home as light,
As sanctuary, as air, or as

A beacon in the night that
If, by doom, went out would
Make your knees buckle
And your bones break—
If you would ache, like
A tooth full of decay or
A back after a long day—then
You are a sage and a seer;

You are a lovely footed
Messenger in flight.

Three Words Get Stuck

Three words get stuck in the parking lot
when I’m standing there with you at
the end of the night. I call up
the courage gods, but cannot hold your gaze.

They arrive to have a laugh, not to
lend a hand. I nod my head and blink while
an antenna points at the stars, frowns
at me from behind your shoulder.

I resend the message—Cannot execute!
Someone! Send a dash of spice, a pinch of
salty courage action!—while earthbound
compliments drop from my lips, unseasoned.

I will unlock my full flavor and let you
relish my delicious passion. You’d like
a little nibble of my heartfelt treat…And
then again, I may just fumble for my keys.

I reach for car door, for words that will
have to do. Awkward silence breaks: unsavory
sounds formed with the mouth. My heart
races, but won’t budge from that parking space.

Faith, Hope, Love

Faith, awaking from a dream,
Calms the wind and stills our screams. It
Stands, rebuking raging waves and
Speaks that we may be freed slaves.

We stay here in crumbling haunts and
Crumple ‘neath desire’s taunts. We’re
Offered playground swings on chains, but
From the window watch the rains.

Hope, a hungry fire starts.
Sparks fly up and burn our hearts. We
Long for heritage and glory; to be
Great heroes in the story.

Our pallid lips quaff bitter brews. We
Search the dregs for any clues. The
Vestige of our stumbling path
Reveals a way that leads to wrath.

Wearing bold and wild colors,
Setting blazing wild fires,
Love, though we may never say it,
Bests our fine and whited harlot.

Yet we, our remedy, resist. We
Turn away our lover’s kiss. We
Hesitate before the altar,
Scorning freedom’s final offer.

The Day We Met

We intersected almost
by accident it seems.
You showed up on a Sunday afternoon
in a red pants suit with
large red buttons.

At the end of my searching
there you sat
in my living room
on a shabby plaid sofa with
huge flabby cushions.

You perched on the edge
with knees together
smiling and listening while
someone discussed Leviticus with
great and steady earnest.

I failed to hear his words
that day, but plunged into
your eyes and studied
your lipstick with thoughts of
giant ripe strawberries . . .

and summer and the crazy
way love need not break down
the door, but walks on in
invited by a friend with
little word of warning.

You stepped out to get some air
and I followed your aroma
to stand and catch my breath
near you, my flesh burning with
tiny hidden fires.

Your voice said kindness, covered
sadness, and gave me to wonder if
I could be the man who stood
as your protector and the keeper of your
smallest secrets.

Your long fingers reached
into me and left their prints
on everything, like some unseen child that
crawled into my heart with chocolate and
a bit of mischief.

Valentine’s Day, 2008