Poems of Passion Week

The Stones Talk It over
… if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out. Luke 19:40

All was quiet
on the street
and in the city hall.
Why are they silent?
a small rock asked
a boulder.
Why don’t the people
praise God?
Don’t they see
what we do?
Doesn’t the light
from the northern skies
strike wonder,
ignite fire
in their bones
as it does in ours?

Beats me,
said the boulder.
Let’s sing.


Asleep
Couldn’t you keep watch for one hour? Mark 14:37

I understand.
Fasting for a friend going through a serious operation,
I wake up in my easy chair and wonder
about the weakness of my resolve.
I went to sleep three times during last Sunday’s
sermon, hoping no one saw my drooping head
and the upright jerk when I came to.
Before majesty, in the face of glory, before agony,
here am I, curled up on the rug,
oblivious.


I Am He
When Jesus said, “I am he,” they drew back and fell to the ground. John 18:5

I am he is the seismic center.
It spreads in expanding rings.
The bodies fall outward,
circle a setting sun.
Torches, lanterns, weapons,
a bloody face, arrest
and betrayals spin,
but the center holds.
Even so, night deepens.
Even so, this unbearable cold.


No Way
And he went outside and wept bitterly. Luke 22:62

Lord, there is no way I can make poetry from this story.
No way I can barter with Judas, you as my merchandise.
I can’t sit at the table with your disciples, drink your blood, eat your body, even in metaphor.
I also love to pray in gardens, but this bloody sweat makes no sense.
I’m angry at the kiss of death and the rough seizure with you refusing resistance, at the mockery and the insults.
And I’m dumbfounded when you look at me, just as you looked at Peter.
Forgive me.

 
The Politician’s Question
Pilate said to him, “What is truth?” John 18:38 (NKJV)

What is truth?
the politician asks,
not sticking
around for an answer.
The question hangs
in the air while
the man born
to be king awaits
his coronation
in silence.


Cowards
But they kept shouting, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” Luke 23:21

Like beach volleyball
played with a live coal,
Pilate and Herod
toss him back and forth.
His innocence scorches.
As the crowd grows
angry and restless,
they drop the coal.
The crowd wins.
Jesus loses.
(The whole world wins.)


From His Side
… one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water. John 19:28-42

Out of the pierced side
of the God who is dead
flow all the terrors
of all the nights
the rapes the abductions
the children lost and
the mothers mourning
sirens and sleeplessness
thunder in far off places
the confusion of the archangels
and all my tears, all my sorrows
carried in the stream
that flows from his side.

Blessed are the poets of peace: poems of the Beatitudes, part 3

 

 Blessed Are the Pure in Heart
(for they will see God)
Matthew 5:8

Blessed are those who see the best,
who refuse to judge vagrant or neighbor
without hearing their stories,
who do not claim in their hearts
to love their enemies
while training to shoot them.
Inner and outer person tango,
keeping perfect time,
even when no one is watching.
They hold the treasure
of an undivided heart
that seeks nothing less
than to love God and serve neighbor.
Their bandages have fallen off.
No cataracts obstruct.
With heart and eyes wide open
they see God.


Blessed Are the Peacemakers
(for they will be called children of God)
Matthew 5:9

Blessed are the poets of peace,
word artisans who craft songs for the market,
the road, and the gathering places.
Those who stride the in-between spaces
and fill them with dahlias,
who wander the ruins
scattering seeds for tomorrow.
Blessed are the poets of peace,
the seers and sayers, dreamers and doers,
lovers of syllable and sound.
Foolish as children, all of them.
Children of God.

Blessed Are Those Who Are Persecuted
(for theirs is the kingdom of heaven)
Matthew 5:10

The blessed gather in ordinary houses
all across China. They keep the curtains drawn.
Their ranks are rumored to be in the millions.
In Turkey the blessed disappear
without warning, leaving the children bereft.
Egyptian jails host the blessed.
The Russian blessed still worship
in ancient cathedrals,
but they keep their voices low.
Across Northern Africa, in Southeast Asia,
Afghanistan, and Iraq,
the numbers of the invisible blessed grow.
Is it joy?
Do they begin to see what they own?

A longing that burns in the gut: poems of the Beatitudes, part 2

Blessed Are the Meek
(for they will inherit the earth)
Matthew 5:5

I was a shy child
and an awkward adolescent.
In a group of over four people
I was the silent presence,
mute and stupid.
I’ve outgrown most of that
but I still feel the pain of the meek.

Not likely to get ahead in life
or claim the American Dream,
they give up their place in line
and end up sitting in the back.
They never rush the door on Black Friday.
You never hear them asking questions
at the end of a lecture
or see them marching the streets in protest.
They will never be CEOs
or own prime property.

The thought of the meek
inheriting the earth
is patently ridiculous.
Your up-side-down
spun-around kingdom
dizzies me, Lord.
Makes me want
to be a child again,
get on the merry-go-round.


Blessed are Those Who Hunger and Thirst for Righteousness
(for they will be filled)
Matthew 5:6

Hunger and thirst are radical words.
Words for earthquake victims,
and war refugees who lack clean water,
for those who wait outside their tents
for the aid vans that may or may not come.

Don’t ever tell me you’re starving to death,
my mom told me, ‘cause kids in China are.

Is it possible to so hunger for personal holiness
or social justice that the longing burns in the gut,
makes you useless for normal endeavors,
abnormal, obnoxious to your peers?

I long for things to be made right,
things inside me and things around the world,
but the longing is short-lived.
I can go for stretches of time
with no thought of holiness,
no remembrance of immigrants or abuse victims.
I’m much too bland for extremes.

Forgive me.
Make me abnormal and obnoxious. Hungry.

Blessed Are the Merciful
(for they will be shown mercy)
Matthew 5:7

Blessed are the merciful
for they will be hoodwinked,
bamboozled, and taken advantage of
from every possible angle.
Blessed are the merciful;
their bleeding hearts
and inappropriately generous ways
will keep wealth and fame
forever out of reach.
Blessed are those who weep
for what no one else even sees.

Blessed are the merciful
in the topsy-turvy kingdom of heaven
for against all odds
they will swim in an ocean of mercy.
They will find themselves at home
in a universe of wonders.
They will rest in love.

This rag-tag crowd: poems of the Beatitudes, part 1

 The Mountainside

Now when Jesus saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside…. Matthew 5:1

I love your classroom, Lord.
When I was a kid in Ramona Elementary School,
in that old yellow building just off Main Street,
I would gaze out the row of windows,
longing for recess, wanting the freedom
of grass and trees and open skies.
Your outdoor classroom sounds perfect.
I imagine myself in that crowd,
sitting on the grass, looking up at you
there on the side of the hill,
your voice clear and strong
in nature’s amphitheater.
I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

 Blessed Are the Poor in Spirit
(for theirs is the kingdom of heaven)
Matthew 5:2

My friend Sarah is perpetually depressed.
She whines and simpers so much
it's hard to be around her.
Can I talk to you? is prologue
to at least an hour of listening
to her litany of woes: parents
who didn’t like her, a failed
marriage, a son’s suicide,
and a grown daughter who, like me,
doesn’t enjoy her company.
Poor in spirit seems a mild description.
So how is Sarah blessed?
How does she possess the kingdom of heaven?

For that rag-tag crowd of people gathered
around you on the hill, and for all us
pilgrims gathered now around you in Spirit,
we hear you tell us, The kingdom of heaven
is at hand! It’s here! It’s available
for anyone, especially the most unlikely.
It’s waiting for Sarah
to enter and be blessed.

Blessed Are Those Who Mourn
(for they will be comforted)
Matthew 5:4

The earthquake in Turkey and Syria
dominated the news for weeks.
Images of villages decimated,
tall apartment buildings brought down,
and in the midst of rubble, the people.
A mother, tears tracking the dirt on her face,
tells the cameraman, I’ve lost everything. She has.
Grief hangs heavy in the dust.

Hope is scant among survivors who have lost
loved ones, homes, their means of making a living,
and all sense of security in a world
gone dark and dangerous.
How are these the faces of the blessed?
Who dares tell them, Be happy;
comfort is coming.

So many questions, such complexity
under the surface of this simple statement.
You call for human feet and human hands
at the service of your kingdom, but
how can I be a part of what I barely believe?
How can I say to you, Here am I; send me?
To them, Be blessed?

Traveling light: poems of the Incarnation (5)

Good Soil
… other seed fell on good soil…. Matthew 13:8

I’m all the soils.

Sometimes I’m so flat and dull
that the seed of God’s word to me
becomes bird food. A flutter
of distracting feathers
and everything’s gone.

Other times I’m rocky and full of thorns.
Prickly, temperamental,
and entirely entitled.
I block the sun.

Only you can turn me
into good soil, Lord.
Little by little
soften my heart.
Render it tender
and open.
Give me eyes that see
and ears that hear.
Able to abide in you
and bear fruit
for the world.


Don’t Cry
When the Lord saw her, his heart went out to her…. Luke 7:13

When my daughter was just a few weeks old
and cried, her three-year-old brother
would urge me to there-there Kristin,
there-there being the natural
thing to say while patting
a crying baby’s back.
When Jesus encountered
the weeping widow accompanying
the corpse of her only son,
my version of the Scriptures records
him telling her, Don’t cry.
In the vernacular he well
could have put a hand on her shoulder
and said There-there.
My baby girl grew up.
She no longer cries for her supper.
The widow, too, stopped crying
when Jesus restored her son.
And I hear the God of all comfort
sometimes telling me, There-there.

Weeds or Wheat
… [the] enemy came and sowed weeks among the wheat…. Matthew 13:25

Please, Lord,
deliver me from the arrogance
of judging which of my acquaintances
is wheat and which is a weed.

You get to decide that.


Traveling Light
Take nothing for the journey except a staff.  Mark 6:8

When we left for a term of missionary service,
we counted two suitcases per person,
plus carry-ons and travel bags.
We shipped the crates separately.
I would calculate the kids’ ages
three years in advance and purchase
appropriate clothes and toys.
And books! Can’t forget our resources!
Their weight drove up the shipping costs
but aren’t missionaries supposed to be poor?
Being prepared was crucial
and making sure our kids
(who were not called) were well provided for.
We never even bothered to pack a staff.

  

Refugees: Advent poems 4

 The Star

… the star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. Matthew 2:9

Strange travelling star,
you baffled the magi.
They followed you,
anxious to solve your mystery.
You continue to baffle.
How could you have led
the travelers from Jerusalem
to Bethlehem? How could you
have stopped over a specific house
where a mother nursed
her baby? Were their instruments
so sophisticated?
Were you a comet
flying low and slow,
on a special mission?
Are you a metaphor
for how hard it still is
to follow the Light?
And how possible?

Refugees
“He got up, took the child and his mother during the night and left for Egypt. Matthew 2:14

They fled in the night. Warned in a dream,
they had little time to sort and pack. They grabbed
what they could, bundled the baby,
and quietly slipped down the alleys
and out of town. The trek across the desert
was brutal, water at a premium.
Egypt was a strange far place to them. 
Did they experience resistance at the border?
Did Egypt have a policy of mercy for those seeking political asylum?
Maybe they found an unguarded spot and slipped across the border
unseen. Once inside, where did they stay?
Did they find room in some foreign inn?
Years later, back home in Palestine,
did Jesus remember his refugee days?
Even now does he have a place in his heart for others
who flee across deserts and borders, seeking a place to call home?
No doubt.

 

Peasants and Astronomers: Advent poems 3

 Peasants and Scholars
There were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks by night. Luke 2:8-22

Not one angel,
which would have been startling enough,
but a numberless host
delivered the message
to this community of sheep-herding peasants.
Overwhelmed by the information
and its bearers, they nonetheless
engaged their rationality
once silence had been restored.
Such a message begged verification.
They left their fields
to do field research
in the town of Bethlehem.
The investigation bore fruit.
They saw for themselves
that the news was true,
although it would be years
for the evidence of its meaning
to be forthcoming. Even so,
they left research behind
for the moment, joyfully
reported their findings
to the wider community
and praised God, voices ringing
in the new day’s dawning

Ancient Astronomers
We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him. Matthew 2:2

They had been waiting
and watching—for what, they
weren’t sure. When at last
the distant sun throbbed in the west,
it drew them like a lover.
They left their towers and set out,
trekking through desert
and mountain pass.
The star led them
to the backwaters of the empire
where they discovered,
not a new land,
but an invisible kingdom.
They gave their gifts, worshipped,
and began the journey home,
guarding the secret.
Nothing would ever again be the same.