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It is surprising to me that wherever you go, you can hear birds.
And they live their lives without a grocery store. They are wild, and yet, they are among us. And yet we are a world away When it comes to things like faith. Still, they condescend to grace us with the song Of simple trust. Always. Always. It chirps. It’s there in almost every outside moment And passes through every cracked And open window, A constant reminder That no one need fret unseen tomorrows. And yet, how infrequently we listen!
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Why is Christ so compelling?
Because nobody is keeping the law. We appeal to the law all the time When things go really bad. We insist that THOSE people are wrong And that we need to get back to moral absolutes. But that’s not what we really mean Or what we really want. And when we look close enough, We discover that our choices beguile us. We, each of us, have swallowed the culture’s poison. We all are dead or dying by degrees Unless we’re not. And there is the very case for Christ - In the fact that some of those Who do no measure up Are actually alive, Alive to His very voice That whispers out of darkness unto life. And you know them when you meet them. They are those who have found a King Unseen. They are those who wait and listen and obey To spite their imperfection. Be still and wait upon the unheard voice to speak.
The world is running to the banner of MORE While the children of Silence Wait peacefully listening Around the standard Of ENOUGH. Value what you have.
What does that mean? I don’t know. But I see that there are Two spirits that rise up in me. One thinks that something’s lacking And that we must go out and find it. The other, and it is by far the quietest, Says that we have enough. The first would spend our means On nets to catch the two birds in the bush While the last would forsake such dreams For the one we already have. Say OK to the still small voice.
And say no to the loud voices and the rush. The night is still dark
And the generator running And you are there in the darkness Reconsidering, perhaps, the truth that is your life. And miles away, the light is still on as I sit here waiting up for you. There is a razor's edge between telling the truth and being kind.
God help me to walk the razor’s edge. On the night when the Great Hurricane blew,
I came down to the bay to find you wailing inconsolably, And knowing that there was nothing I could do but love you, I grabbed the rope and held you fast As the storm pushed you further out to sea. It pushed and pushed And I tried with all my might. But the storm was pushing you out of sight. And the wind blew, and the lightning flashed, And the rain beat down upon me relentlessly. But still, I held fast the chord upon the end of which was you Even though God only knew if you were there. And the rope tore at my hands. And the darkness of the night crept in as if To promise I had lost you in the night. But still I held you fast. I held long after the storm had passed. And the people walked along the bay and laughed As if to mock the man who stood there. And the years rolled on Until finally they stopped noticing. And the summer sun baked down upon me And dried me out and cracked my skin until I was no more than a dead statue to most. And they wondered at the unplaqued monument. Some brought roses, and the city Erected a little rod iron fence. And the years rolled on Till now, finally, I see you coming back, A little dot upon the horizon. And I wonder if you'll recognize me. Or will you see the stone, the figurine, The thing that you were told I am. But I promise there is life beneath the crusty shell. Just come and breathe upon me, And the scent of your essence Will bring me back to life. For it's you that I've been waiting for all along. I used to insist upon only glory stories for my life,
But that was when I claimed it for myself. I now realize that there are no unimportant tales In God’s great saga. Our successes and our failures Each serve up invaluable lessons For those who watch from veiled portals Waiting their turn to play a part. My mistakes are precious to me now.
Thank God they were allowed. There are ways in which I still have not been tempted.
But I do not worry about that. He has seen me through My yesterdays. And I trust him with tomorrow. I caught a ride on the rail tonight.
The sun was setting and I thought To find a place to bed down. I left town headed west Toward the setting sun And within a short time The train track crept up on the side of the road And I looked up to see a train moving alongside, It was keeping time, or I kept time with it. It was unexpected, slightly surprising, comforting, The box cars silhouetted by the evening colors. And the road and train veered together right. I had only planned to find an empty field outside of town. But the train and the colors hooked me and pulled me along. A mile, five miles, ten miles. The road and track stayed together Till finally, it curved and passed above me on an overpass. What a beautiful ride! What a beautiful sight! A ride upon the rails tonight. We were born for adversity,
And to face this last great tribulation, And to be marred and crushed under the weight of it. But we were not born unto the hell of fear and doubt. And though they cling to us the day-long And would destroy our very souls, We say to our eyes “Look up, eyes, and see the unseen things That will arise when death has had its way And we come forth in white robes Unto the liberation of all those Who believed in the things they could not see unto the end. I am willing to risk heresy
For the freedom and liberation That comes from allowing each person To hear the voice of God for him or herself. It is better than the dogma that binds men to dead forms. Volume will overcome imperfection.
In other words, do it more Whatever IT is, And you’ll eventually win, Somehow, someway, somewhere. You have no idea how little I care about your sprockets,
Nor how fast I can turn ‘em out on your machine. But the whole big thing might matter just a little If I could only see the woman smile As she rolls her window down. Then perhaps, I’d care, just a little. Maybe it would help me believe That all of this means something. But I can’t see past the metal Nor the wheel that turns the days around And squeezes out another carefully measured dollar Into my silent bank account Without a word, without a look, without even The feel of your sweaty palm As the money passes From your hand Into mine. And so, one day soon, I’ll move on. These places are all the same. But you knew that. You knew that my allegiance was temporary, And you planned for the day when I would leave and be replaced By another just the same. Maybe next I’ll try a restaurant. And there I’ll brew up pots of beans. I’ll cut tomatoes, and chop up salad greens And wrap them up in fine burritos. And, now and then, I’ll look out, To see the people smile And listen as they Compliment the establishment. I am a paradox.
I have been since my youth. Wherever I go, I do not fit. I do not fit with the higher-ups. I do not fit with the lower-downs. And yet, I kind of fit with the higher-ups Until you get to know me better. And I kind of am a lower-down When see the place I live. I am more comfortable with those Who are lost or on the fringes, At least for a while, Though I don’t imbibe In the liberties of their station. And I can fool the higher-ups Into believing I am one of them, At least for a while. Sooner or later they realize That I do not embrace the dogma That raises them up to their lofty station. And from then on they see me as dangerous. And it’s ok. I don’t mind being what I am. It just means that I have a hard time Finding a place where I can settle down.  Dome Valley - a tiny warmth within highlights the sign
That marks the turnoff from the southbound highway. But I don’t turn. I keep going toward a familiar metropolis. And the next morning I find out that the person I seek Is half an hour East. That is further than I thought. I board the interstate and drive. The suburbs stretch out Mile after mile, But then begin to thin As I rise, rise, upon the back Of some small range Of mountains. I crest the summit And again see a sign - Dome Valley. Something swells within me as I gaze down Upon the green fields of lettuce and kale. And it wraps me up in the sweet knowing That I have again found the sheltering cloud and fiery pillar. Thank you, dear God, that this is home for a while And that I have a work to do here A person to love and find And a healing to receive As I rest beneath The canopy That you spread over all those Who keep moving toward the holy place. A note to myself:
The vital thing is to publish. To finish. And if that’s the goal, Then the writing will bend itself to that aim. It is a strategy for those of us who get lost along the way. I am back out on the BLM,
A few hours, a night. I had forgotten how peaceful. The stark difference strikes me. It could be the ocean, Or a mountaintop, Or an empty grassy plain, It would be the same So long as it was wild and unclaimed. It’s so much easier here. A place that nobody owns. I knew a man who lived far out on the BLM Where no one would notice. Perhaps this is why. I need this, My family needs this, The world needs this, A wild place that nobody claims To be alone with God And the silence. You don’t have to denounce your past
To embrace your newfound passion. They are one thing in the end. And he who denounces Will continue to denounce. But he who embraces it all with gratitude, Will be added upon forever and ever. You don’t have to denounce your past
To embrace your newfound passion. They are one thing in the end. And he who denounces Will continue to denounce. But he who embraces it all with gratitude, Will be added upon forever and ever. The children of light are of one tribe
To spite their varied persuasions. I have found that people often have conflicting goals
That they do not care to notice. And since they want things to remain the same More than they want the change that will bring improvement, They do not make much progress. Once our goals are aligned We can move forward. Before that time, We must either face our contradictions Or eternally flounder and grow disenchanted with the process. |
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