He dug he a shallow grave

New poetry is coming hard lately. Below is the beginning of a story I am tinkering with. Let me know what you think.

--------------

He dug her a shallow grave. When the shovel started slipping in his hands he stopped, no reason not to. He figured half of everything we do is courtesy, anyhow, and courtesy had sealed itself off inside his bones a while back.

He rested on the shovel, palming the crown of the staff with his right hand while the other slid until friction stopped it. If he looked at the mound of unpacked earth to the left it kept the sweat out of his eyes. He breathed into a damp sleeve and the cooled smell of salt and soil felt intimate, safe; he drew his shirt between his teeth. Off to the west, in the direction of the coffin, there was an oak tree and beyond the tree a hill and beyond the hill the sun was setting. A cloud bloomed out of the darkening eastern sky and flowered in pink and shadowed petals that fell upon the crest of the hill. But it was the thought of the encroaching darkness and not the blossoming sky that turned his face to the west, to the coffin.

Might as well, he said, and dropped the shovel behind him. Bending slowly towards the casket the thought entered his mind that he should not be the one doing this. He had insisted, he reminded himself. I need to, were his exact words to the deacons. They had nodded and almost said something about forgiveness but didn’t. He edged one corner closer to the grave and fantasized that someone was watching him flex and strain and glare. The face of his father appeared on the imaginary spectator, nodding at this act of grace. Yes, he would have done this.

The Office

Recently, for a class assignment we were asked to examine various cultural "artifacts" (TV shows, movies, architecture, music, poetry, etc.) in order to interpret the various understandings of the world implicit within them. I chose to think about The Office and the various "truths" it portrays. Enjoy!

-------------------

The comedy "Mockumentary," The Office, features a failing paper supply company called Dunder-Mifflin based in Scranton, Pennsylvania. The central character, Michael Scott, is the regional manager of the Scranton Branch of Dunder-Mifflin. Michael is the definition of an incompetent boss who has little regard for (and/or knowledge of) social boundaries. The character of Michael Scott gives us insight into the world behind the text. Michael's ineptness as a boss drives the comedy forward yet Michael is no mere clown. His understanding of himself and the role of manager is strikingly different from that of those around him, and different from what has come standard operating procedure in American business. While most others see work as a compartmentalized portion of their life characterized by professional etiquette, Michael repeatedly calls his staff his "family." He sees himself, in relation to his employees, first as a friend, second as an entertainer, and finally as boss. Simply stated, Michael expects a deeper level of social interaction than typically available in an office.

His need for this kind of community is tied to deep levels of pain. In the course of the various episodes we learn of a friendless childhood, a turbulent home life, and his various failed attempts at dating. He has no meaningful community outside of the office. Thus, the office becomes his primary source of social interaction because they are forced to be around him, they cannot avoid relationship with Michael as so many others have. With no other alternatives, the office becomes Michael's family, his primary source of relationship.

The comedy of The Office pours forth out of this reality. The underlying and unquestioned assumption that office relationships are superficial and only professional creates the comedic tension that supports the story. Thus, Michael's character becomes a satirical protest against the lonely American office.

The world of The Office is an ongoing competition between sanity (social distance and discretion) played primarily by the straight characters Jim and Pam, and the world envisioned by Michael where social boundaries disappear and he is accepted and successful. This is played out in two rivalries in particular. First, a rivalry between Michael and Toby (the human resources representative) contrasts Michael's priorities with the priorities of the business world as Toby inevitably reminds Michael of "company policy." Second, a rivalry exists between straight man Jim and the doggedly obedient Dwight. Dwight plays an ironic foil to Michael as a parody on the self-reliant "All-American Man." Just as Michael desires to escape the relationship killing constraints of office "business as usual," Dwight embraces the social structures of the office with a gullible respect for all authority in order to cope with his own loneliness. Dwight's elevation of hierarchical structure creates an obsession with his own status and makes him an easy target for Jim's relentless pranking. Whereas Dwight wholeheartedly accepts Michael's office management on the basis of his positional authority, Jim calls attention to the absurdity with generous helpings of sarcasm.

We catch glimpses of the world envisioned by The Office in the relationship between Jim and Pam. Over the course of several seasons we watch the courting that takes place between the two in the office. As the relationship develops and the two eventually get married Michael interprets their marriage as a direct result of his management and the confirmation of his most cherished ideals. Thus, Michael's imagined world in which office relationships are intimate and meaningful is brought to fruition. Ironically, the two straight characters who most heavily resist being pulled into Michael's fantasy become the consummation of it.

Generations

All the mothers

all the fathers

just cans stacked against a wall

in preparation

singing generations

generations

generations

But I'm hungry too.

And I will eat

and I will be other than I am today.

The One Who Calls: A sermon

Click on the below link to watch video of a sermon I delivered at my home church, South MacArthur Church of Christ, on the calling of Moses.

TruthCasting - Sermons

How to Hear a Confession

So often with God

the appropriate conjunction

is not "but"

but "so"

"You've messed up

and caused so much pain,

so

God forgives you."

It is not:

but God loves you anyways,

It is simply:

God loves you.

A Tentative Definition of Scripture

Scripture is the Gospel's most adequate conversation partner.

Prayer in response to Psalm 1

Psalm 1:

Blessed is the man

who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked

or stand in the way of sinners

or sit in the seat of mockers.

But his delight is in the law of the Lord,

and on his law he meditates day and night.

He is like a tree planted by streams of water

which yields fruit in season

and whose leaf does not wither.

Whatever he does prospers.

Not so the wicked!

They are like chaff

that the wind blows away.

Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgement

not sinners in the assembly of the righteous.

For the Lord watches over the way of the righteous,

but the way of the wicked will perish.

---------------------------------

Excuse us if we seem unmoved, today, by your word

But we’ve been taught to be

both/and people

and never either/or.

We can’t help but find ourselves

Wary of duality

Skeptical of polarities

Suspicious of dichotomies

Because our world rebuts such simplicity

We’ve seen the power “the right” use against “the wrong”

We’ve discovered lifelong friends among mortal enemies

We’ve explored the tumultuous landscape of our own hearts.

So we resign ourselves to ambiguity,

We feel at home with relativity,

we guard ourselves against extremity.

We choose to be somewhere in between;

a people constrained to shades of gray.

Until you,

who have suffered the power “the right” use against “the wrong”

who have chosen eternal friends among mortal enemies

who have cherished the tumultuous landscape of every heart

re-educate us, re-enlighten us, re-create us with your definiteness:

Either you are Holy or you are not

Either you are Life or you are not

Either you are The Way or you are not

By grace and to our own advantage,

we confess that you are.

Amen.

The beginning of prayer

somewhere;

I think that my lungs are being filled

and that is not so bad

when pain is hope

(which I hope it is)

I understand that you must do this

and that you know I do not want it.

I wanted a drink.

Just a drink.

But you would make me a fish before cooling my throat.

An Honest Question

How long

should one wait

after sinning

to pray?

Save your theology,

I tremble at the thought.

Home for the Night

We are what no one else sees.

Our cluttered home,

piqued by evening light

and vacant shoes (still warm),

summons our imagined selves

to the fringes of our conscience

and casts visions of immaculate

hotel rooms where we once made love.

Tonight, her laps around the coffee table

are enough to quell our suspicion

of our own laziness and we remain

as we are -

we call this love,

as we were taught to call it,

and I am inclined to the accuracy

of our instruction

even as we fall regretfully asleep.

Campfire

At last

the murmuring ash

is silent

but I do not hear it cease

or mourn a wide-eyed blindness

because I am already asleep,

somewhere in a dream

in which I just shivered.

Costly Grace

I've been reading The Cost of Discipleship alongside a new biography about Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Not surprisingly I've been contemplating the nature of grace:

"Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession, absolution without personal confession. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate."

"Costly grace is the gospel which must be sought again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which a man must knock. Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin, and grace because it justifies the sinner."

----------------

Grace is not the light lined

brilliance of sun-dipped leaves, bricks, eyes

but

air, rich with the smell of water-darkened earth,

whispering the wavering voice of distant thunder on our faces

and although we in the city, with our oak trees

red-tipped bushes beneath our windows,

chemical green St. Augustine purchased by the yard

simply turn on a windshield wiper,

somewhere there is a farmer bowing his head.

It is grace when it nourishes, not when it dazzles.

A reminder (for myself)

The density of a poem

is inversely related

to the number of its readers

and directly related

to the size of the poet's ego.

The Resurrection for Post-Moderns

"the peculiar individuality of us all

is not enough

and

do not ask for more."

It does not take much for a boat to float

in the dead sea.

Only shop.

Only drink.

Only talk.

But do not create.

A blank slate for a blank slate's sake.

The miracle of His resurrection is its potency.

Trinity

He is a body within the light

and the light is seamless.

He embraces the light

and the light is without border.

We have seen his silhouette

but there was no shadow.

Dumb

I know how ill-fit the cross is to war

and that I have a thing or two to say

about the two pregnant women we shot

or the village of children we burned

or the jihadist we dragged naked through the mud.

but I am in my home

and gospel fumbles out of my mouth

and onto the floor,

I am inarticulate about these things.

As if complexity ties a string around my tongue

and just as I shape the sound

of a "d," or a "b," or a "t,"

it pulls me into a vowel

and I end up yawning something incoherent but audible-

it might as well be a blessing for all of its courage.

My God,

not a blessing.

Never a blessing.

A New Morning

A new morning
and still the same.
I do not begin with prayer.
It is work to swallow flem
on a dry throat.
There is a water glass
on my bed stand.
The taste of warm stagnant water.

Another Word

I am winded
by our walking towards
all things unknown,
one foot
the other
a breath
then another
and each step is its own walk.
We mark our pants and back
green or red or black or simply
wood-stain brown with freshly attended
park benches when our stomachs are to much to carry.
Other times it is our shoes
and the bottoms weighed down
with salmonella,
road-tar,
gum.
It is always something
and then a something's something
until our lives are family trees
of debilitation.
But I walk
and some days
not so angrily
and most days I wish I could find
another word
but redemption
will do for now.

How to be Holy II

Remember dear,
when you see a child bruised,
beaten by the hand of this unripe world,
as she bleeds joy and hope
until her face is the color of untouched snow
and your heart becomes like ash:
weep God in the eyes
and, if no one is around, consider cursing.

Prayer for the Day: The Second Day after Pentecost

Be gentle with us today
because we have been misplaced.
Somewhere beyond the action,
    after your climactic death and return,
    after your final words to us,
    after the winds of Pentecost,
    after the sermons and the baptisms,
We find ourselves outside of your story and inside our own
    made frail again by our loneliness,
    disoriented by your absence,
    overwhelmed by the work ahead.
You've shoved us out of the narrative
    and begged us to find it again
    because the loose strands dangle about our lives
    and, perhaps, no longer out of reach.

We know why it must be this way.
Only, have mercy on us.

How to be Holy

Remember dear,
when you see a cloud rest a finger
on the brim of our wine-glass moon
and bird-blessed air cuddles
your bare cheek against her naked neck
and you feel the gentle pressure
of your chest deepening
against hers
and your heart becomes like untouched snow,
smile God in the eyes
and, if no one is around, consider dancing.

Only a Father Could Know

Only a father could know
      the eloquence of his infant daughter.
The broad vowels and clumsy consonants
      of her, "I'm glad you're here,"

the half-eyed droning
      of sleep's soon arrival,
and the soft cooed morning greeting
      before she knows she's hungry.

Then there is the sharp shrill sound
      of pain, and the tremendous
weight of caring for someone,
      at once, so clear and unspecific

and I suppose this is to say -
      I want You but do not know how,
and that -
   this is the meaning
      of my silence.

a request from your child

I catch her watching me,
from her spot on the floor.

she smiles, wagging her arms,
as I lie down on my stomach facing her -

turn and face us,
that's all I would ask.

Two Poems

If satan won
it would not be the demon-possessed
who would bring him victory.
It would be a conversation
between a husband and wife
when all the complexity of life together
becomes, at a word, unforgivable.


------------------


There is truth
and beyond that
there is hope
and beyond that
there is a small child
flying home alone
resting her head
on the shoulder
of a stranger -
and his wife smiles
as he asks for a blanket.

This Now

This now,
the dimly grim urgency
of hope.

Us,
waiting in hiding -
worried of our heavy breath
to give us away.

and all the world
is colliding, particles
of expectation sparkling
towards heat
and nothing more it seems.

until You,

walking in a field
of wildflowers,

legs swinging lazily
towards your next step,

see a weed but do not pull it out.

simply stay,
just breathe,
only wait with us,
your hair touched by the same breeze -

it is enough.

A Prayer

Silent one, Capture my attention
It is no enough for you to wave your hand
In front of my face
For I am in total darkness

You must touch me
Make yourself known to me
Because all I know is myself
Tortured by thoughts of my inadequacy
Distorted by thoughts of my competency
lost in myself, searching for a way out

You are my rescuer
Loud voice and bright orange vest
Carry me home

If we cry

If we cry
it will not be over the trees
- they were never really in trouble.

it will be the bricks,
and the paths, and the window blinds
that somehow made it after all.

Poetry as the Telos of Theology

An excerpt from the blog of James K.A. Smith:

"What if poetry is the end of theology? That is, what if poetry is the telos of theology—its goal and aim? What if the so-called truths of theology are just dimmed-down intimations of the rich truth that can be embodied in the imaginative worlds of poetry and fiction?"

Yes! You can read the rest of his post here.

The Quilt

In the end
we will be patches
on a quilt,
vibrantly ourselves
in color and pattern
but sewn by the patient
hand of God
into a seamless Shalom
and when He is finished
we will not hang uselessly
from a bed-end
or, worse, a wall,
as proof of a project
successfully accomplished
but drawn tight against His back,
ends overlapping His chest,
we will perfectly and finally
fulfill our purposes:
to warm Him
as He watches the sunrise
from the window
of a gray - shadowed room,
cold and naked from the night.

III.

He is peace

           upon

           peace.

Whatever it is

whatever it is
we will know it

in time.

and time

will be the undoing

of our knowledge.

then, all we will know

is the wrinkled face

of God, deep furrowed

and beautiful.

There is a Peace

There is a peace,
bountiful and shallow,
whose face turns
from ash and dust,
whose mouth speaks
softly behind its cotton
mask. Ashes to flesh
and flesh to spirit.
There is such a peace
and I have known it.
Then there is resurrection:
The peace of bone-dry voices
shattering rock and wood with praise
while the air crackles with purpose
and the thundering of humanity's knees
upon earth proclaim the insoluble perfection
of all things, even us.

Today

breakfast before a prayer,
a look out the window
as I heat a bottle,

thumb a Hebrew lexicon, looking
for the word "sack-cloth,"
my ear pins back at a tiny moan.

I clean up vomit in three places:
the play pen, the bouncy seat, my shirt
man in episode of ER loses his wife.

waiting for Kris to come home
I watch Ava play with her foot
and wonder about dinner

I have watched the three windows
in our living room illuminate
a cradle swing and draw dim again

a theology text book rests
on the coffee table and I
breathe exactly with my daughter.

An attempt at prayer

I confess my
damp eyelashes,
heavy and pressed
between lids. I looked
but could not keep
my eyes on the sun.

Sermon Audio

The Drama of Resurrection
David Ayres

Morning Coffee

blackbirds are screaming

on telephone poles, irate shrills

provoked by daybreak.

They are so loud

starbucks can't hear my order,

"black?," No, "one cream, one sugar."

I roll my window and sip

bitter coffee disguised as palatable,

this is why we like it, the disguise.

there's a hearse rolling down

a street of paint-chipped houses

and my eyes are all that follow it.

it might not have anyone,

I say to my daughter,

but she is asleep and does not hear me.

I watch until sunlight,

glinting off black paint,

directs my eyes to the road before me.

A Thought: Philopoetica

If we are thankful,

not for freedom

but for the relative lack

of negative consequences

in the exercising

of our freedom

we are no longer free.

Morning

The sleepy smell of sweat

and cold wake me.

I wait for you to notice

the absence of my warm

breath against your neck.

You roll towards me and stretch

like first light spreading across

still water, alone with the sun.

Turritopsis Nutricula

I read this article today about an immortal jellyfish. This poem is in response.

-------------

It will not be long now

before we chant your name,

invoke your biological heritage,

You will be a body nailed

to the black wax bottom

of a dissecting tray

and somewhere in a lab

a mortal will whisper your secret

to his laptop.

Then it will be finished.

Your blood will sell

to the highest bidder

and sold again.

All of this while you go on,

immortal, the deep water dance

of your crystal tentacles forgotten.

The Path of Life

I am convinced

that the path of life is a dirt trail

where wind-borne sand

moves, and floats, and pelts

God's children

until it settles finally

and the path

made wholly new.

Trust

A tree does not coax

the wind to bring rain

and the apple that falls

to be eaten by worms

does not complain.

A Sermon

Below is the sermon I preached this previous Sunday at Round Rock Church of Christ. I've had the opportunity to preach there before and it was a blessing to be a part of worship both times. I apologize for the erratic punctuation. When writing a sermon I punctuate the text in a way to help me speak it, I hope that it helps you get a sense of what this sermon would "sound" like. Also, the text that is italicized is a note to myself that I need to emphasize that phrase. Either it will appear again, like a refrain, and I want to make sure the audience draws a connection between the two (or three) repetitive usages or it is just a really important part. Thought I'd let you in on a couple of my trade secrets. Enjoy!

------------------------

"The Drama of Resurrection"

John 11:17-48

Jesus is a man on the run. He is a wanted man. In the previous chapter Jesus escapes first being stoned and then being arrested. Tensions are running high because Jesus is making some pretty lofty claims for himself. “I am in the Father and the Father is in me.” Some call it truth, many call it blasphemy. And the face-off that Jesus had with the Jews in chapter ten is lingering in the air of chapter eleven. “I have shown you many good works from my Father. For which of these are you trying to stone me?” Jesus asks. The response comes, “We are not stoning you for a good work but for blasphemy. You, a man, are making yourself God.” Jesus tells them you can’t have one without the other, the good works and my identity as the Son of God are one in the same, it’s a package deal, take it or leave it. The Jews are decidedly leaving it. So Jesus goes into hiding.

And it’s in hiding that Jesus hears about Lazarus. His dear friend who is buried in Judea, where his enemies wait for him. For Jesus to go back means life for Lazarus but death for himself. Resurrection is dangerous work.

By the time Jesus gets there, the family and close friends are already back at the church eating lunch, sharing memories of Lazarus. He’s late to the funeral. If Mary and Martha followed Jewish custom they had visited the burial site everyday for the last three days to make sure Lazarus was actually dead, that his soul hadn’t returned to his body. During those three days it just wasn’t quite over yet for them. Jesus shows up on the fourth day and Lazarus is not just dead, he is way dead. What’s done is done, Lazarus is gone, the funeral is over, it’s time to mourn and try to move on.

My Granddaddy passed away this last October, he died unexpectedly after falling in his home. Ava Kate was only a week old at the time but we made it to the visiting hours. I’ll remember a lot about those few hours in the funeral home. My Granny meeting Ava for the first time, hearing stories about the kind of man Granddaddy was, seeing my dad weep. But the thing that haunts me most about those few hours was seeing my Granny touch Grandaddy’s hands and saying to me “Oh, they’re so cold.” She kept saying that all night. She’d touch his hands and say “Oh, they’re so cold.” As if she thought they might warm up again. When we were leaving I heard her say, “Bye-bye Granddaddy, we’re leaving now, I’ll see you tomorrow.” It just wasn’t quite over yet for her. But the next day was the funeral. She broke down between my dad and my aunt as they said their last good-byes. Then they closed the coffin. And that’s when Jesus shows up. It’s not until then that Jesus shows up.

It’s Martha who greets him and you can hear the pain in her voice. “If only you had been here.” Martha is reeling in the world of “what if.” It’s that tortuous place that all those who mourn put themselves. That churning in your gut when you think that just last week they were here, if you had just said this or done that… what if. It’s the sick realization that there is no going back now. What’s done is done, Lazarus is gone, the funeral is over, it’s time to mourn and try to move on. Martha’s eyes are set on the past. “Lord, if only you had been here.”

Jesus offers a word of consolation. “Your brother will rise.” He lifts her chin, moves her eyes out of the past and invites her to look into his eyes. But she can’t see him. She looks up to the clouds and says, “I know he will rise, in the resurrection on the last day.” She is not without faith. But she can’t see what is right in front of her.

So Jesus takes her face in his hands. A hand on either cheek, looks into her eyes and says, “I am the resurrection and the life.” Don’t look to the past, don’t look to the future. I’m right in front of you. I’m right here. Walking, talking, loving, eating, smiling, coughing, crying, hugging Resurrection right in front of you. “I am the resurrection and the life.”

The power of resurrection is that it has a face. Resurrection has a name: Jesus of Nazareth. We have hope, not because of a future we wait for but because of a future we have right in front of us.

My wife makes fun of me because I like McDonald’s coffee. I’d take a cup from McDonalds over Starbucks any day. We have a ritual of going through the drive-through on our way to church on Sunday mornings. She gets a Dr. Pepper and I get my coffee. The funny thing about doing that every Sunday is that you see the same people over and over again. There is one woman who works there, she takes my money and sends me up to the second window. This woman is striking to me because she has a tattoo on her neck, it’s one word: Hope. That is something to see in a McDonalds drive-through, hope tattooed on her neck. And I don’t know this but if I had to guess why she has that tattoo I’d say it was the name of her daughter. I don’t know this but I’d guess she’s held Hope in her arms. She’s changed Hope’s diaper. She’s held Hope’s hand. She’s washed Hope’s face. She’s probably sung to Hope, and eaten a meal with her. And I don’t know this but if I had guess the name of the woman at McDonald’s, I’d say it was Martha. Martha who has hugged Hope’s neck, Martha with Hope tattooed on her neck.

We’ve got to learn to see what Martha learns to see. The conversation that Martha has with Jesus is critical to the story. It isn’t the climax of the narrative, but it is the theological highpoint of the text. We have to read the rest of our story with Jesus’ words in our minds. The rest of the story is an elaboration on “I am the resurrection and the life.” Jesus is telling us that what he is about to do is not just about the resurrection, it’s about who he is. When we look at Lazarus we don’t just say “Praise God, he raised him from the dead.” That’s only part of picture. The kind of doxology, the kind of praise this story invites us into sounds something like: “Praise God, he is God!”

You can hear it in Martha’s confession of faith. She says, “Yes, Lord. I have come to believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.” That is profound faith.

Mature faith is not “Lord, If only you had been here…” I know some “if only” Christians. I remember back a while, I was feeling pretty good about my spiritual life. Me and God were tight. I’d talk to him and I tried to listen. Just trying to do what a good Christian should do. Well, I was out driving and I saw a guy at a stoplight and he looked pretty ragged. Big beard and a filthy Coors light sweatshirt. He was begging for money. He had a sign that said, “Need Help, God Bless.” And I’m a good Christian so I talked to God, I said, “Lord, if you want me to help this man, give me a sign.” I waited and I looked, no sign. Then the light turned green. I would have helped him, I really would have, “If only” is a powerful thing. I’m an “If only” Christian an awful lot, how about you?

But that’s not the only obstacle to Mature faith. Just as dangerous as “If only” christianity is Future-tense christianity. Jesus tells Martha “Your brother will rise,” And she slips into Future-tense mode, “I know he will rise, in the resurrection on the last day.” It takes faith to say that, no doubt. It takes incredible faith to be a future-tense Christian, to look around at the suffering around you say with conviction: it won’t be like this forever. A Future-tense Christian, no matter how dark the night, never takes their eyes of the horizon, faithfully waiting for the sun to rise. But that is only half of faith. We are waiting for the glory of God to be revealed, we are waiting for God to make all things new, we are groaning with all of creation for the new creation which God will establish. BUT! God has already begun that work in Jesus Christ. “I am the resurrection and the life.” We are waiting for the glory of God to be revealed, and he has already revealed it in Jesus. “I am the Resurrection and the Life!” We are waiting for God to make all things new and he has already made things new in Jesus. “I am the Resurrection and the Life” We are groaning with all of creation for the new creation God will establish and he has already established it in the life and death and resurrection of Jesus, “I am the resurrection and the life.”

When Jesus asks us “Do you believe this?” we say with Martha, “Yes, Lord. We have come to believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.” And Now we’re ready to hear the rest of the story.

(Read vv. 28-48)

Now it’s Mary’s turn to talk to Jesus and we hear echoes of what Martha had to say. “If only you had been here…” But this time Jesus doesn’t correct or console her. He just asks a question. “Where is he?”

My wife makes fun of me because I like to listen to NPR, that’s National Public Radio. If I am in the car --I have it on. Kristen likes to call it Old Man Radio. So I’m listening to “O-M-R” the other day and my favorite program is on. It’s called Speaking of Faith and Krista Tippet, the host, was interviewing a chaplain for the parks and wildlife service in Maine. The parks and wildlife service is responsible for recovering victims of animal attacks, drowning, and other wilderness accidents. Needless to say, the chaplain has a hard job. But it was fascinating to me to hear her describe the work she does. When the family hears the news she says they most often sit on the floor and weep while she joins them. She holds them, she is just there, a presence in the midst of suffering. And then, she says, the most remarkable thing happens. After 20 minutes, and it’s almost never more than 20 minutes she says, they get a hold of themselves, take a deep breath, and ask a very practical question. Most of the time they ask: “Where is he?” It’s that question that becomes the hinge the rest of their life swings on. It’s that question that becomes a pivot point, it’s a change of direction. It will be the question that marks the beginning of their journey towards healing. And It’s that question that let’s us know that Jesus is up to something, it’s the pivot point in our narrative. In response to the mourning of those around him Jesus asks “Where have you laid him,” and we know The Resurrection and the Life is on the move.

When he sees the tomb it’s his turn to weep. It’s all caught up to him I think. His conflict with the Jews. The time spent in hiding. Coming late to the burial. The sorrow on Mary and Martha’s face. The voices and tears of all the mourners. All of it has culminated to this point, and he weeps. The resurrection and the life faces death in all of its sorrow and power to destroy… and he weeps. And behind him, in the background you can hear the conflict building. Some see the weeping Christ and see love for a dear friend. Others see a negligent healer. Both think the story is over. But if you listen carefully you can hear John whispering to us. Reminding us: I am the Resurrection and the Life

And it is then that the Christ stands up. The story is boiling over at this point. He’s got everyone’s attention. What will this weeping Messiah do? And Martha’s stomach drops when she hears his words. “Take away the stone.” “But Lord… it’s been four days… the smell…please…” And Jesus simply tells her, “Don’t you remember our earlier conversation, have you already forgotten.” The whisper comes again, stronger: I am the Resurrection and the Life.

As the odor of death comes over them Jesus offers a prayer. “So that they know that you sent me.” John’s voice is getting louder: I am the Resurrection and the Life. I am the Resurrection and the Life. I am the Resurrection and the Life. Until Jesus says it, “Lazarus come out.” John’s voice goes silent as we hear Lazarus’ footsteps. Jesus tells them, through smiling teeth, “Get the guy a shower and a change of clothes, he smells!”

And I’d like the story to end there but it doesn’t. News spreads fast. It’s not long before the Pharisees and the chief priests hear about it. And they are devastated. Resurrection is a threat to them. Because they know it’s not about the miracle, it’s about who Jesus is. People will believe this blasphemer. He will steal more faithful out of the flock if they let him continue. They must end him. Resurrection has a price.

It’s interesting that in the Gospel of John it’s the resurrection of Lazarus that gets Jesus killed. It’s not what we want to hear. We want the next scene to cut to Lazarus with Mary and Martha eating dinner together - not a secret meeting of Pharisees plotting Jesus’ death. And maybe if this were a lifetime movie that’s exactly what we would see. But it’s not, this is gospel. And in the gospel Resurrection changes things. It challenges us. It gives us a choice. The resurrection of Lazarus takes us to the cross.

My wife makes fun of me because I have a thing for crucifixes. She thinks they’re creepy and she’s probably right. But I like them because they bring me face to face with the choice I have to make. I took a tour of a Catholic church once. The priest showed us around pointing out the fountain of holy water, the confessional, the stations of the cross set up along the back wall. When we reached the front of the church there was really only one thing any of us saw, a life-size crucifix hanging conspicuously on the wall. It was clear that - if you saw nothing else, you were supposed to see this, it was the focal point of the entire worship space. Someone in our group asked the priest, “What’s up with the crucifix?” And his answer was this. “The crucifix reminds us that we can choose to cross, the resurrection is the work of God in us, only God can choose to resurrect us.”

That’s where this story leads us. It’s not about Lazarus, it’s about who Jesus is. When we know that he is the Resurrection and the Life, when we believe that he is sent by the Father, when we can confess alongside Martha “Yes, Lord. I have come to believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.” Then and only then we can choose the cross, we can lay our lives down for others, because we trust that God will not leave us to rot in the tomb. Because God does not just promise us Resurrection, he is resurrection himself and in him all things will be made new. Praise God, because he is God!

We are glints of light reflecting You

We are glints of light reflecting You,

the way moonlight flickers

on waves of lake water:

distortion upon distortion,

distortion and then true,

contorting until dawn

when your breath

stills the surface

with light

and fog.

Naming

What will we name her?

Kate, I like Kate.

Yes.

And what about your Granny?

Eva.

Yes, Eva.

They will not know how to say it.

How should they say it?

Ay-vah.

Spell it A-v-a.

Ava.

Ava Kate.

Yes.

Our love will be named

David, Kristen, and Ava Kate

II.

Love is measured

not in nearness

but in likeness.

We are the image

of God

So put down your

mirror.

I.

The god who made us

is God and we are the ones

He made.

We are born in skin

and spirit and die in skin

and spirit.

God is love and

we are love being freed

from death.

We will be the ones

who once died whom

God made.

We will know

we once died but

do not anymore.

Death requires

memory and love requires

life.

We will live

and we will remember:

The god who made us

is God and we are the ones

He made

Rings

Already tarnished, the rings -- our faces

distorted and fogged by scratches

when we look to see ourselves

the day we put them on. But we are there,

even so, and the promises:

When communion came

you stopped listening at "When the triune God..."

to hear only my face -- precocious

and anxious -- and you must have known

more of the mystery we ate and drank in:

that love distorts us beyond ourselves

and leaves the promise so obscured

that the other is all and enough to be faithful.

Sabbath

Our bodies ache

for sabbath

and move towards it

as rain moves

toward the earth

while people within

their coffee scented homes

watch steam rise

from the streets

and their cups

waiting for the day

peace, too, is perpetual.

A hill

A hill

thistled and dark

with rock and shadow

stands between us and voices

sung high, breaking over the top

like clouds upon mountains -

all we hear is condensation,

wafts of white music

moist as our sweat

but not doomed to fall.

And We, for songs

only faintly known, climb

and our once barren voices bear

hope as We hum along.

Warmth

child like christ sleeps

pink in my blanketed arm.

warmth and rest

are always together.

in cemeteries the frozen

sleep so fitfully

they someday rise.

The Spoon and the Bowl (or A Nihilistic Confession)

the end of all things

is the spoon and the bowl

left from cereal

this morning.

soiled and motionless

and I am not full.

Apologies and a Communal Response

I apologize for my extended sabbatical from writing. My poetry workshop drew out all inspiration and paralyzed me with critical concerns about my writing: I was burnt out. I am still recovering but I will make an effort to write more frequently.

The following is a communal prayer I have written for a chapel I am helping plan. The series it is a part of is entitled: "Praying with." For this chapel we are praying with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane (Matt. 26:36-46). Enjoy!

----------

God of heaven, above us and beside us,

we confess that Your ways are not our ways

so with heavy hearts we pray, May this cup be taken from us

That we should forgive and not blame, May this cup be taken from us

That we should submit and not control, May this cup be taken from us

That we should be faithful and not covetous, May this cup be taken from us

That we should give and not hoard, May this cup be taken from us

That we should be struck and not strike back, May this cup be taken from us

That we should show mercy and not judgment, May this cup be taken from us

That we should be wounded with the wounded, May this cup be taken from us

That we should love our neighbor and not fear them, May this cup be taken from us

That we should seek community and not popularity, May this cup be taken from us

That we should carry a cross and not a sword, May this cup be taken from us

That we should die in order to live, May this cup be taken from us

In our weakness, still we seek You.

Holy One, beyond us and among us,

we confess that Your ways are not our ways

so with aching hearts we pray, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should forgive and not blame, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should submit and not control, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should be faithful and not covetous, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should give and not hoard, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should be struck and not strike back, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should show mercy and not judgment Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should be wounded with the wounded, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should love our neighbor and not fear them, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should seek community and not popularity Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should carry a cross and not a sword, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

That we should die in order to live, Our spirits are willing but our bodies are weak

In our weakness, still we seek You.

Our Father, for us and not against us,

we confess that Your ways are not our ways

so with hearts of submission we pray, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should forgive and not blame, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should submit and not control, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should be faithful and not covetous, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should give and not hoard, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should be struck and not strike back, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should show mercy and not judgment, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should be wounded with the wounded, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should love our neighbor and not fear them, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should seek community and not popularity, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should carry a cross and not a sword, Not as we will, but as you will

That we should die in order to live, Not as we will, but as you will

In our weakness, still we seek You.