David M. Ayres

Forgive Me

2011-04-29T11:20:00.002-05:00

forgive me
when I do not want you to
and I will be saved.

Libya: A Summary

2011-03-22T18:40:00.009-05:00

We are using our superior military capabilities to protect our interests against an inferior and aggressive military force who was using its superior military capabilities to protect its interests against an inferior and aggressive military force.

On Free Will

2011-03-21T15:39:00.003-05:00

Free will is our ability to learn to want what we do not yet want.
Namely, the cross.

Holy Spirit

2011-03-14T08:58:00.003-05:00

The tide turns itself
and us along with it.

My Canon within the Canon

2011-03-01T16:27:00.013-06:00

Explorations in the New Testament this semester have given me a new awareness to my blind spots when it comes to the biblical text. It is easier to build a "biblical" theology when you emphasize certain parts more than others. This seems like a very bad way of going about reading your bible, after all, "All Scripture is God-breathed and useful for teaching..." But I am convinced that some parts of scripture are more important than others and that all of us, if we are honest, have a "canon within the Canon." Furthermore, the parts that we select to be a part of our "canon" say a lot about who we believe God to be and how he interacts with humanity. So, for the sake of transparency and conversation, I offer to you my (little 'c') canon. (I will restrict this to the New Testament for now, though exploring this issue with the OT may be an even more important venture.)

My canon:
Matthew 4:12-17 (The kingdom of heaven is near!)
Matthew 5-7 (The Sermon on the Mount)
Matthew 22:34-40 (The Greatest Commandment)
Matthew 26:57-68; 27:11-66 (Jesus' Trial and Crucifixion)
Mark 8:27-38 (Peter's confession of Christ and subsequent screw-up)
Mark 14:32-42 (The Garden of Gethsemane)
Luke 4:14-21 (Jesus reads Isaiah in Synagogue)
Luke 9: 57-62 (Following Jesus is hard!)
Luke 15: 11-32 (Parable of the Prodigal Son)
Luke 24:13-35 (The Walk to Emmaus)
John 1:1-18 (In the beginning was the Word...)
John 13-17 (The farewell discourse)
John 20 (Jesus' resurrection and appearance to Mary and the Disciples)

Acts 2 (Pentecost)
Romans 6:1-23 (Dead to sin, alive in Christ and slaves to God)
Romans 8 (The life of the Spirit within us, groaning of creation, nothing can separate us from God's love in Christ Jesus)
1 Corinthians 12 (Spiritual gifts, diversity of the body of Christ)
1 Corinthians 13 (Love)
1 Corinthians 15 (Our Physical Resurrection)
2 Corinthians 4 (Hard pressed but not crushed...)
2 Corinthians 5 (Ministry of Reconciliation, New Creation)
2 Corinthians 12:1-10 (My grace is sufficient for you...)
Galatians 3:26-29 (There is neither Jew nor Greek...)
Ephesians 3:14-21 (Paul's prayer for the Ephesians)
Ephesians 4:1-6 (One Lord, one faith, one baptism...)
Ephesians 5:21-33 (Mutual Submission and the mystery of the Church)
Philippians 2:1-11 (Your attitude should be the same as Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God...)
Philippians 3:7-11 (What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things.)
Colossians 1:15-20 (He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation...)
Hebrews 11 (Now faith is being sure of what we hope for... and here are a few examples...)
Hebrews 12 (Consider Jesus... so you will not grow weary and lose heart)
1 John 3:11-24 (Love one another)
Revelation 21-22 (New Jerusalem!)

There we are, I have probably forgotten some things but this is a good start. For clarification, this is not a list of my favorite scriptures (though many of them are), nor does it mean that I dislike parts that I have left off (though sometimes that is true). Instead, these are the passages I depend on again and again to tell the story of the Christian faith as I have come to understand it. I am anxious to hear from others about additions (or subtractions) to this list, what do you think of this little canon?

Discernment

2011-02-26T21:35:00.002-06:00

Christian discernment comes down to two options:
Are you going to the cross
or coming out of the tomb?

On Reading Scripture

2011-02-22T09:10:00.003-06:00

Many of us who read scripture and want to honor it as a special sort of text, a text somehow set apart from all others, spend a great deal of time discerning how we should read such a text. As a result, we come to scripture with expectations about what scripture is and what it should do to us or for us. Put another way: we confess that scripture is the word of God before we ever sit down and read it.

Yet it seems to me that this confession should come after we have read. We should read our bibles the way we would read any other book, with questions and curiosity, eager to find some pattern of words that truthfully names reality and excites our thought. Because it is only as we take our bible down from its own secluded shelf and place it among The Republic, and Macbeth, and Brothers Karamazov , and the Collected Poems of Robert Frost that we begin to understand what a treasure it is. Just as the centurion crucified Jesus as another common criminal and only then recognized him as the Son of God, so we read the bible as another common text and only then recognize it as the word of God.

"Human Beauty" by Albert Goldbarth

2011-02-21T10:03:00.005-06:00

I was perusing poetryfoundation.org
and came across this poem. I love the beautiful way in which the author explores our attempts, with language and symbol, to capture and name beauty. The narrative ending in particular is lovely and thought-provoking.

----------

If you write a poem about love ...
the love is a bird,

the poem is an origami bird.
If you write a poem about death ...

the death is a terrible fire,
the poem is an offering of paper cutout flames

you feed to the fire.
We can see, in these, the space between

our gestures and the power they address
—an insufficiency. And yet a kind of beauty,

a distinctly human beauty. When a winter storm
from out of nowhere hit New York one night

in 1892, the crew at a theater was caught
unloading props: a box

of paper snow for the Christmas scene got dropped
and broken open, and that flash of white

confetti was lost
inside what it was a praise of.

On prayer

2011-02-17T17:41:00.002-06:00

To be fed by your hunger,
this is prayer.

On the Infallibility of Scripture

2011-02-02T13:54:00.003-06:00

I can concur, if what we mean by infallible is that we rely on the incomprehensible mysteries described in Scripture as a more accurate and trustworthy account of reality against the superior reasonableness of our own attempts at naming it. To champion the infallibility of Scripture is to be joyfully and faithfully ridiculous.

Why We are Buried

2011-02-01T20:38:00.005-06:00

Imagine our faces
as memory decomposes
in the furrows of foreheads
and the shallows of dimpled cheeks
and fertilizes our flesh for resurrection.

A Theologian's Confession

2011-01-21T19:36:00.005-06:00

Do I want to love you

or be known as one who loves you?

Idolatry is always public.

So I confess:

these are my Nouwen dress-up sweaters

which would have gone smartly

with my Bonhoeffer eye-glasses

had my wife let me buy them.

A Sermon for the New Year

2011-01-03T13:56:00.000-06:00

This past Sunday I had the opportunity to preach at my home congregation, South MacArthur Church of Christ. We took a look at Jeremiah 31:31-34 and meditated on Jeremiah's description of the new covenant. Below I've given a link to a video of the sermon, enjoy!

TruthCasting - Sermons

Early Morning

2011-01-03T13:16:00.004-06:00

The steps to her bedroom

are miles a stride

and I am the deep-eyed

road weary one

until she becomes home

in my arms.

He dug he a shallow grave

2010-12-11T09:29:00.001-06:00

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

2010-10-31T23:56:00.005-05:00

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

2010-10-26T20:30:00.003-05:00

All the mothers

all the fathers

just cans stacked against a wall

in preparation

singing 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

2010-10-03T19:31:00.001-05:00

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

2010-09-20T20:23:00.005-05:00

So often with God

the appropriate conjunction

is not "but"

but "so"

"You've messed up

and caused so much pain,

God forgives you."

It is not:

but God loves you anyways,

It is simply:

God loves you.

A Tentative Definition of Scripture

2010-09-02T10:55:00.004-05:00

Scripture is the Gospel's most adequate conversation partner.

Prayer in response to Psalm 1

2010-08-19T23:38:00.007-05:00

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

2010-08-17T17:41:00.004-05:00

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

2010-08-11T16:57:00.002-05:00

How long

should one wait

after sinning

to pray?

Save your theology,

I tremble at the thought.

Home for the Night

2010-08-10T10:50:00.002-05:00

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

2010-08-07T21:49:00.003-05:00

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

2010-07-27T09:43:00.008-05:00

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)

2010-07-20T10:33:00.003-05:00

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

2010-07-19T15:29:00.012-05:00

"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

2010-07-07T11:19:00.006-05:00

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

2010-06-23T12:22:00.007-05:00

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

2010-06-15T09:12:00.004-05:00

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

2010-06-06T19:05:00.004-05:00

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

2010-05-25T10:51:00.004-05:00

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

2010-05-25T10:15:00.005-05:00

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

2010-05-19T11:28:00.022-05:00

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

2010-05-18T16:07:00.008-05:00

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

2010-05-16T22:32:00.006-05:00

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

2010-05-14T08:57:00.003-05:00

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

2010-05-10T08:05:00.011-05:00

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

2010-05-09T16:00:00.001-05:00

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

2010-05-05T13:48:00.004-05:00

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

2010-04-29T21:49:00.002-05:00

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

2010-04-26T07:42:00.006-05:00

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.

2010-04-19T17:03:00.003-05:00

He is peace

upon

peace.

Whatever it is

2010-04-13T20:46:00.006-05:00

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

2010-04-06T17:14:00.004-05:00

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

2010-03-29T19:28:00.007-05:00

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

2010-03-26T11:58:00.002-05:00

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

Sermon Audio

2010-03-26T10:12:00.003-05:00

The Drama of Resurrection
David Ayres

Morning Coffee

2010-03-24T08:57:00.005-05:00

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

2010-03-22T19:40:00.005-05:00

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

2010-03-22T07:30:00.002-05:00

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

2010-03-19T10:38:00.004-05:00

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

2010-03-18T08:12:00.002-05:00

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

2010-03-09T18:08:00.001-06:00

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

2010-03-08T21:18:00.002-06:00

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

2010-03-02T17:12:00.004-06:00

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

2010-02-25T15:59:00.004-06:00

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.

2010-02-19T08:20:00.002-06:00

Love is measured

not in nearness

but in likeness.

We are the image

of God

So put down your

mirror.

I.

2010-02-15T18:50:00.003-06:00

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

2010-02-15T10:13:00.005-06:00

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

2010-02-08T13:58:00.005-06:00

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

2010-02-03T12:15:00.007-06:00

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

2010-01-31T21:28:00.003-06:00

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)

2010-01-29T21:36:00.004-06:00

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

2010-01-24T12:48:00.005-06:00

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.

Monarch

2009-11-27T11:03:00.001-06:00

It is all so nice, so me:

The needle on vinyl sound of tires

on pavement,

A radio perfect voice explaining a piece

by Schubert,

plowed earth the color of McDonald’s

coffee, one cream / one sugar.

All of it to recompense this road

I’d rather not take,

To make a cloister of my car

against the cotton fields:

white and ripe with unfamiliarity.

Until I kill her,

the dead monarch butterfly

Stuck in my windshield wiper

Wings still flapping with the wind.

Once, my child’s hand held

A newly emerged monarch.

Careful not to touch the soft,

Wet wings. Waiting, imagining

she stayed by choice.

I drive. Knowing

she stays by necessity.

Ready to be home again. Anxious

to remove her body.

Dust to Dust

2009-11-11T11:02:00.008-06:00

(After Wendell Berry)

Whose life is worth leaving

potatoes to dissolve back to soil

or keeping half eaten Seckel pears

from the arms of our children

eager for the snowballs of winter?

Why leave the earth’s breast engorged

for a nipple of latex or silicone?

I have seen the brimming white fields

and I have seen us feed the gulping

mouths of machines and the milk

as it runs down their faces

and into the streets to turn black

under rubber wheels.

“From dust

to dust,”

- it was a blessing.

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

The Peace of Wild Things

By WENDELL BERRY

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Breath

2009-11-11T10:17:00.001-06:00

Before her first cry

I stand at the kitchen window,

eyes half open,

waiting for hot water.

I breath through the glass.

Like a man with pneumonia

I breath through

the morning-eyed glass

and smell the sun’s breath

as he clears his voice

through the clouds.

Mushrooms

2009-11-07T16:51:00.003-06:00

I would resort

to that infamous

poet’s crutch and write

a poem about a poem

but I am sure

you would not be interested

in that, dear reader.

Instead:

the mushrooms

growing in my neighbor’s

meticulous yard among

her vine-wrapped archways

and non-seasonal,

non-indigenous flowers

and how

they are so much like poems –

little reminders that cultivation

is not everything,

and that, with enough

soggy gray days

and a fair amount of fecal material

life can spring up

just about anywhere.

Then again, that may just be

the mushrooms.

October 27, 2009

2009-10-31T18:48:00.008-05:00

for Granddaddy

Death is the oil

of God and you

are His anointed one.

Just as the sun

is consecrated

by its nightly

crucifixion

and the roots

of perennials

are sacred

in their tombs

of frostbit soil.

Used

2009-10-31T16:52:00.005-05:00

Preacher has his bible open

like the hood of a used car.

The pulpit is his sales lot -

makes his pitch every week.

No takers though,

Everyone wants a foreign number

these days. "It won't last"

they tell him, "piece of junk."

all he can think to say is:

"It'll get you where you want to go."

A Bird on a Fence

2009-10-31T16:19:00.006-05:00

If I wrote a poem about the bird

(it is a sparrow) sitting

on my back fence, and how

unsurprised I am to find her

there (it is spring), whose

poem would it be?

Yours, reader? Nursing a cup

half full of tea. Sequestered

(on your couch) with your thoughts

and pillows. Drying your thumbs

on a new book of poetry (lamp on

behind you). Skipping poems

with boring titles.

Would it be mine? Part-time poet

mouthing would-be metaphors

at his back door. Certainly,

there is a poem there:

A bird sitting on my fence

in the spring time.

Maybe I don't want this poem.

Perhaps it would be the bird's

(a sparrow),

who just left my fence.

She is

2009-10-25T23:04:00.006-05:00

the early morning -

as I walk through the gate

to my car and see

the mown field, still wild

as uncombed hair

and the stream of rain water

pooling and flowing over

uneven concrete,

still asleep, dreaming

itself a brook somewhere

green and hidden

and I smile at finding myself

so near beauty.

A conversation

2009-10-24T22:45:00.004-05:00

I'd ask, "what is mine?"

and you would say

"I am yours"

I'd point to something

like my books, or my TV,

or my wife and ask again,

"Is this mine?"

and you'd say

"I am yours."

Your Arrival

2009-10-21T18:24:00.001-05:00

I thought it would all be decided

when you came.

Your hair the color of your mother’s

my chin and cheeks – poor child –

weight exactly what your granddad

predicted: 7 pounds and 4 ounces,

All the genetic variables fighting

it out in the womb

and the winners announced

the morning of your birth

but you

as I stand over

open your eyes against

their vernix sealed lids

and reveal two blue pools

of complete unpredictability.

Expecting

2009-10-13T21:42:00.002-05:00

We are mostly home now

sitting on our couch:

she, with a pillow

from our bedroom

over her belly

legs on the middle

cushion as if it were an ottoman,

I, like a question mark,

feet on the ground -

bent over the food

in my lap.

She says,

I had a nightmare last night

I was pregnant

you were gone

leading some revolution

or something

Nightmare? Did I die?

no you just weren’t there

she says,

with a pillow

from our bedroom

over her belly

swollen legs on the middle

cushion as if it were an ottoman,

I, like a question mark,

feet on the ground -

bent over the food

in my lap.

The next best thing

2009-10-11T19:14:00.018-05:00

I read an article today which argues that Nuclear Weapons should be awarded the Nobel Peace prize. This poem is written in response.

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

I hide a toy gun

beneath my bed.

Its barrel lost

that orange cap

to distinguish

it from a real gun.

In case of burglary

it's the next best thing.

Just like a bloodied, broken fist

is the next best thing to a bloodied

bat, broken on a skull.

Just like rusty machetes

are the next best thing to assault rifles

for genocidal mobs.

Just like sending planes with troops

is the next best thing to sending planes

with bombs.

Just like us dying here

is the next best thing to them dying there.

Just like tallying the dead

is the next best thing to feeling safe.

Just like a room of uniformed men

with launch codes is the next best thing

to peace.

A Litany

2009-10-10T12:18:00.001-05:00

Tables too cluttered for eating.

Feet too sore for walking.

Teeth too brown for smiling.

Pants too tight for wearing.

Towels too nice for wiping.

Eyes too red for waking.

Friends too far for talking.

Coffee too hot for drinking.

Pools too cold for swimming.

Songs too old for singing.

Gas too high for driving.

Shelves too tall for reaching.

Keys too lost for finding.

Fish too smart for biting.

Men too proud for crying.

Nails too short for cutting.

Art too dull for framing.

Baby too soon for keeping.

Nose too big for dating.

Clock too slow for trusting.

Poem too long for reading.

Don't wait

2009-10-06T23:39:00.000-05:00

To lay down

Against the seared

Streets. To press

More than thirsty

Lips to cement and slurp

The mirage water.

Eighteen wheeler man

Still thinks it’s a hoax.

Kneel as if proposing

And feel the moist earth

Beneath concrete’s starched skirt.

Behave yourself if you must

But do not wait.

Slam Sermon

2009-09-25T10:22:00.011-05:00

Below is a slam poem I wrote for my poetry class. Slam poetry or Spoken Word poetry is characterized by an intense awareness of meter and rhythm. This is poetry to be spoken, to be performed. Unlike some of the "high-brow" poetry we sometimes find in literary magazines, this is poetry for the masses - that is, the poet actually wants to say something and works to be captivating for his audience. The best way, if you want to know what makes a slam poem, is to listen: Julian Curry, Saul Williams, Taylor Mali.

I will try to post an audio version of my poem later, but for now read it aloud and explore the rhythm of these syllables.

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

Slam Sermon

All rise for the reading of God’s word

Berasheath bara elohim eth hashamiam vaeth ha-aritz

In the Beginning God created the heavens and the earth

And he said:

Be! To the light and swing low at night

So that east knows west and stays put unless

I say so, now let the winds blow

The waters back back back back stop!

and let the mountains prop

up heaven’s spot

earth have you caught

your breath yet? Because I need ya

Hyena, cheetah, zebra

You feel me, chimpanzee?

Throw a horn on it call it rhinoceros

Throw a beak on it call it a platypus.

Crows, hawks, cardinals, larks

Perch, bass, dolphins, sharks

Now man from the sand

And my breath and my hand

And woman from the sand

And my breath and my hand

Now I am rest.

Berasheath bara elohim eth hashamiam vaeth ha-aritz

That’s right YHWH the original slam poet

But we can’t hear that subtext

In this context

Because we handcuff God with words

We gag him with our liturgy:
Song

Song

Prayer

Song

Bread

Juice

Money

Song

Sermon

Song

Prayer

Song

Prayer

Song

Bread

Juice

Money

Song

Sermon

Song

Prayer

We’ve shut the eloquent one up until

All we have left are echoes

Ricocheting across scripture

Berasheath bara... bla bla bla

Until justice flowed like a leaky faucet

And mercy like a string of spit

Song

Prayer

Song

Bread

Juice

Money

Song

Sermon

Song

Prayer

You have heard it said:

He who has ears let him hear

But I tell you:

Let he who has a mouth speak

May the words in your mind

be fruitful, increase and multiply

Because I want to break words like communion crackers

And drink the blood that flows from the open syllables

I want to be baptized in the name of the noun, and the verb, and the adjective

so that the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit actually mean something to me.

I want to pull a YHWH and speak worlds into existence when we pray

And if we can’t do that I want to, at the very least, pull a Jesus

And wear words like skin; bleeding, edible skin.

God of the Afflicted

2009-09-22T10:35:00.003-05:00

You are God of the afflicted

so this oppressor prays:

Heal my blindness

so that I can see your immanent reign.

Heal these crippled hands

too weak and unskilled to serve

my neighbors.

Toughen my feet

whose soles are too soft

to walk upon the places

where there is broken glass and needles.

I confess my afflictions

to the God of the afflicted - rescue me.

Amen.

Expecting

2009-09-15T17:50:00.002-05:00

We are mostly home now,

sitting around in our underwear

or the elastic waisted pajama pants

we let no one but each other see.

Heating pad and the blanket

my granny made journey nightly

from couch to bed and in the morning

back again. There are three positions

for sleep - two require my arms -

and only one is comfortable so I

let her stay there until my arm

sleeps as hard as she does.

We are drooling with anticipation.

Loss

2009-09-08T17:51:00.003-05:00

The other day

I found your face

in the popcorn ceiling,

but, today, it wasn't there

when I looked.

Audio of the Round Rock Sermon

2009-09-05T18:44:00.005-05:00

http://rrcoc.org/resources/media

I've attached an audio recording of the sermon I preached in Round Rock. This link will take you to Round Rock's audio resource page where my sermon is listed with several others.

While I know those of you who read this blog have already seen the text I thought I'd post the audio; it's not really a sermon until it's spoken before the community of faith... enjoy!

Henry's Cafe

2009-09-04T19:35:00.009-05:00

There is righteousness?

Yes.

And sin?

Yes.

a conversation

between old and bitter friends.

Sometimes bitter towards each other

and sometimes not, but always old.

They eat breakfast together

at Henry's

every Wednesday at 7:30,

or sometimes later;

done it for years.

They come in the back door,

get their own coffee,

sit in silence while one finishes the paper.

Then talk over whole wheat toast and eggs.

and grace?

Yes.

I am

2009-09-02T21:29:00.001-05:00

I am

a lamb

in wolf's skin.

A Sermon

2009-08-30T21:20:00.006-05:00

Below is a sermon I preached this Sunday at Round Rock Church of Christ. Enjoy.

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

Who do you think you are?

Mark 2:1-12

The house is packed on this morning, and I don’t mean just with people, that little house in Capernaum is brimming with expectation. The air is thick with excitement and it’s all because of a traveling preacher (wink, wink). Over in one corner there are two men murmuring: “How did you hear about his guy?” “Oh, I was in the synagogue where he drove an evil spirit out of some guy” “In the middle of his sermon?!” “Yeah, it was nuts!” Over across the room, a woman is telling those around her that Jesus had healed her just last week, “Yeah, it was the darndest thing, he just touched me and voila! no more cough!” “Did he say anything to you? “Nothing much, it all happened so fast, there were so many people over there being healed.” And a few feet from them there is a couple leaning against the windowsill, the husband whispers to his wife, “You see that guy over there? He was a leper a few days ago, all the guys at work were talking about him. I told Matthias hey, maybe Jesus could get you a date, now that would be a miracle!”

It is curiosity, it is mystery, it is a question that brings them to that little house in Capernaum. And the question on all of their minds is the question that has been bubbling under the surface of Mark from the very beginning of chapter one: “Who is this Jesus?” “Who does this traveling preacher think he is?”

Enter the four friends. Can you imagine how packed this house is that it is easier to get a paralyzed man on the roof than it is to just elbow your way through the door? I’ve always thought they should have just crowd surfed him in to Jesus. “Alright, here he comes!” But no, they go up on the roof, with their friend.

My great-grandfather on my dad’s side spent most of his life in a wheel chair, he was virtually paralyzed from severe rheumatoid arthritis. My Grand-daddy, at about my age, was taking care of his father and the family farm in a region still recovering from the depression. In fact, he was exempt from the World War II draft because of his family situation but he went on to serve in the navy anyways. I remember, some years ago, my parents giving my grand-daddy a book full of questions, designed to help someone write a memoir of their life. One of those questions was this: “Do you have any regrets?” and I will always remember his response. Below the question, in the uneven scrawl of an 80 something year old stroke victim he wrote these words: “It seems like I’ve always had to do things the hard way.”

I think our friends on the roof of that little house in Capernaum can relate. It seems like they always have to do things the hard way. So, after somehow getting the paralytic, mat and all, on top of the roof they begin to dig and pound and tear their way to Jesus. I imagine more than once doubt began to creep in, as they were first starting out and they could hardly tell if they had made a dent in the roof, the question rose up in the back of their minds: Who is this Jesus anyways? When they heard the angry voices below them as pieces of the roof fell down into the house, the question might have been there: “Who is this Jesus, anyways?” And when their friend, after all of their work and sweat was finally laying there on the ground at Jesus’ feet, and all they could do was wait I am certain the question was there, they could feel it in the pit of their stomach, “Who is this Jesus?”

And then there is a hush. There is a sacred moment in the midst of a crowded room. The silence before words, as this broken life is layed bare before the Christ. His eyes full of hope, expectation, wonder, and anxiety all at once. All are straining to hear what words he will say.

It’s the Christmas of 1993, I am 5 and I have the most brilliant idea of my entire young life. Here is my thinking: There is an old man in a red suit living somewhere in the north pole who, with the helping of eight flying reindeer, is capable of traveling the entire world in one night to deliver presents to every good boy or girl. Why waste his immense capabilities by asking for a tonka truck?! It’s practically an insult. So I decide to think outside the box, to go for the gold, to use all of Santa’s great potential. That Christmas, in a stroke of inspired Genius, I ask Santa for the ability to fly.

You can imagine how impressed my parents were by reasoning abilities. They asked me, is there anything else you want for Christmas? I was ready for that question: absolutely not, I said, I am asking for a lot already and I don’t want to ruin my chances by asking for too much. And so we went through all of the great Christmas rituals, they took me to see Santa (or Santa’s helper) at the mall. When it came my turn I strode confidently up and sat on his lap and when he asked me what I wanted, I said proudly, “I want to fly!” And he said, Here is a candy cane, Merry Christmas. I sent letters, I did everything my parents asked, there was no way I was going on the Naughty list this year. Most of all I was tight-lipped about anything else I might have wanted, I could not jeopardize my chances by losing focus.

And then came Christmas morning. I remember running out with my brother and looking everywhere for that greatest of gifts. Although, I really had no idea what it would look like? How do you package something like the ability to fly? Is there a magic cape in one of these boxes? Did he give a little bit of reindeer food? My parents, seeing my frantic search, hand me a small rectangular package. I tear it open and read the front cover: The Klutz Book of Magic. Inside there are pages and pages on coin tricks, card tricks, even an illusion where you make a dollar turn into a piece of silk, but nothing on flying. Then I read the inside cover, there is a note from Santa:

Dear David,

Merry Christmas! I got your letters about wanting to fly. Unfortunately, Comet ate the last of the magic acorns. I’m sorry I won’t be able to give the ability to fly this year but I hope you enjoy learning to do some other neat magic tricks.

Sincerely,

Kris Kringle

I have never forgiven Comet.

And in that little house in Capernaum, I am sure you could see the disappointment on the Paralytic’s face. He came in expecting to fly and instead he got a book of magic tricks. After all the work his friends did just to carry him to that house, not to mention hoisting him on the roof and tearing a hole to lower him through, Jesus words come as a slap in the face. “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

What?! What do you mean my sins are forgiven? What are you missing here? Besides, look at me! How much trouble could I have possibly gotten into!

But if he is upset he is not alone, the teachers of the law cringe as they hear Jesus utter those words, “Son, your sins are forgiven.” I remember my mom, when she was really mad at me would always ask: “Who do you think you are?!” It meant I had overstepped my bounds. And that is exactly what the scribes would like to know of Jesus: “Who do you think you are?!” You know good and well that we take care of sin at the temple, with a priest, where God is present and can cover over our sins. This is neither the time nor the place! You are out of line young man, above your pay grade, you’re in over your head. Who do you think you are?!

And as much as I’d like to dismiss the scribes as thick-headed religious nuts, they have a point. I just started school this last week and I have to be honest. I don’t know if I have ever been more ready for school to start as I was last Monday. It was a rough summer and you wanna know why? I had nothing to do. I taught at church on Sundays and Wednesdays and other than that, I had no responsibilities, nothing expected of me, and all of my friends were gone for the summer. On top of that my pregnant wife is getting up at six in the morning to work a twelve hour shift on the cancer floor to support us… I have never felt more useless. When you are alone like that, alone with your inadequacies with no way of being productive, it messes with your head. Those monkeys pile on your back because it’s just you, what you see is what you get. I tried to pray but couldn’t. So I read about prayer. And that just made things worse. Because all of those authors say the same thing, that to pray is to rest in God’s love, that’s it, nothing to accomplish, just know, fully, that God loves you, that he is not mad at you. And I couldn’t do it. If you are telling me that God thinks he can come in, know me intimately, and still love me, forgive me even, then he has another thing coming. Who does he think he is? He asks so much but requires so little. Surely this whole God thing can’t be that simple. Forgiveness is a hard sell and I think the scribes are just being honest. They have a point don’t they?

I remember sitting in a Starbucks with some friends during high school working on a project for school. Eventually we had finished our work but our coffee cups weren’t quite empty so we stayed a while a talked. Eventually the topic turned to religion and one girl, her name was Christina, asked me a question that I will never forget. Her mom had spent time in and out of mental institutions resulting from a mental breakdown she suffered when she and Christina’s father divorced. She would fluctuate from fits of violent rage to passionate weeping in front of Christina when she would visit. And it was in the midst of that anguish that one day, she committed suicide. And Christina’s question to me in Starbucks was this: Is my mom in hell for killing herself? And boiling beneath her eyes, you could see the question: If God can condemn my mother, after all her suffering, then who does he think he is? It’s a good question. It’s a tough question

And in that little house in Capernaum, Jesus gives an answer. He doesn’t hand them a resume, doesn’t offer a list of references, he doesn’t pull out his license to heal. No, he says, “This is so that you might know…” and he bends down and speaks to that silent man lying on the floor, “Get up, take your mat and go home.” Jesus announces that God is in the business of making all things new. He looks down upon that man, in all of his brokenness and speaks words of hope, of healing, of transformation. “Get up, take your mat and go home.” This is not just about the paralytic being able to walk again, as wonderful as that is, this is God stuff, this is who he is, this is so that you might know that God is alive in the world in the ministry of Jesus Christ… Get up, take your mat and go home. We find out who He is… in that little house in Capernaum.

My step – grandfather passed away a couple of summers ago. A violent alcoholic who came into my mother’s life after her biological father was placed in a mental institution. His presence was viral for their family dynamics and they became the definition of a dysfunctional family. So much so that my mom had to leave to get away from the situation. So she came to Texas to go to ACU and has been here ever since. When we heard about the brain aneurysm Papa had somehow survived, we booked a flight and visited him in a little hospital in Massachusetts. In that tiny room, I watched my mom rub his feet with lotion and roll him over to relieve the pain of his bed sores, I watched her care for this man who had been the source of so much pain to her family. On one of the last days of our stay he told us about a dream he had had. In this dream, he said, he saw Jesus come down out of heaven and say these words: “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

A few weeks later he passed away, with his family surrounding him. And although he never heard Christ say “Get up, take your mat and go home.” I am convinced he experienced the authority of Jesus to forgive, I am convinced he knew who Jesus was and is. And I can’t help but feel that being in that little hospital in Massachusetts was a whole like being in that little house in Capernaum. This is so that you might know…

What I’ve done this morning is to try to tell a story. And the great things about stories is that you can put yourself in the place of the characters.

Today, many of you might be the friends, who see the pain and the need of those you love and resolve to take them up, to bear their trouble, to lay them at the feet of Christ. And if it seems, at times, that you must always do things the hard way, know that there is no more important work than to bring those we love before Christ, and he will be faithful. Thank you for your hearts and may God fill you with peace.

Others of you might be a scribe, and I thank you for asking the tough questions, and I pray that in the midst of your questions you might see Jesus, in all of his authority. If you feel anger, if it is hard for you to listen to the voice of Christ, I want you to know that you belong here, you are one of us. I am convinced more than ever, that we need saints who ask tough questions.

And there may be a few paralytics here this morning. May you know that there are friends here willing to carry you, to do whatever it takes to get you to Jesus, to lay you down in this little church in Round Rock where you can hear the voice of Christ. All of this so that you might know…

The builder

2009-08-26T08:04:00.003-05:00

There, on the southern wall, above the opening

for the garage door, on the right, along the inside edge

of the outermost rafter, adjacent to where the eave

awkwardly poses beside the rest of the structure and

nails, like pictures, still-frame her best effort,

are three superfluous bolts, embarrassed,

as his hand, straining at the socket wrench,

muscles a nut into the wood's creaking protest.

Days

2009-08-23T16:22:00.002-05:00

They say some days are longer than others.

By which, I guess, they mean on some days

the sun sticks around for a few extra minutes

or hours or something.

But time passes either way.

Whether there is light or not

time passes either way.

Further Advice and a Poem

2009-08-22T12:48:00.006-05:00

How to tell a good poem:

if it offends you

it is good.

As I hope, someday, to have some of my work published I think a lot about what makes a good poem. The piece of "advice" above is somewhat borrowed from my high school theater teacher who was fond of telling us: if you are not offending someone then you are not doing your job. Also, it is something that struck me as I read a poem today in willow springs (another part of becoming a good poet is reading good poetry, something I am trying to become better about doing.) Below is the poem by John Hodgen:

Witness

Predictable to some degree that a man with a red and white striped

stick-on umbrella hat

and a portable public address system bullhorn would be working the

heart of Bourbon Street

in the name of the Lord. Telling all the jesters, masquers, Red Death

revelers, the God

will not be mocked, that His patience is running out, that He sees us

all, unblinking.

Predictable as well, perhaps, that his sidekick, his long suffering

Fortunato, would be hauling a life-size cross up

the street with him on the Via Dolorosa, the road to the Superdome.

Less predictable the college kid, clean cut, a Chuck Palahniuk Fight

Club type,

having to be restrained, pulled away by his friends, physically lifted

off the ground,

his feet moving in mysterious ways. Screaming at the Jesusers that

they don't belong here,

that this is our holy place, our last sanctuary, that this is where we

come for the sole purpose of getting away from Jesus, that

this is where we worship, that we should be free to mock

God whenever we want, that someone could get hurt tripping

over a cross like that in the street,

that we should just be left alone, that we are all being crucified each

and every day.

His friends haul him away, John the un-Baptist, God's true warrior

in sackcloth and ashes, His burning bush, His voice

in the French Quarter wilderness, blessed troublemaker,

not to be mocked, not to be saved, crown of thorns messiah

of the way things really are.

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

This poem didn't offend me, exactly, but it does something close. I stand between these two men, the "Jesuser" and "the college kid." I am a fan of neither the kind of Christianity depicted here nor taking lightly the confession that Jesus is Lord. Perhaps this is what makes this poem so compelling to me. The end of the poem is especially weighted by this tension: it is, at once, heretical and reminiscent of the scandal Jesus' ministry was to his contemporaries. It seems to me that discussions on Missionality would greatly benefit from a reading of this poem.

These are my thoughts and reactions, what are yours? What happens in the pit of your stomach as you read Hodgen's poem?

Some Advice

2009-08-22T08:38:00.003-05:00

How to tell a good contemporary poet:

look at their picture on the back flap,

if they are smiling they are good.

I Forget...

2009-08-22T06:51:00.003-05:00

I forget that you could destroy me

quite easily. I woke up last night

to thunder rolling in that deep

sounding way that I like to pretend

is your voice and I smiled sleepily

to you, "Oh, you are so awesome

and beautiful and awesome God."

Then, just as I was falling back

to sleep, thunder announced

a lightening bolt so near our house

there was no delay between light and sound,

and there was the illusion that it was

the electricity slamming violently into the ground

that had caused such a great bang.

I sat up, eyes open, hand on my wife,

ready to sleep the rest of the night in my car.

I forget that you could destroy me quite easily.

Look up! Behold the mind God!

2009-08-21T10:02:00.004-05:00

Look up! Behold the mind God!

Those clouds, I know their name:

Cerebrum - His wrinkled gray matter.

See His thoughts? Each star a synapse,

sparks of the divine intelligence,

Each constellation a neural map,

patterns seared into His ancient mind

by centuries of contemplation:

Orion the hunter with his bow drawn,

The Big Dipper overflowing with the water

of Aquarius. Virgo the virgin and Serpens the snake.

And no matter how dark the night

we can be comforted by the light of his thoughts.

Old

2009-08-16T21:41:00.003-05:00

Life feels so old to me.

A soul lumbering about like an old man

with his cane and crooked back.

Stooped as if there had been some great weight

pushing his neck down his whole life

but it was only his mind.

A spirit caricatured: big ears, big nose -

ironically defunct but covered over

with hearing aids and a forgetfulness

of what she used to smell like

when I woke up in the middle of the night

and her warmth and breath and scent

came to me as one thing in the darkness.

She is still here, the forgotten memories

just explanations for the peace I have.

So I go on plodding past our familiar things and I pray.

Oh God, hear my prayer.

Ayres Men

2009-08-11T13:04:00.002-05:00

My Great-Grandfather, Granddaddy's Daddy as I understood him, used a wheelchair for much of his adult life because of crippling rheumatoid arthritis. Granddaddy was taking care of him and the family farm when he was about my age: 21, exempt from the World War II draft because of his father's condition. I never knew my Great-Grandfather, I've seen his paintings though. Because he could not use his hands he would take the brush in his mouth or between his toes to paint. He painted what he knew: a home, dirt road, pecan trees, all with warmth and the deepened yellow hue of a peaceful country evening.

It seems to me that he set the standard for us, Ayres men. All of us painting with those tiny, and patiently careful strokes of ability without ambition - learning to see the warmth and light in ordinary scenes. We paint with the wisdom of a man thankful for his hands. If it seems, to us, we must always do things the hard way, this is why.

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

"Be careful, son." he said, and emphasized this with narrative:

"Once, when I was a little boy,

I stepped on a nail and had to get a tetanus shot."

"Did it hurt?"

"Oh yes, tetanus shots are the worst."

"I hope I never have to have a tetanus shot in my foot."

"Me too, son."

"Daddy?"

"Hm?"

"Do all sons have to go through everything their daddies went through?"

"What?"

"I mean, because you stepped on a nail does it mean I will?"

"No."

"Okay."

Vinyl Blinds

2009-08-04T11:45:00.007-05:00

Light squeezed between vinyl blinds -

you,

adjust the angle to get a better view

or better yet pull the string, send them

to the top of the window, and cough

at the dust you've stirred

until your hands work the lock over

and lift the glass to let oxygen

in through the wire mesh,

and the entangled rain water.

Leaves

2009-08-03T08:49:00.002-05:00

Outside, trees are dried up

from their old songs.

Dead leaves laid in the road

by a voiceless wind,

and wind picks them up again,

and pushes them down the road,

and replaces them with more

of the same.

An Exposition of a Phrase

2009-07-24T18:56:00.007-05:00

"How Sad"

voiced low; just past

condolences - then silence.

A glance,

then eyes to the floor.

inhale, tilt head, adjust jaw -

(as if the silence

results from improper

bio-mechanics)

Change the subject,

we both know

How Sad.

Moses

2009-07-21T09:30:00.005-05:00

Once-

Mother church lifted me

out of water,

and I was her child.

Now-

I am disrobed -

unable to hide what's

buried in the sand.

once a prince -

now outcast.

So I've wandered in the wilderness

- my own heart charred,

seared by flame and my eyes

still blind.

Yet I stagger forth,

unsure of all but this:

what embers smolder in this heart

are stoked by God's breath

and I will be ash

before my own breath relents

of saying: "Let them go."