raised (luke 7:11–17)

whenever Jesus raises someone
from the dead in the gospels,
I always wonder what that person did
the next day.

did they quit their job?

were they grateful?
were others jealous?
were they believed?

did they get a haircut,
hug their children,
their lover or their parents?

did they still quarrel with their
neighbors, drink too much,
harbor resentments,
or wish they were
smarter?

did they stop
beating their servants?

did they talk about it -
or was there just no explaining?

did they fear death any longer –
or was the mystery now

only greater?

last pitch

funny how growing up catholic
(or anything I guess)
you hear the same stories
over and over until you
don’t hear them anymore. maybe
you never heard them, even though you
were right there the whole time.

the nuns were a fairly literal bunch.
when jesus fed the multitudes with
bread and fish from just five loaves
and two fish. that’s just exactly what he did.
a holy concession stand he was,
he never ran out of food
before the last pitch with the runners running.

but now when I read of that vast crowd
on the darkening shores of the Sea of Galilee,
I see jesus looking out over that dusty,
hungry and tired multitude with a gleam in his eye.
I hear him snicker when his disciples
say “send the crowds away we don’t have enough to feed everyone.”

he blesses the bread with his rough hands.
he touches the eyes of the fish and knows the net that caught it.
the disciples gave them to the crowds.
I suppose he sits quietly and watches;
we don’t know if he ate, do we?

but in all the multitude there was not
one person called out by jesus. he did not
tell his disciples “this one, but not her. ”

there must have been widows listening,
a leper or two. a tax collector.
a fool. an atheist.
but no one was turned away.
not even those clever enough to have brought a picnic.
you got bread whether you wanted it or not.
every seeker was found.
every enemy partook.
jesus fed everyone.

no one was turned away.

agape

it will be a long night
with this feast
of fish, olives, wine and bread;
their sweet aromas are mingling with
the smoke of the flickering candles.

good to sit with my brothers.

jesus, our holy fool,
is on his knees before me
washing my feet, gently.
i do not know why he bothers to
humiliate himself this way.

as usual, he is being
opaque in his words. the wine
makes it yet harder. would that he
would just once say what he means.

parables!

he dries my worn, tired, dirty feet
as if there were nothing more precious.

the meal is amazing. i do not know who
baked this bread, but she must be celebrated.

jesus lectures us on what we must do when he
is gone. he speaks of love.
all i know is we are itinerant preachers, poor as dust, followed
by rabble that wouldn’t know a torah from a sandal.
just why exactly am i this man’s disciple?

down the table i see thomas nodding off.
james and john are arguing about that
damnable pilate. rome did us no favors with
that buffoon.

still, i feel content. but
judas is petulant -
looking like he wants to smack
jesus for those foolish words
of betrayal. the next time i look, he is gone.

and, after that crowing cock crack
from jesus, peter has become sullen
and sits by the fire alone.

the musicians have left. the servants as well.
the dishes will be cleared away tomorrow I guess.

jesus puts his cloak on
and announces we must go to gethsemane.

we grumble. why we have to
go to the garden in the middle of the night,
when decent men should be in their beds,
is anyone’s guess.

outside it is dark and cold
and no one can find judas.

parable

in church this week,
charlotte read my poem out
loud as part of the liturgy,

which was, like the poem,
a flawed attempt to describe
the unseen.

“he did not speak to them except in parables.”

it was disconcerting to watch charlotte
take my words by the hand,
and guide them through the church,
one by one, like small children.

in a voice as steady as rain,
she spoke of denial and loss -
how bitter they lie on our tongues –
and redemption.

“they ... may indeed listen, but not understand”

words have meanings - many found in webster’s -
though for poets and prophets there
are always meanings known only to them.
ciphers that beg the listener
to bestow coins of understanding into
their tiny, outstretched hands.

“but he explained everything in private to his disciples.”

“words are not just words,” He must have said to them,
“they have consequences.”
something
poets already know, and whether prophet or poet,
we will admit, in private at least,
that all poems are, without fail, prayers
beseeching god to restore

what we never had.

Sending Postcards To The Buddha

in my rush to follow jesus
i have forgotten to send postcards
to buddha, which he likes.

mona lisa master.
his serene smile. his amused eyes.

empty mind
prayer on his still lips.

unlike the letters I write jesus
the postcards are best left blank
except for the address:

buddha,
jack pine tree
end of long dusty road
far up the mountain

novelty photos
or landscapes or miniature golf
courses with odd themes are
favorites.

in upstate new york, years ago,
i saw a small buddha statute
observing the ninth hole of a
putt-putt.
after all,
enlightenment
can come at a stroke...

under the bright lights that click on
at sunset, no doubt jesus could beat
the final “free game” hole
without cheating,
while buddha would keep an honest score.

after, on the long drive home,
they would smoke cigarettes,

listen to Elvis
on far away AM stations,
and sing along:

“...Please don’t ask me what’s on my mind
i’m a little mixed up, but i’m feelin’ fine...”



Namaste.

Bible Verse Faves Of The Week

"Those who say, ‘I love God’, and hate their brothers or sisters,^* are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen" - 1 John 4:20

"How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister ^* in need and yet refuses help?" - 1 John 3:17

It seems so elementary to me that we should not hate others - even those with whom we share no common ground except the earth itself. It also seems so elementary to me that we should share our good fortune with those less fortunate - even those we or "proper" folk may think don't "deserve" such largess.

These two texts tell me that I should love those I don't care for and care for those who cannot care for themselves. That I should give freely without conditions, just as Christ did.

One of those easy to say, hard to follow commandments...

So, I should love Rush Limbaugh though he would not likely love me. And I should give to the dirty, homeless man on the corner with the crude sign that says "I have AIDS and am hungry. Anything will help. GOD BLESS" because, well, I can. If I see him, a brother in need, and I have the "world's goods," how can I refuse to help?

I assume that Jesus would kick my Volvo driving, Patagonia covered ass if I tried to weasel out of this one because the guy is obviously lazy or an addict or [insert excuse here] - because, really, I don't know anything except here is a person obviously in trouble who needs help, and I can help.

I don't need to know how he got AIDS, why he is hungry or how he came to be homeless. I don't even need to know if he's telling the truth. All I need to know is, he needs help with all three, and I have the good fortune to have the "world's goods."

Namaste.

We Cannot Believe By Ourselves

It has been an interesting two weeks following Easter.

Our Pastor called for volunteers to create some kind of resurrection station during each Sunday after Easter. Sort of like the stations of the Cross only this time to reflect different resurrection stories. An earlier post of mine discusses the story of Doubting Thomas. When I wrote that I was thinking about me and doubt, obviously. And when I heard the call to create a station of the resurrection I volunteered to do one on John 20:24-25: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

I volunteered because I thought it would be fun to do. It was kind of a cool PowerPoint deal with lots of fades, quotes from everyone from Luther to Bono, odd paintings by Jim Dine (see photo) and others. And it plays to the soundtrack of Songs and Poems for Solo Cello: Song III, by Phillip Glass as performed by Wendy Sutter. I must have agonized over that damn thing for two weeks. iTunes tells me I listened to Song III 56 times in the course of putting it together.

The relevant sections of John 20 are interspersed with pithy quotes that seemed relevant in terms of the role doubt plays in faith. For example, “It is not as a child that I believe and confess Jesus Christ. My hosanna is born of a furnace of doubt.” - Fyodor Dostoevsky. Or how about “Some things have to be believed to be seen.” - Ralph Hodgson. Or last but not least: “I believe though I do not comprehend, and I hold by faith what I cannot grasp with the mind.” - St. Bernard and so on.

So yesterday, Sunday, I set up my Mac at HFASS and got it ready to play it during what we call “Open Space.” Other folks had some cool stuff. Someone set up a sheet where you could sign your name in place of “Mary!” as Jesus exclaimed it when he left the tomb. (John 20:11-21:25 ) That was amazing to visualize while I stood there. Another had a poem cut in sections hanging and on a clothesline. Nice that.

Picture my Mac on a green cloth covered table. A tall white candle on each side (in praise of St. Job of Apple I imagine). Music blasting out of Pastor Nadia’s speakers, it ran all during the open space period. The song is only 2:19 long which was a bit much when heard over and over and over. [A brief digression, interestingly, John 2:19 is “Jesus answered them, Destroy this temple, and I will raise it again in three days.”]

Anyway, after the service, Charlotte and I packed it up and went home. I was totally down from the moment I walked out of church. Which was weird. The funk lasted most of the night and into today. This foggy grey day of snow showers and absence. Because that’s what it feels like today. No Christ. No Spirit. No God. No Trinity. No presence. Only absence. It has been so long since I felt His presence or could see it. The fog and mists obscure the trees and make them just shadows. I’d be glad for such a shadow of Christ. At least I'd know He was there.

It dawned on me when I got home tonight that I’m down because despite the pretty presentation, the wise words, the pithy quotes, and the (all too) haunting music, despite all that, my doubts are still here, perhaps stronger than ever. I had hoped my project would prove to be an exorcism of sorts. But thinking about Thomas for two weeks has seemed to have the reverse effects. I’m reading “The Reason For God” right now and I want to debate Timothy Keller at every turn.

Instead of getting closer to God I feel further away. Intellectually, I know St. Bernard is right but my heart was empty after church and is still empty tonight. Luther said, “Faith is a divine work that God demands of us; but at the same time He Himself implants it We cannot believe by ourselves.”

That last bit is my solace tonight. “We cannot believe by ourselves.”

Jesus said: “For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” Matthew 18:20

Perhaps this is what Christ meant, at least in part - the community of followers sustains us.; i.e., church. God knows its hard to believe all alone, at least for me, and perhaps intended it as such.

I just wish I could understand why.

Namaste.

Of Course He Did

A Certain Young Man

"A certain young man was following him, wearing nothing but a linen cloth. They caught him, but he left the linen cloth, and ran off naked." - Mark 14:51-52 (NRSV)

"And there followed him a certain young man, having a linen cloth cast about his naked body; and the young men laid hold on him: And he left the linen cloth, and fled from them naked." - Mark 14:51-52 (King James)

What an odd text.

There are some very complicated theories on this very short text based on original texts rather than the translations we see here. As for who this young man is, some say the young man is Mark himself, others say he just a boy sleeping in the garden and woke to the ruckus, others say he's an angel, and others say the boy dressed in a white robe in Jesus' tomb is the same person as runs off naked in the garden. Mark 16:5. And there are other theories as well. In other words, nobody knows. As for the meaning, there are multiplicity of works in speculative fiction on that as well.

Let's play this back again. This certain young man (late teens or early twenties) went running off just after Jesus is arrested by the chief priests. Just after one of those who stood near drew his sword and cut off the ear of the slave of the high priest. Just after: "All of them deserted him and fled." - Mark 14:50 In other words, he's standing there, in the cold of the night, in a "linen" and he sees a betrayal, an arrest, a sword draw blood, and the Disciples high-tail it out of there. He thinks: "Sh*t!" In the chaos of the disciples fleeing, he tries to flee and some people grab him but he breaks free and runs...

Well, who wouldn't?

Doesn't everyone run screaming (at least metaphorically) when they figure out what following Christ really means? I think this young man is standing in for all of us in Mark's gospel (interestingly I don't think he appears in the other gospels). He witnesses the betrayal and arrest of Christ and then flees the scene of the crime. He's a material witness and he goes on the lam. Because, by god, he doesn't want to get involved.

Just like me when I first heard the gospels so long ago, and even last year when I came tentatively back to the gospels. Like a witness to a crime who peers through the blinds at the night scene below, at the circle of shadowed people standing around a body laying on the avenue in the pink glow of the city, but out of fear, doesn't dial 9-1-1.

This certain young man was an uncertain witness to something he did not fully comprehend. Something that scared him and sent him running.

I can relate to that.

Namaste.

Three Prayers

I've been trying to pray. There are many things that I am pretty good at, prayer is presently not one of them. I only have three:

1) Fix This, Amen.

2) Save The World, In Your Mercy

3) Jesus, WTF?

This is not a very wide range of original thinking. Sometimes silence works as a prayer but I get squirmy.

I think I need to be in a prayer cover band for a while. Learn some traditional licks before branching off on my own.

If anyone has any ideas for a playlist, let me know.

Namaste.