As part of the Sunday tradition, the preacher says:
“Let us pray.”
After a salutation, words of confession and penance,
and expressions of gratitude, we hear:
“Lord, we ask today for…” and you can
finish the sentence.  It might be courage, or
more compassion, or an end to injustice, or
boldness.
Having made the request, we hope for a response.

But sometimes I wonder if God might reply:
Be bold…and I will be with you in your boldness.
Be courageous…and I will be with you in your courage.
Be compassionate…and I am there.
Act justly…and I am with you in your action.

We don’t have to wait if we realize that we
already possess what we ask for.

Reluctantly the long concrete runway
surrenders to speed and power.
The magic begins.
Lifting, lifting.  Nose up, flaps gathering
air beneath elegant wings,
engine screaming at full throttle,
the gleaming cylinder splits
the damp morning air.
Higher and higher.

Two adventurers in green flight suits and
black helmets decorated with lightening
bolts, strain against the acceleration,
an invisible force that finally lessens
when the sleek Skyhawk levels out
in a somber morning sky.

Clipped words are exchanged on the radio.  Altitude and
course acknowledged, the nose of the aircraft
rises again, this time not so severely, as men and
plane disappear into the dense grayness of low hanging
clouds.  The texture of this momentary world surrounds
them like a heavy blanket pressing against the
clear cockpit bubble, visibility impossible,
the last barrier to overcome.

With neither warning nor fanfare, the marvel
machine breaks through the cloud top and emerges
into a visual paradise.  A billowy cloud floor,
soft and fluffy, extends forever in all directions.
From the dull grayness of thick cloud, machine
and men are thrust, as if from lthe womb,
into a world of startling clarity.
No sunlight is so brilliant, no blue as
breathtaking as the crystal
sky that is forever,
unending.

Seen from the ground, the little silver dot
continues to climb, wispy cloud strands
hanging on the wings for a moment.
And then it is gone…disappeared into
the molton blue, the playground of stars
and curious minds.

Flying.

 

 

My teacher asked the other day,
“When you grow up, what will you be?
An astronaut? A scientist?
What future do you see?”

And I replied, “I’ve yet to choose.
I don’t know how I’ll spend my days.
So many choices interest me
I cannot seem to count the ways.”

My pastor asked the same of me.
“My child, your future years?
What role or call will interest you?
Your future? Is it clear?

And I replied, “I’ve yet to choose.
I don’t know how I’ll spend my days.
So many choices interest me,
So many tempting ways.”

This morning, as she brushed my hair,
my Mamma smiled at me:
“My darling child, when you grow up
who do you think you’ll be?”

And with no pause or second thought,
I knew these words were true.
“I know without a single doubt,
I will be just like you.”

A new sign is now posted on Liberty Island
for all approaching by boat.

Attention All Tired, Poor and Homeless,
all yearning to be free.
You are not welcome.
Return to the teaming shore from
which you came.
The lamp is out.
The golden door is closed.

Miss Liberty’s head is bowed.
Her eyes are closed.
It is too painful to look upon the
faces of the rejected.

Think me not a man of foolish misadventure.
Contentment is mine in simple things.
My joy lives in the tally of ledgers,
promises made and kept, the
predictability of light for
my day and darkness
for my night.  I seek
not, but I am
sought.

Why, then, am I drawn to this moment?
What impulse defies the normality
of my time and thought? Why?
In this crowd of logical
inquiry, I stand with a
branch in my hand
and wait for the
arrival of the
meteoric
one.

Rising star, momentary magic in the costume
of a simple man, person of the people,
legitimizer of all that is illegitimate.
Yet, admired, even adored by
all who fall under his spell.
They flock to his side,
hear his agreeable
rhetoric, and
follow his
steps.

What longing does his teaching satisfy?
What emptiness of life is filled by
one of common stock and of
unknown originality?  I
wonder as I look at
the faces of those
around me and
as I hold this
palm branch
in my hand.

Think me not a man of foolish misadventure.
Curiosity challenges my certainties and
warns of life’s incongruities while all
the time drawing me ever closer
to the edge of unexamined
reality.  I do not pursue
but am pursued by
the shadow of
one speaking
my name.

 

We’ve come a long way since “Dear Diary”.
The little book with the rubber band around
it.  Scribbled notes in almost legible cursive.
Private, not for public consumption.  Secured
between the mattresses.  Taken out only after
everyone else was asleep.  Read with the help
of a flashlight.  Dear Diary…today I kissed
Barbara Sue… ”

When a Diary grows up, it becomes a Journal.
Somehow it loses its intimacy, the Diary,
and takes on a more impersonal character.
In my Journal, I scribe the events of my day,
the significant moments, encounters and
experiences…but not too personal.  A Journal
page is a chronology of sunrise to sunset.
Good Night.  For historical purposes, it’s very
nice, like a Travelogue through Norway.  For
juicy reading, it falls short, leaving much
about desire to be desired.  Mystery too easily
defined.  A Journal is tidy and neat.  A Diary
is messy, margin notes and erasures, much
like life.

Journals become dust-catchers on the top shelf
in the closet as life becomes technologized.
A comical little two-inch piece of plastic
filled with wires and something called “circuitry”
stands on heaps and piles of Diaries and Journals.
Life is now on a Stick.  What an unappealing
name.  Stick.  Thumb-drive.  Flash-drive.  All
the same.  Mine advertises “256GB”.  How much
is a gigabyte of my life.  Who thought up that
name?  If I live to be 256-years old, I’ll never
fill the volume of my Stick.  It holds more of life
than life itself.  Unlike a sweet Diary or a
Journalized remembering, you can’t take a
Number 2 pencil and write a quick idea or a
moment of inspiration.  No.  Sticks don’t perform
unless they have USB Ports.  Don’t ask.

I would write a poem for you, something lofty
and grand…Roses are red and violets are
blue…but I’d have to put it on a Stick and then
you’d have to find a USB Port, and by then the
juices would have dried up.  We’ve come a long
way in self-expression.

Too bad.

Hate is the highest achievement of ignorance.
What I don’t understand, I suspect.
What I suspect, I treat with calculated caution.
As ignorance spirals beyond the limits of reality,
my caution turns into active resistance.
Resistance is then driven by a sense of fear.
Fear causes my mind to hallucinate, to imagine
only the worst, the most threatening.
When I am threatened, I dig trenches, build barricades
and create the perfect Hate.
Hate, if held too long in the grip of fear, buys automatic
weapons, plans the assault on innocents in the name
of justice or retribution, and waits for the opportune
moment.
Ignorance, the simple lack of understanding, an inability
to hear the other, the unwillingness to consider without
prejudice…ignorance becomes its own reality and builds
a house with no windows.

When the blackness of the early morning
softens to the almost transparent,
may the first drops of sunlight
fall on you and cause you
to feel the exhilaration
of life’s potential,
the possibility
of the day
arriving.

Wherever you walk today, whatever
you do, may you be a blessing
to others and to yourself.
Look kindly upon all
people, help those
who cannot help
themselves.
Follow the
joy.

When you encounter forces opposing,
words of hate and inhumanity,
may courage rise from the
storehouse of your virtues,
and may it be followed
by compassion and
understanding.
Stand firm,
touch ever
gently.

When the day fades into evening and long shadows
announce the approach of night, may you look
back on the footsteps you have left in
the good earth and may you find
peace in the beautiful flowers
springing up where you
have walked.  Rest
in the hand of
Love.

May it be so.

Be grateful today for the colors in creation!

If it’s 4 a.m. and you can’t sleep, get your Bible and begin reading the first chapter of John’s Gospel.  You’ll be asleep in about 10 minutes.  It’s not that the text is uninteresting, it’s just that it’s unintelligible.  A “word” became God and was “with” God.  The “word” created everything and in this “word”, one can find light and life.  Read that about four times and then turn out the light.

Now, Bible students and scholars might be offended, but I don’t mean to offend or be flippant about John’s prologue to the story of Jesus.  You have to admit, though, that the average guy on the street might have some difficulty with such philosophical concepts and strange ideas.  So I hasten to add that the first 18 verses of the Gospel contain little nuggets of gold waiting to be mined.  In these ancient words, truth and hope are just below the surface.  Let me make just two observations that seem particularly helpful for me.

First, it’s all a Prologue, a lead-in to something else.  And the something else is John’s interpretation of the life and meaning of Jesus.  But notice the first words of Genesis 1 and John 1.  “In the beginning…”  The Genesis author is writing prologue to Jewish history while John’s “in the beginning” is about the continuation of Jewish history, now captured in the person of Jesus.  He sets Jesus firmly in Jewish history and that is very important for those who will hear the story.

One more observation.  It appears that the anchor idea in this whole prologue is expressed in verse 12.  The words are not in bold print, but they ought to be.  They are not underlined, but that wouldn’t be a bad idea.  The mission and purpose of Jesus, the Word enfleshed in human form, is to give the “power to become children of God” to all who believe and follow his Way.  That’s astounding!  Here’s the gift of the Gospel:  I am offered the opportunity to be directly related to God, to Light and to Life.  Now, that’s a Christmas present worth unwrapping.

So, you see, just below the surface of what sounds like a bunch of convoluted words are treasures worth pursuing.  I hope you will get your little garden tool and start digging around in John 1.  Finally, I suspect that you will need a nap in the afternoon because once you begin exploring for treasure, you won’t be turning off the Light.

Peace to all in this New Year.