Silent Meal

No one says a word
as the bread comes around
warm
yeasty
given out 
a half at a time
like the Eucharist
to pilgrims 
knelt at 
a rail

The silence is requested
by our trinity of hosts
Whose wisdom 
about such 
matters
is proven by 
the palpable calm
A broth
ladled out
all around this 
place

This 
taciturnity
is awkward for us novitiates
We sit in a circle of 
wordless
gestation
Not knowing where to land our gaze
Embarrassed by our contingency
Disbelieving it could be so simple

The only reports
are
the chewing of asparagus
the pouring of Chardonnay
and a 
hoot owl 
across the road
either 
adding more noise 
to the cacophony of the planet
or singing 
a Song 
we are too hurried to know

It goes on like this for a time
creatures
celebrating
the Creator's
kindness
It presents as
intimidating
It soon proves
liberating

I hear the sound of my body's worship

Then she breaks the silence
This stranger in the corner of the circle
Who is this
who tramples on our hosts' request?
She merely wants to know 
why some have quiche
and others a stew 
with spinach 
and 
sausage

Instantly my stew and I 
become 
Pharisees
Silently insisting 
on the strict rule of Law
The sausage and spinach whisper
that
Something must be said
about this stark
violation

Let Her Speak
my bread instructs us
staring up at me
from the patten
in my lap
Let her break the silence 
and know she is still 
alive
Grant her 
In your own heart at least
the dignity of inquiry
For whatever else may be lost
her synapses still 
perform
with the confidence
of a tightrope walker
up on that 
taunt line 
stretched across
what little 
remains 
below

Besides
Curiosity 
is the engine 
of living

Now tutored
and 
humbled
we suppose
My stew and I
If any deserve the spirit
and not the letter
it would be 
the 
eldest
among us

She 
whose skin 
maps the long years
Whose bones carry on just below the surface
Who walks from there to hear
like that highwire artist
slowly
carefully
meditating 
on each step
Her eldest
behind her on the rope
watching each placement
Both 
worried 
and proud

Her mother
our Sometimes Silent Sister
knows better than we
the blessed burden of these mortal coils
and about learning 
to count the 
days
That's why 
she eats 
with laboratory precision
Every forkful
now
a balancing act
a placement of the Host

The circle returns to silence
the Mystery of the Quiche
now resolved

And I return to the hoot owl 
across the road
making love
for God
And the sound of this bread
Wiser than I
Soaked in stew
Teaching all spinach souls
Giving itself
for me
in mastication
inside
my
kneeling
mouth

Another First

Come
gather around
Feel the electricity
of
next and new
Taste
a morsel
of that first
great banquet:
the defeat of death
the flipping of scripts
my vivification
Taste
and see
how faithful
is our Provider
That
feeling
you feel:
The energy
The encouragement
That sense
that anything
is now
possible
The gladness
that you came
These
are the holy
leftovers
from my
first
Easter
Appetizers
of that
great
next and new
still
to
come

for APCB

I
imagine
a tomorrow:
when the end comes
when all is made well
when the lifeless are raised
and scourges reversed
and permanence
and the one
we lost
is
fully
found

I
hold
that good day
mostly in my cochlea
The memory of
of a call not
yet heard
The crescendo
of another
morning
(in some Easter season)
when
for the life of me
all I could hear
was another
fulsome
ringing
of

bells

Wadi al Natroun

Somehow it seems right
that rooms built for Jesus
and to honor his Mother
are rank with body oder
They feel well worn, like
a milk farmer’s old barn
built as a sturdy shelter

The edge of every old relic
is worn to a smoothness
by the faithful fingers of
a million traveling pilgrims
They move about the tight
rooms like ants at a picnic
Touching, praying, hoping

We took shoes off outside
The carpets in here are thick
with the dust of two million
feet and the shuffle of many
centuries of pedestrian piety
They are not taking pictures
They are investing in power

Olfactory speaking, I swing
between strong impressions
In one corner, I feel a gravity
of millennia, lingering saints
But in a whiff the room sours
Hints of gym socks and fetor

My house shall be a house
of prayer, he said. Never did
he say his buildings would or
should smell of lavender and
sophistication. The Boy and
his Mother seem to welcome
all who come. My house will

be
a house
of perspiration

Assurance

Ready?
Really ready?

for those unrealistic vows
for gold bands and a bond
for a lifetime of “us”

How can I know?
How to be sure?

about paying the bills
about sticktoitiveness
about death do us part

What about this?
What about that?

in sickness or health
for poorer or richer

in ebb as much as in flow

Is she for me?
Is he the “one”?

dirty clothes all in piles
Disney movies, again
incompatibility!

Will the old spark abide?
Will the heat stick around?

that first fine fire
that once-kindled want
those original longing looks

Am I ready?
Really ready?

®

Wrong question

You’ll only discover “ready” in time
Better to ask now: Am I willing to grow?

Ready?

One is never ready!

for growing up
for being stretched

for learning the height, depth, breadth

of faith, hope, and love
the Jesus kind

What makes one ready for marriage?

Marriage!
Marriage does it
Only marriage makes you ready

for marriage

High Green

Roll on, over flatlands, foothills, and bogs
Roll on, ‘cross gulleys, creeks, and channels
Roll on, past fields, hamlets, and boroughs

Shuffle through ribbon bends in the line
Blast over road crossings where they wait
Chug away from platform-stops, siding-rests

Roll on, from the brisk rain to the arid sun
Roll on, from headwaters down to gulf lands
Roll on, past the hulks of labor’s great past

Shoot by locals, shifters, sisters in the hole
Thump over diamonds and other rows to hoe
Squeal ‘round tight changes in your course

Roll on, keeping the pace and making up time
Roll on, with the seasoned and virgins alike
Roll on, with lives aboard as varied as the run

From one high green to another
It's your time to move

Roll on

Postlude

A handful of stints and setbacks.
Before you know it your world is
reduced to capsules, frustration.
Kingdoms given over for others

to reign; the monarch has taken
his first exit. Still, one comes on
every odd day to grant him a few
more. For a time it was one big

procedure after another. Turns
out he lives thanks to five dollar
plastic tubing. Still, it is living.
A walk forward into resignation

and fresh faith. Independence
lost in a parked car; old bonds
recast in each new “love you.”
A fair trade, perhaps, in a new

economy of hasty demise. Is the
slight gurgle in the throat more
fluid or more feeling? It is not
clear. Somehow the end brings

immunity from old hesitations.
This much is clear: There is the
muscle’s failure. There is a good
Lord. And there is each new day.

He could fill them with a pouting
regret, but he seems to move on
ahead. The days are for making a
few last moves, new cane in hand.

His stoop has the clearest sermon:
Welcome the grace of letting them
do for you the things that always
signaled you were still in the game.

Do what you can do, control what
you can control. As for the rest, the
old haunts, the comforting rituals,
the efforts of another, younger era,

let them go,
in peace.

Crowded Ear

In these shrill times,
with our thick filters
and anxious lobes, in
this season of proud

religion and excitable
doubt, when the only
measure of ‘truthful’
is my own tickled ear,

in the emptiness of a
cacophonous era, in
the vanity of my own
precious convictions,

speak, O Lord. Speak.

All Wet

“The water used for Baptism should be common to the location, and shall be applied to the person by pouring, sprinkling, or immersion. By whatever mode, the water should be applied visibly and generously.” Book of Order W-3.3605

Baptismal waters flowing down from above
Ubiquitous water. All over: a sacred mess
Generous, rich—like the grace it signs
A bath. Not a spot or a dash or a dab
Flowing freely, running liberally
Washing, cleaning, dissolving
From faucet to font to life
Marking and mending
Stained and sealed
Promise claimed
Welcoming
Home

fluorescence

already i have a preferred way into the place
not so much a doorway
a time of day
early
before shuffling and chatting arrive

the air hangs heavily all around
reposed through another night
i am first to agitate the dust
corners felt
tenuous groping
steps reveal a slumbering inside cavern

there i stand
alone
the space of this risky vocation
i
and dust
and twenty score of empty stations

all of it cloaked in some obscurity
tucked beyond reach
hidden in a still not-yet dawn

except
that curious corona
casting its gleam all about
like some great electric eye

someone has let him be
(again)

illumination
adjustment
i can see

o thank God

Natural Theology?

Rustling dull-green grass bending in breezes
Awkward little fraziers aimlessly unkempt
Spindly pines all tight like too much family

It is a natural mess
Amazing to behold
Its own little world

Question: Do I exist for it or it for me?

And where is Jesus in all this green and brown?

Camp Hat Creek—Brookneal, Virginia—June 2007

Keeping Time

Gothic and sturdy it sits

Perched on a manicured mound

Strangely massive, given how small

Built by believers now long gone

Next door, the sprawling university hums along

Chemists create their cultures

Thespians play with the past

Engineers rewire the world

Meanwhile, the modest chapel overlooks it all

An older, wiser sister judging sibling frenzy

Her towered bell gently pervades next door

Each clang suggesting ancient tensions

How shall we mark the time?

chronos or chairos?

Percy’s Bee

A pathetic looking bee
is trapped in my screen

His perpetual buzzing
bounce reveals a gene

All he longs is for escape
Freedom beyond a catch

Rest Then pound away
some more Never quits

Out of easy compassion I
spin a crank of salvation

Great Screen surrenders
There is an Exodus road

Still the pounding buzz
continues Not yet loose

Though a way now exists
the captive sees only bars

He presses ahead in vain
until rest reveals newness

There is open sky below
It had been so for a time

The happening matters little
until the ear hears the news

Many Moods

So many moods
And they change
By the hour, week

One day, all despair
Hope anew the next
Third, all is ordinary

Thank God there is a
God who if he bends
Bends only in grace

Bluebird

A modest bluebird perched on a standard stick
Engaged in a routine maintenance of feathers
Expert scratches interrupted by knowing looks

Off he goes to another post
In a timing obvious only to him

Ella

Already you have ravished my heart. And this, despite the years of my forward-thinking paranoia, wherin I heroically assumed you would surely wreck my world. Indeed you have, and I am more put-together now than ever.

A Place

Generous quietude
Gracious appointments
Uncontested attention

for life
for thought
for the livingness of God

For such a place
I am indebted

Epistemology

A fat fly
Searching millimeters, pounding.
Wanting out. Needing release.
Sky blues beckon, tree greens call.

Is the pane curse or blessing?
He cannot fly away unbounded.
But even restrained
He can see

Beyond.

Reentry

Returning home is a bumpy, heated ride.
This tumultuous reentry is hard to manage.
Crossing over from one world to another.
Feet, back on the ground in reality, gravity.

It was patently not so, for about a week.
The free flotation of weightless koinonia.
The buoyant freedom of purposeful service.
The distraction of a stranger’s embodied story.

And then there is new landscape, the heavens.
A new outlook in a clear gaze. Such new stars!
No longer hazed over by thick layers of life.
Your world: now galaxies larger than before.

Eventually you notice your own globe again.
But how strangely different it looks, up here.
Colors, deeper. Vexations, smaller. Why must
I fly away, only then to see latent beauty here?

After nine orbits, the curve back home is near.
Back down to my reality, fantasy that it can be.
An earthly object circumnavigates only so long.
The pull of Monday morning exerts its force.

I wonder: Do the spacemen who so easily float
high above me in the heavens, for days distracted,
do they return to terra firma completely intact?
Does a piece of that heaven come home inside?

Maybe they walk around, a little lighter after all.
Maybe one never comes back down the same.

Written in 2005, on the plane ride home from a week of mission work in Mexico. During that week, the space shuttle was orbiting overhead.