Category Archives: God

A Word for Mountains

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I am always uncomfortable with the things that J says which are elastic-impossible.

So You are telling me if I have a little bit of faith I can ask mountains to fall into the sea?

Yes.

This would be galvanizing if I had never tried it.  If there had never been a mountain I really needed, really wanted, really believe could be…moved.

The heartbreak of the unmoving mountains.

So first, an inventory–

Mountains are so big, so high, so holy 

Why should they move for me?

Today my daughter said the thing that did not staunch all the grief of unmoved mountains, but did let me see how the unanswered questions have long been answered.

She said the mountain is a metaphor for God.  

The relief of it was palpable.  God.  I know God moves for me.  Moves toward the Cross.  Moves the boundaries of eternity. Moves toward the prodigal son.  Runs, actually.

Suddenly I see.

It was never the unmovable mountains, it was inexplicable stones moved away from terrible places to make room for the God of resurrection.

Nothing too hard for J.

Ever.

The Speed of Darkness

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you ask me these absolute questions–/No matter what? No matter what.  /Or–What is the speed of darkness? /I look it up–either:  /Darkness is just the complete absence of light ….so it travels at the speed of light  /Or the more dire–As soon as the light is gone, darkness returns, so you could say that darkness travels faster than the speed of light /the light just a flicker in the doorway of the world  /The darkness a cat ready to pounce  /a sea of trouble, waiting just waiting for the light to tire or wander off /so that it (the darkness)

Can overwhelm, flood in,

Return.

Chinese Box

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some stories hold

Such trauma

That in order to 

Tell them

You have to use a Chinese box

What, you ask, is a Chinese box?

A Chinese box is a 

Story

Within a story

Within a story

Not to be confused with 

Chinese handcuffs

(Which is a very different thing indeed)

For example:

Once there were some children who lived in an apartment with their (biological) mother and father.  They did not always eat.  Sometimes they were left alone.  The father beat the mother.

The loss was unbearable, said their foster mother.  The boy was mute.  The girl was cagey.

So small.  So damaged. So angry.

They called her bad mommy, bad mommy, bad mommy.

Because there was only the one.

One room, one closet, one subterfuge, one million wrongs

In the circuits of his mind

He tells the story of the bad mommy, who was (he says) too much drama.

As she pieces together the past she neglects the symmetry of hearts, circles, and peanut butter sandwiches among the survivors

Because, as an ordinary prophet once said–every trauma has its own story…

Within these concentric 

Chinese boxes.

Topiary Angels

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the trees are animate

Watching over

Us

Towering water fowl and prehistoric raptors

They have been 

Put.

       Under. 

           A. 

               Spell.

For millennia 

Slowed down so that 

They must rely on outside actors to

Shake them free–

The wind or

Small children shimmying skyward

Begin to give voice, lend 

momentary quickness

To these beauties

Tied to the wet, dark earth

Searching for treasure

So carefully, so slowly

Through the roots

Waiting for the Day

When we will all be

Set free.

The parable of good wakeboarder

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Years ago I had my first encounter with the way the parable of the Good Samaritan might need to be imported to wake parks, or at least my home park at the time.

A young man dangled in the water at the point of the pond furthest from the dock.  He cried out in pain.

I say this with no pride–I did not want to stop riding to help him.  They were about to close…I would have to stop riding for the day…there were so many other riders, surely someone else would stop and assist him?!

I stopped and so did his friend.  He had hurt his foot and ankle and he definitely needed help.

The first of many times that God would remind me that wakeboarding is not as important as your soul.

There were other ways to remind me of this–picking up trash along the shore, letting people cut in front of me even if it really bugged me, helping others to ride.

And after that first time it seemed good to just make the rule to stop and help anyone who needed help.

So when a Christian-labelled group started a Bible study at the Texas Ski Ranch, some of us discussed the way Jesus’ parable about an outcast who saves the day for a crime victim could be adapted for wakeboarders.

The guy who got beat up would be a new rider in need of help.

The priests and religious leaders would be the “really good riders” who become so focused on their tricks or their ride that they ignore the person in need.

But who was the Good Samaritan? Who would he or she be?

I am not going to fill in that blank.  You should.  If you are a wakeboarder you should find out who the “Good Wakeboarder” is. (Hint: He is much more famous as a Barefooter, doesn’t even need a rope.)

One day we will all need him, no matter how many trophies we have or tricks in our pocket.

And if you are not a wakeboarder you can pick your epithet for the good “guy” in Jesus’ parable.

The good reality TV star?

The good politician?

The good evangelist?

The good drug dealer?

The good alcoholic?

The good snob?

We get pretty hung up on our labels.  Jesus knew that and exploited the discomfort of his listeners to force them to see Him differently.

No one can be good the way Jesus can–God in disguise.

Reflect the sky 

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some things remain dark

Obsidian dark

No matter how much you try to put distance between

The two of us

The video footage cannot, will not excise your presence

Obsidian dark

Is not your chicken-scratch handwriting

The horrible story I made you write down

Or the things you left out…

That so many people helped to…diminish

None more than you

The damage which will always be

dead dog on my chest

Ghosts of dogs should haunt us both

But let yours bark incessantly outside the grainy film of your transgressions

While mine 

Returns whole, resurrected even,

To the cement driveway by the old house where the children played with the water hose and the blue plastic wading pool 

Joy

They fill the screen with joy

For a moment even you could see

The way the thinnest layer of water poured out on rough cement

Reflects the sky

Reflects the light from the endless sky

Reflects the glory of this endless day we

…walk toward the sun, my one-time-child

Before the night 

Falls forever

Chimera Gastrulation

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Words matter, mainly because they stand for something meaningful.  For instance, if you call genocide “the great solution,” or “living space” it is still really just genocide, but the strange, deforming euphemisms you have thrown up in front of the horror of murder might confuse the dim or comfort the monstrous.

So, for instance, if you call an unholy mixing of embryo parts from two species, one human, one not, a chimera and you call the embryo parts gastrulation, and you leave out any issue of obtaining consent from the very small and then you leave out the part about keeping these living entity for endless experimentation then destroying them.

Even then it sounds unbearable.

Some things we should not do not just because they are monstrous and destructive.  Some things we should not do because they make us monsters of destruction.

Stillness

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stay in the box

All cardboard and glue 

The bars you have hewn with your fingernails

Purely arbitrary 

But wait still 

Look for the way the open spaces

Casts shadows 

Train your ears for approaching 

Footsteps that

Do not come

You will be alone with the voice in your head

Telling you be still 

And know that I am God.

Splitting the difference 

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According to His most ardent biographers, when Jesus was born he got a star, an angel choir, multiple prophetic and celestial intros, a visit from some prominent foreign astronomers, and an animal feed tray for a bed.

It seems like the divine side of the birth announcement for this kid was legit–angel choirs and all.  But the human side was sub-par.  The innkeeper could have let the pregnant girl use his digs.  But he did not.

Easy, I suppose, to judge the inhospitable of Bethlehem for their general indifference to an infant King.  Harder to face our own.

The question for each so-called believer in this tiny bundle of Infinite Light is–do you see Him?  At the breakfast table or the DMV?  In the bad driver or the white-collar criminal?

It is hard to see Jesus in us. We are often a selfish, short-sighted, venal bunch of sheep.

Sheep on a hill somewhere in the night.

Beneath a star.

In the presence of angels, so close to our King.