Eight Day Litany

When Billy Graham died there was a minor brouhaha about a young woman who wished him fun in hell.

Whatever you or I may have thought about BG, he was an unabashed Eternalist. Stephen Hawking was not.

It is my belief that they both are now.

Which reminds me of a story…

A long time ago a rather counter-cultural day laborer was executed by the Romans apparently for some sort of political expediency.

His rag-tag followers were devastated (naturally), until a few days later when he came back from the dead and started appearing to people!!! (Rather supernaturally)

Although not initially to Thomas, a contemporary Aramaic friend of his, or Stephen Hawkins, a science-type from the 20th century B.C.E.

But after a bit,* he fixed this by showing up. For Thomas it came in the 20th chapter of the Good News of John. For Stephen it happened today.

Worship science all you want, or money or sex or power or fear.

But on the day we die we all turn into Eternalists…regardless of whether the science was every really on our side or not.

John 20, 21

*eight days

Preaching to the dead

First, pick my chasuble with care: war paint, cowgirl boots, stretched-out pale-pink tutu from the racks upon racks at the resale store, brand-new for the girls who did not need them anymore,  all donated to science or the graveyard where I go to pace and splutter out some fractured  litany about a beat-up pickup truck, iterations of a lost father, lawn furniture strewn  above the tree line, the same forgotten first name of both Sikorsky and Stravinsky, and this jittery alter-ego who swings wild, shouts loud, raises hell as though bones and memory and words could be as easily strung together as that-to breath life into the dead as they fit their joints and hinges back together, back to life, the way an ordinary man rises from his bed, rubs his eyes, dons his pants and his shirt, walks out into 

Light

“There’s no base!”

“there’s no base!” 

Exclaimed the girl–green shirt, tiny dog resembling a toy…

only real in the crook of her arm

And suddenly I get atheism–

Darwin shouts in the  schoolyard– 

no base!

And unhinging the game from…

well, base-

Another name for

The trunk of the branching oak

we rest beneath

breathing hard

before someone says

One, two, three, get off my father’s apple tree

Not to be confused with 

That one inimitable player who says

One, two, three, base all over me

And somehow, miraculously

Means it.

The Lost Cause

I looked it up,

The thing about rainbows…when none are in sight

What do you do with a fallen, broken

Rain-drenched world?

Ignore the indirect saturation of light (filtered through heavy 

Clouds)

Put ineluctable 

Signs in the sky

Sometimes vivid, others spiraling, concentric

Insinuated into ordinary

Sunsets

Sure, I got it–rainbows

The unfortunate companions of unicorns

Neither make the boat…

Or as I prefer to think–both

The misunderstood rhino

The glinting prismatic light 

Or more importantly–James Baldwin, evoking

Saint Peter…

Fire the next time

His anger, his dungeon, his elegant use of fire

As both a noun and a verb

I can barely look straight at

That kind of righteous rage

Much less the real

God

Who raises a Son

To rudder, anchor, mast, and sail

The one and only vessel

Which could

Will

Has

Sailed the sea of fire…

the next time.


Minimum

He says

The least of these in the language of childhood

Neither emperors nor governors nor bards

Gather the little ones

…least of these

Army of small

Wanderers in the world 

They look for a Savior

Older Brother King

Who can 

Calm the storm

Speak peace to the wind

And tell all bedtime stories

With hope at the beginning and the end

Of each hard letter 

INRI

The  least of these-

M.

Roll the stone away

Jesus of Nazareth, King of the…

Minimum.

Weighted Blanket

in a fit of unease 

she has an out-of-body experience 

Rising above the squalor

Imagining what it would be like

To live inside the perfect house

Instead–she dusts the counters and all the edges

with cinnamon to deter the sugar ants

Beats the air with questions

Washes and re-washes clothes, stones, teeth 

Delays bodily functions  

To search for

-The weighted blanket-

Surrogate mother/synthetic comforter

Lyrics/verses 

of a lullaby sung softly by the

Real One

Fished Out

I still have unanswered questions for the hand-sized catfish I pulled out of the Blanco River today.

It was caught in some debris, entangled in some fishing line.

Hard to get to.

Weirdly specific salvation (if you don’t believe in a God who sees stuck fish).

But if you do…

You wonder who was the fisher with the broken line?

When was he last here?

How long has this darkish catfish been stuck in the line?

Will it live? Line cut, hook still in?

The Gospel is chocked full of fish stories.

But they don’t all get saved, hook or no hook still stuck in the craw.

And then there is me: fished out by Jesus, standing wet in the afternoon sun, inventorying fish stories.

  • The one about the guy stuck in one for three days…
  • The one where the nets broke…
  • The one where the fish seems to have swallowed a Roman coin.

…. Caesar’s likeness on the coin in its belly.

….No sign but Jonah

….The empire of Rome long gone

this one small fish wriggles free

marvels at the hidden depths

in the quotidian

stories of being

fished out.

A System of Touch

these interlocking pieces-

a woman in the crowd reaches out to touch 

Slowing down motion

to Jairus’ daughter

Take this stranger by the hand

(For science, of course)

Blindfold emotion 

-While the girl lies dying-

Somehow temporarily 

All of us

nailed to this single day in history 

When you let go of 

Everything you had a right to hold

Go where we never 

want to go

Then tell Mary

Don’t touch me

Last trace of hell still on my skin

You draw us to your 

Broken.

Make us whole again

With this system of touch.