Get In Line

 

 Are you mad at me?

Get in line.

Are you looking for someone to blame,

a slow-moving target,

a convenient scapegoat?

Get in line.

Are you looking for me to take

your side, go to battle

in this pathetic war that’s been declared?

Find someone else

willing to lose their head.

It has become clear  

that I am a pawn in your

Childish

Petty

Junior High

Game.

But I refuse to play.

I’m tired.

Worn to the bone.

I can’t do this anymore.

I

CANNOT

DO

THIS

ANYMORE.

Junior High was

a long time ago.

Drama was just a hobby.

I’m done.

Does that make you mad?

Get in line.

 

Burned

  I am

singed, charred, scorched.

Anger, blame, and shame

have reduced me to ash.

The former form of me,

body and mind,

spirit and soul,

is now only outline

filled in with smoke.

Touch me,

I am little more than

swirling haze.  

Breathe on me,

I blow away.

Nothing left but

smoldering embers

of memory

and misunderstanding

Dear God

  

Take this stole

from my neck,

this robe

off my back.

You don’t scare me

with your salt.

I will look back.

 

Pull this cross

from my chest,

yank this Bible

outta my hand.

I’m over it, God.

You take them

to that promised land

 

Block me from

the pulpit,

keep me from

the font.

My well is dried up,

living water’s all gone.

My soul wastes from want.

 

In case you

haven’t noticed,

I’m tired and I’m worn.

Exhausted from the trying,

the worry and the strain.

My prayers return unanswered,

so, yes, I will complain.

 

The good news

feels damn lousy,

your kingdom

just won’t come.

Hope has left

the building,

the parts outdo the sum.

 

This poem is for

the clergy,

the prophets and

the priests.

Feed us like

you promised,

or make this calling cease.

 

The sheep have

bruised the shepherd,

the hens embraced

the fox.

It’s lonely where

I’m standing,

the one outside the box.

 

Helpless

On your first day of school

we drove by the building because

I ached to see that brick
still stood solidly on brick.

You, pigtails bobbing, walked

with other little ones,

looking for nature in the playground.

Seeing our car, you pointed and waved.

So much for furtive parenting.

What would have I done that day

if something had been wrong?

Would I have thrown myself across

your small frame, protecting, sheltering?

Of course.

Baby experts warn that what

wears down a parent is the

exhaustion, that bone weary

tiredness that never dissipates even

when your little one sleeps all night.

But I disagree. What really crushes

a parent’s heart is the helplessness;

it is all that you cannot fix

or mend

or kiss away.

What would I have done when

you walked away, so scared and alone?

Would I have borne your burden,

carried your pain?

Of course.

But I am helpless to do what I wish I could.

All I can do is watch and wait and love.

Mary must have keened with grief

watching her son die.

Any mother would.

Maybe it’s blasphemy, but

I imagine God felt that too.

Helpless with agony as his child

bore such pain.

It is comfort to believe

that God and I feel the same.

Helpless.

A Prayer of Gratitude -- July 22, 2018

This was an original prayer of gratitude written for this past Sunday's worship service, 

and for a longtime church member who is leaving to move to another state.

O Glorious, Incarnate God,

Out of love, you became not just like us,

but one of us;

taking on the frailty of our flesh,

so that we would see, touch,

feel and know your love

in the living and dying and rising of

your Son.

We thank you, Lord,

that your love and grace is still ours

to know through the people 

you place in our paths.

Thank you for friends who ask hard

questions, making us reflect more

deeply on our faith.

Thank you for those people in our lives

who seek to serve you with energy,

intelligence, imagination and love,

for they inspire us to the do the same.

Thank you for the gift and the 

empowering of the Holy Spirit,

whose presence we feel

when we sing and pray and

worship with one another. 

Thank you, God of love and hope,

that we are not called to walk this

curved road of faith alone,

but that you surround us with

companions along the way.

Thank you for those who make

your love real to us in every 

thought, word and deed.

Thank you, O God, for friends.

Amen.

The Church It Is a Changin

Written for Ellen Gurnon's installation to First Presbyterian in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. 
Sung to the tune, "The Times They Are a Changin," by Bob Dylan

For Ellen Gurnon

February 11, 2018

Come, listen dear Ellen,

heed the words that I sing.

cause being a preacher

is no easy thing.

The people are hungry

for the good news you bring

in this world of sorrows prevailin.

There’s sickness still lurking, death still has its sting,

and the church it is a changin.

Remember, my friend,

you’ll have to be strong

to stand up to those

who say some don’t belong.

For God welcomes all and the table is long.

The battle for justice still wagin.

And our sisters and brothers

keep crying, “how long?”

for a church that is a changin.

Don’t worry, sis,

it’s okay to be scared.

When it comes to this life

we are never prepared.

The church that once was is no longer there,

yet God’s future is surely amazin.

But one thing that’s sure 

is God’s unfailing care

in a church that is a changin.

Come listen, dear Ellen,

it’s not all up to you.

For God calls you and God calls us all too.

It’s good to know, God’s making everything new,

and through love, the world rearranging.

It’s love that’s the answer, it’s love that is true,

in the church, God is a changin.

In the church, God is a changin.

Bird

Winking at me with a

bold, black eye,

the bird with the

garish yellow coat

hopped outside my window.

Flirtatious and cheeky,

as though we were old

friends and this

moment our reunion,

he strolled closer.

Beak to glass,

hand to heart,

I held my breath,

hoping and hopeful

he would settle on that sill

But noting our differences,

a chasm between us,

he flew away,

joining avian revelries

at a backyard feeder.

Exhaling a sigh,

I keened his loss between

sips of coffee,

wishing for fluency in bird –

a “thank you,” for stopping.