Flawed and fractured,
splintered and stained -
our best efforts laughably
inadequate;
Climbing upon backs
of the fallen,
we destroy with every step
we take
and all we touch
crumbles to talc...
It is a bleak view,
one easy to obsess on,
where many
see no way
out.
Though you have been sent away,
yet I will call you home.
You will travel across
physical miles
led by a mere man
to your earthly home.
One day I will send One greater
to bring your hearts finally home.
He will come from among you,
yet He will outshine all
in wisdom and kindness.
He will clothe himself in your shame,
willingly wearing disrespect
and humiliation in public view;
He will submit Himself to torture
and abuse, debased and neglected,
as one of zero value;
He will accept the punishment
for your brokenness and wicked deeds,
lashed for your disobedience,
reprimanded for your rebellion.
He will bring a full-bodied peace,
beyond your ability to comprehend;
He will bring wellness to body
and soul - smoothing eruptions
of flesh and staunching errant
blood flows,
a doctor of divine intent;
and He will bring the Way
across the vast divide
between you and I,
the bridge to leap the chasm
of sin and death
finally and forever.
It is a done deal,
sealed in stone
and lit
by the rosy pink dawn
of a future day.
The outcast, the ashamed,
those overcome with guilt
at their own shortcomings,
all who seek
the suffering Servant
will find Him
in Christ -
our atonement,
our way
home.
Sunday, April 7, 2019
Sunday, March 31, 2019
Pass Me On; Isaiah: Light to the Nations series - Christian Lindbeck (Isa. 49:1-13; 2 Cor. 1-2: Acts 2:1-12; Matt. 5; Acts 13:47)
unparalleled, paradoxical
and oxymoronic -
He is left side up
and True.
Puzzle pieces
slide into place,
camouflaged as coincidence,
only seen fully
and occasionally
in retrospect.
Community life
forms around celebrations
to illuminate
Author-aspects
and whisper
hints
of eternal design.
All symbolic
of coming attractions,
rituals flesh out
and bones animate
in Christ.
"I am He who
has been anointed
from the time
before time;
prepared - sharpened,
and sent to
serve
all who live -
all tribes and governments,
all skin tones and languages.
I am honed and trained
to serve -
first, people of my earthly flesh,
Israel,
and then
the rest of my flesh, Humanity."
"When the time is right,
I will come through for you,
(and now is the time,
join me, won't you?)
I will draw people to me
from every corner
of a round planet."
See the multicultural crowd
gathered en masse,
lit like candles
and conversing without
translators.
"I am the Light source -
now carry me into the dark
like Olympic games
torch bearers,
touching off ripples
that upset pedantic paradigms,
baffle and confound
the cynical,
and watch the moral arc
of the universe
bend once again
towards Shalom."
Sunday, March 17, 2019
He Comes, Yet Again (Isaiah: Light to the Nations) - Tim Knipp (Ex. 6; Isa. 40, 53)
A hero arrives -
a superhero no less -
performing deeds,
setting captives free
and defeating enemies
spectacularly.
Yet even freed,
we were not alone:
He led us,
dwelt with us
and provided a home.
A true hero,
powerful, loving,
and good.
Remember Me?
Your hero who loves
and redeems?
Be of good cheer,
prepare the way,
pronounce my coming
to those bowed down
in bondage.
My mighty arm is flexing
and I will come
to release you.
I will shield you from harm
and guard you
as tenderly as a shepherd
his lambs
who tremble and wobble
in unspeakable fright.
Feel my heartbeat
as I carry you,
take my wounded hand
as you stumble
through the dark.
I will lead you home
yet again.
The wait stretches as long
as evening shadows
over pale desert sand.
Stories are told
of One still coming,
but when, oh, when?
How long, Oh Lord?
Our waiting cataracts our eyes
and we nearly miss
Your coming again.
We grew used to the lull
and expected a cape
with muscles bulging,
not a mild-mannered,
dirt-shod
rabbi.
Some will believe,
some refuse to see.
He came to bow down,
to lay Himself low,
broken and bruised,
receiving our wounds.
Though He spoke in symbols
for all to see:
saying look, oh look,
I am He - it is me!
A hero who loses?
A leader who is willingly weak,
choosing service
and torture
as rescue means?
A king who holds out
a pierced hand
to help us along;
whose steps slow to match
our pace,
though He could easily stride
continents in a
single bound...
He comes to
redeem us,
yet again,
reminding us gently
of blood bled on
our behalf
and flesh that felt
every agony of death
and separation
to spare us,
to save us,
yet again.
a superhero no less -
performing deeds,
setting captives free
and defeating enemies
spectacularly.
Yet even freed,
we were not alone:
He led us,
dwelt with us
and provided a home.
A true hero,
powerful, loving,
and good.
Remember Me?
Your hero who loves
and redeems?
Be of good cheer,
prepare the way,
pronounce my coming
to those bowed down
in bondage.
My mighty arm is flexing
and I will come
to release you.
I will shield you from harm
and guard you
as tenderly as a shepherd
his lambs
who tremble and wobble
in unspeakable fright.
Feel my heartbeat
as I carry you,
take my wounded hand
as you stumble
through the dark.
I will lead you home
yet again.
The wait stretches as long
as evening shadows
over pale desert sand.
Stories are told
of One still coming,
but when, oh, when?
How long, Oh Lord?
Our waiting cataracts our eyes
and we nearly miss
Your coming again.
We grew used to the lull
and expected a cape
with muscles bulging,
not a mild-mannered,
dirt-shod
rabbi.
Some will believe,
some refuse to see.
He came to bow down,
to lay Himself low,
broken and bruised,
receiving our wounds.
Though He spoke in symbols
for all to see:
saying look, oh look,
I am He - it is me!
A hero who loses?
A leader who is willingly weak,
choosing service
and torture
as rescue means?
A king who holds out
a pierced hand
to help us along;
whose steps slow to match
our pace,
though He could easily stride
continents in a
single bound...
He comes to
redeem us,
yet again,
reminding us gently
of blood bled on
our behalf
and flesh that felt
every agony of death
and separation
to spare us,
to save us,
yet again.
(apologies if some of this sounds a bit Seuss-ish - I've just spent 2 1/2 months listening to those kind of rhymes and rhythms every weekday...sometimes it creeps in no matter what I say - aaahhh...I'm doing it again!)
Tuesday, March 12, 2019
His Ways Above Ours - Isaiah 55:8,9 Christian Lindbeck
Why limit the Limitless?
Doubt the ways He chooses?
My thoughts drab, without color, trapped
By pride and fear,
Prejudice and envy
And doubt.
No, not that!
Unsafe, insane, unsuitable
Pretentiously presuming
His paths for us
And others.
His, the long game
True end from inception.
Exploding our notions
Of methodic mastery
Meandering from the mind of the Majestic.
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Redeemer God - Isaiah: Light to the Nations - Tim Knipp (2 Kings 25:1-4;9-12; Isa. 43:1-3)
Crumbling walls
and shattered bones,
the holy temple pillaged
and burned
to ash.
Choking smoke billows
and grimes faces
downcast
and bewildered.
Exile:
hounded from home
and all that's familiar,
loss beats daily
with each dusty step,
mile after bleak
and tortured
mile.
Babylon looms,
a brick monstrosity,
huge
and unyielding.
Alien tongues babble
and every alley
leads to further
strangeness
and futility.
Yahweh defeated.
His temple razed.
His people enslaved.
Are you watching
and listening, God?
Can you save us
from seemingly
unbeatable forces?
Will you come
to our rescue
or have you
abandoned us here?
Yahweh, they say
you are powerless
and impotent.
When will you
appear?
My plans are not like yours,
though I hear your cries
and feel your pain
as though it were
inflicted on
my own flesh.
You are so very dear to me
and I will never desert you;
even in the direst dungeon
and fiery furnace,
you will not be consumed.
For I am your God
and I will
redeem
you.
and shattered bones,
the holy temple pillaged
and burned
to ash.
Choking smoke billows
and grimes faces
downcast
and bewildered.
Exile:
hounded from home
and all that's familiar,
loss beats daily
with each dusty step,
mile after bleak
and tortured
mile.
Babylon looms,
a brick monstrosity,
huge
and unyielding.
Alien tongues babble
and every alley
leads to further
strangeness
and futility.
Yahweh defeated.
His temple razed.
His people enslaved.
Are you watching
and listening, God?
Can you save us
from seemingly
unbeatable forces?
Will you come
to our rescue
or have you
abandoned us here?
Yahweh, they say
you are powerless
and impotent.
When will you
appear?
My plans are not like yours,
though I hear your cries
and feel your pain
as though it were
inflicted on
my own flesh.
You are so very dear to me
and I will never desert you;
even in the direst dungeon
and fiery furnace,
you will not be consumed.
For I am your God
and I will
redeem
you.
Sunday, February 24, 2019
A God-shaped Burden - Isaiah: Light to the Nations (Tim Knipp); Isa. 39
From king to king -
Ahaz to Hezekiah -
the stories are told.
The first hears
and disregards wisdom,
choosing military might
over Yahweh's uncontainable
mystery.
Unto you a child is born,
unto you a son is given...
bursts forth from the bitterness of
Isaiah's lamentation,
and a nation wonders.
The second king chooses well,
accepting God's sign -
a worthy monarch,
it seems.
"Is he the One?"
is whispered in
alleyways
and streets.
But when an alien
dignitary
arrives on the scene,
he is received with
a friend's embrace;
all wealth
and might,
all secrets and
stealth
are exposed -
the doors opened wide
in the hope
of gaining an ally.
Hear the word
of God on high:
all your treasures will
be plundered,
your grandchildren
captured, mutilated
and enslaved...
Hezekiah responds -
"Oh, good news for me -
at least it will happen
after I'm gone."
Short-sightedness
and self-focus
blind even this
otherwise sagacious ruler
who chose well
so often,
yet was not divine.
Who do I trust when
peril brews?
What or who do I cling to
and emulate,
striving to impress
and ingratiate?
All, all will ultimately fail
to save us.
We must not enthrone
mere mortals
on the God seat -
disallowing their frailty,
their humanity,
their ability to be
both heroic
and sick*.
The weight of trust and worship
will ultimately crush a human
or anything human-made;
it is a God-shaped burden only.
Let Him receive your trust,
then hold lightly to others,
setting them free
to simply
be.
Ahaz to Hezekiah -
the stories are told.
The first hears
and disregards wisdom,
choosing military might
over Yahweh's uncontainable
mystery.
Unto you a child is born,
unto you a son is given...
bursts forth from the bitterness of
Isaiah's lamentation,
and a nation wonders.
The second king chooses well,
accepting God's sign -
a worthy monarch,
it seems.
"Is he the One?"
is whispered in
alleyways
and streets.
But when an alien
dignitary
arrives on the scene,
he is received with
a friend's embrace;
all wealth
and might,
all secrets and
stealth
are exposed -
the doors opened wide
in the hope
of gaining an ally.
Hear the word
of God on high:
all your treasures will
be plundered,
your grandchildren
captured, mutilated
and enslaved...
Hezekiah responds -
"Oh, good news for me -
at least it will happen
after I'm gone."
Short-sightedness
and self-focus
blind even this
otherwise sagacious ruler
who chose well
so often,
yet was not divine.
Who do I trust when
peril brews?
What or who do I cling to
and emulate,
striving to impress
and ingratiate?
All, all will ultimately fail
to save us.
We must not enthrone
mere mortals
on the God seat -
disallowing their frailty,
their humanity,
their ability to be
both heroic
and sick*.
The weight of trust and worship
will ultimately crush a human
or anything human-made;
it is a God-shaped burden only.
Let Him receive your trust,
then hold lightly to others,
setting them free
to simply
be.
*"heroic and sick" is a line taken from
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Sunday, February 10, 2019
Naked Isaiah; Isaiah: Light to the Nations - Tim Knipp (Isa. 20:1-6)
Exposed flesh roughens,
snags on sharp edges.
Pores clog
and creases gather
sweat and
granulated dust.
Unclad and unshod -
Isaiah went about
for twelve seasons,
enduring ridicule
and muttered assessments
of his sanity
or lack thereof:
serving
as God's extended
audacious
metaphor.
Your life is a masterpiece,
each brush stroke matters -
even the mundane routines
and seemingly forgettable prattle.
All of you and each moment
and breath speaks;
varied hues shade your glances,
your words bleed
and blend;
your gestures interpret
your heartbeats.
If your daily words
were the lyrics of a symphony,
what instruments
would sing your voice?
I cringe to think of mine as
discordant screeches
or thundering timpani.
What lasting images
will I leave behind
in the minds of those
who have known me?
Oh, let the lovely images
outshine the sordid!
Help me to be open
to inspiration
and drawn to its Source.
Let me inhale complexities
of genre and
created substance,
molding metaphors
from the daily stuff
of existence.
Let naked Isaiah's
blushing and dusted
backside
glimmer golden
as he shuffles
into the
setting crimson
sunset.
snags on sharp edges.
Pores clog
and creases gather
sweat and
granulated dust.
Unclad and unshod -
Isaiah went about
for twelve seasons,
enduring ridicule
and muttered assessments
of his sanity
or lack thereof:
serving
as God's extended
audacious
metaphor.
Your life is a masterpiece,
each brush stroke matters -
even the mundane routines
and seemingly forgettable prattle.
All of you and each moment
and breath speaks;
varied hues shade your glances,
your words bleed
and blend;
your gestures interpret
your heartbeats.
If your daily words
were the lyrics of a symphony,
what instruments
would sing your voice?
I cringe to think of mine as
discordant screeches
or thundering timpani.
What lasting images
will I leave behind
in the minds of those
who have known me?
Oh, let the lovely images
outshine the sordid!
Help me to be open
to inspiration
and drawn to its Source.
Let me inhale complexities
of genre and
created substance,
molding metaphors
from the daily stuff
of existence.
Let naked Isaiah's
blushing and dusted
backside
glimmer golden
as he shuffles
into the
setting crimson
sunset.
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