A pile of shoes
by the door,
coats tossed
on a bed,
dishes piled in the sink;
conversations,
unhurried and
punctuated by laughter
and sweet silences;
a picture of community,
of belonging,
of acceptance.
The church's heart
beats to the tune
of allelon (one another).
Harmony
is the song
our lives should sing.
We are to
- be at peace with,,
- love as I have loved,
- belong to,
- be devoted to,
- encourage,
- build up,
- accept,
- instruct,
- greet,
- wait for,
- serve,
one another.
We are not to
- provoke
- lie to
- judge
- or grumble about
one another.
We are to be
- kind,
- compassionate,
- long-suffering with
one another.
And we are to
- spur on,
- pray for,
- offer hospitality to
- and love,
- love,
- love,
one another.
Allelon.
People in intimate,
sometimes messy,
interwoven threads
dipped in the blood
of Christ.
We are not snails,
carrying our homes
on our backs.
We are instead,
only a plank or joist
that needs others
to complete
the structure
of relationship.
Not every
connection fits,
but we must keep trying
if we are to know
the life more abundant
that is our promise.
It is available
as we struggle together
ever closer
to one another
and Christ.
Young as I am -
You found me.
Flawed though I be -
You called me.
How can it be?
I sing Your glory and wonder
at the amazing story
You gave breath to.
How delightful is Your hand
that caresses my cheek,
softer than a breeze.
That touch will mark
me for eternity
as Your choice -
the One to bear Your Son.
O marvelous are You, Lord!
The longing of generations
will be met through me
and You.
You, who bring grace
to those who fear You.
You have invaded kingdoms
and overthrown dictators -
You rescue the oppressed,
feed the hungry
and
overturn tables
of money changers
in temples.
You reach across
the barrier between
heaven and earth
with Your mighty arm
and interfere with
the powers of darkness,
lifting us
from
danger.
You rescue those
who call out to You.
You challenge our hubris,
expose hypocrisy
and pry our fingers
off riches
that can ease
a thousand hurts.
You remembered us -
that we are Yours
and that You promised
to bless us.
Call me blessed
that I may bow
graciously
before Your will
in spite of the unknown barbs
that will inevitably
scrape my soul.
Call me blessed.
In a time of waiting
we reflect
on what has been
and will be.
Miraculously implanted,
the child gradually grew -
nubs became arms
and legs,
lung sacs and organs -
those mysterious machines -
sprouted and
began their functions.
All begun with, "Yes."
As Mary submitted to God's invasion,
so we can choose
to begin the orchestration
of divine growth in us.
How frightening
that decision is!
How revolutionary
to allow Him to overthrown
the current regime
that rules our hearts;
to imagine Him entering
the impoverished shanties
within me,
the scorecard of failures
and belligerence
prominently displayed...
How can this be?
"The Holy Spirit
will come upon you..."
O, how the Spirit hovers
over darkly shadowed crevices,
waiting.
Our, "yes" allows the Spirit
to let light in,
light that exposes, yes,
but also brings life
to barrenness,
the seed implanted.
What emptiness lurks
inside me that I have yet
to open to His Spirit?
What sterile soil
has crusted over
that cries out for the delirious
rain of His prodigality?
What incremental growth
has already formed
in me
that I can celebrate -
aware of pressure against spine,
a kicking at the ribs
of my routines,
reminding me of His
miraculous indwelling;
His breath
in my veins.
He chooses me daily,
giving me again and again
the chance to answer,
"Yes, come grow
Jesus in me
so I can be
a blessing."
It will never be
the same
after pain.
How will we bend?
Loss and
unfulfilled hope
leave craters --
sink holes --
and acquaint us
with shadows.
Hunger drives
a woman and her family
far from home.
Death strikes
and Naomi,
embittered,
turns homeward,
determined to
need no one
ever again.
With stalwart devotion,
wrapped in grief
of her own,
Ruth
commits herself to
The Embittered One,
a cushion
for pain shared.
Inescapable wounds
can bind us together
or divide us;
trap us in an endless loop
or free us to face
the fragmented
mirror;
to read the scars
like Braille,
telling the story
of God's heart,
broken for us.
Fallen creatures
are prickly
as porcupines,
the wounded often lash out
in terror,
slashing the very hand
reached down
in kindness.
We cannot escape
this world unscathed.
What story
will our scars tell?
Ruth 1:1-5
The spit-upon
are nameless
shadow puppets
hugging the wall.
They lurk at the edges
of our vision,
flickering dimly.
Yet the Rabbi
made eye contact
and spoke
life in metaphors
confusing
and inexplicable.
"Identify yourself"
is the moment of truth.
She does not flinch
but names herself
as fallen.
He opens the door
to her understanding
by reading her
brokenness,
then stuns her further
by offering His hand
and
a future.
The spit-upon
became the daughter
of the King -
head held high
she rejoiced
and called all
to meet the One
who renamed her,
Beloved.
Lying ideas circulate
and breed
more lies.
Couched in psycho-jargon
and hissed
in hungry ears
ideas shape us
and
misshape us.
Self-serving
inflates egos
and distorts reality.
God's mercy overflows,
transforming our
crooked souls.
He blesses us with gifts -
not to adorn our mantels
with shining trophies -
but to equip us
for service.
Lay down your rights.
Surrender
to Him who lavished
mercy on you.
Become a channel
through which mercy flows,
your specialness
a conduit.
So open up.
Open up.
Let it go.
Feel His pleasure as you
give it up.
Give it up.
Rom. 12:1-8
