On the way to death's doorway,
He carried His cross.
Long before the tree
became lumber,
He hoisted it onto His
muscled shoulders,
foretelling
in deed and word
what would be
the way.
Peter named Him "Messiah"
but denied the cross hairs
of crucifixion,
as did those begging favors
in the Kingdom.
And we ignore the sacrifice
demanded by
Christ's way:
ignoring sexual indiscretions,
claiming racial wholeness
in the face of blatant bias
and choosing power
over submission.
Blind Bartamaeus sat
off to the side
as the tide of humans
seethed past.
His shouts rose above the
cacophony:
"Mercy! Lord, have mercy!"
while the tide murmured, "Quiet, man!"
"Jesus - look upon me! Mercy!
When called to the Master's side,
Bartamaeus threw aside
his threadbare but precious cloak
and groped his way forward,
fingers poking sweaty noses
and oily hair en route.
"What do you want me to do for you?"
- an earthshaking question
if ever there was one.
Do I really want to leap headfirst
into the river of change,
leaving behind all that I have
ever known?
"Master, I want to see."
And so he received:
in the next blink
He saw Jesus framed
in golden Jericho dust
and followed Him
along the way
to the cross.
What do I want Him to do for me?
Mercy, Lord.
Forgive my blindness -
that self-focused entitlement
that shuns vulnerability
and embraces others
only with armor firmly
in place.
Have mercy on my denial -
my refusal
to walk in your way
and yet proudly bear
your label
though I tarnish it
daily.
Have mercy, Lord.
I want to see.
Caught in this dreadful storm,
we are tossed like so much
shredded confetti
until our cries reach
the Master's sleeping ears.
Almost annoyed,
He shushes the wind and
whitecaps with a glance,
then turns disappointed eyes -
lighthouse slashes through
silent blackness -
on our stunned
and fearful selves.
Chaotic oceans -
vast forces that roil and swirl,
inchoate and insatiable -
who can tame them?
Only One stronger than
Nature itself -
One supernatural,
metaphysical,
bound not by Nature's laws.
Who is this man?
He is wrapped
in our humanity,
yet
stronger than any force.
No power,
no principality
in heaven or on earth
can overcome Him
without His willing
submission.
So, as chaos gathers
in hordes
and slaps greedily
against the sides
of our ship,
we will trust Him
who is Stronger,
though He may
seemingly sleep.
When weakness shivers
our bones
and broken glass
cruelly carpets
the path ahead,
the Stronger One
is there
to lead us through.
Magnetic pressure
warps us out of plumb -
away from our ideal selves -
and statics our connection
to the Father.
Yet we stray into danger
again and again.
Into the murky Jordan
Jesus plunged.
As He rose, dripping,
God cracked heaven wide
in a galaxy grin
and showered blessing
down.
Once again the Spirit
hovered over waters,
stirring up new life,
then pulled Jesus sandward.
Tramping
over sterile terrain,
He faced pressures
to conform, to satisfy,
to escape pain, to play with power;
tempted in every way as we are.
For forty days He
was assaulted,
bombarded, pulled
and pummeled,
yet did not give in.
Powerful forces
ignite turmoil,
draw us - willing or not -
into their whirlpools
and we drown.
Through waves
of shame and
self-loathing
the Stronger One
reaches a hand
to guide us back
to our
True Selves.
We look back to forge ahead -
pausing on the trail
to catch our breath.
Fellow travelers gather 'round,
some joined just now,
some footsore and travel-worn
but grinning through the grit.
Some wounded souls gasp for air,
hands on knees and heads bent low;
stragglers trudge in clouds of dust,
streaked faces still aglow.
The trail winds back
through scrub and pine,
down rock-strewn gullies,
o'er rivers wide.
We recall the boulders -
seemingly impossible to scale,
the triumphs hard won
and setbacks enough to challenge
even the hardiest of souls.
We marvel yet at answered prayers,
moments of beauty unparalleled:
echoing canyons, skies achingly blue,
vistas stretched like oil-painted canvas
incredibly huge.
On the trail ahead
we see throngs to be,
cheerful hikers in twos and threes
embarking on side paths
surrounded by trees;
outsiders welcomed to hearth and home,
warmed and nourished to fuller bloom,
befriended and valued as unique boons.
We envision friends yet unknown,
who'll come alongside;
those we can encourage and
lead and inspire.
We hope for calm weather
but pack up rain gear,
realistic but hopeful
for the upcoming year.
Isolated islands,
we dig deeper moats
the closer we crowd
together.
Shields up,
walled into class cubes,
we feel
no touch
upon our needy skin.
We are the lonely.
Reaching out
short circuits
when fitting in boxes
is required
and claustrophobic
corsets misshape our souls.
We are the lonely.
Created to fit together,
we long for the other
to warm and weather gales with -
a forest stands
long after the lone tree falls.
Hustling about our busy way,
we gloss and ice over
interactions,
skimming the surface
and avoiding deep dives
at all cost.
Celebrated strong and silent
types are one-dimensional
facades,
made simpler to maintain
by selfies posted
in various poses
suggesting
intimacy.
Curling inward
is instinctive
when wounded,
but becomes a
deformity when
maintained.
Hold out a hand,
open a door -
expect to receive a gift
with whoever
walks in.
Require no dress code
or masks -
let us see your mess
and imperfect attempts
to follow Christ.
Perfectly polished
performances
push connections
aside.
Look up and out.
Choose to be open
to whoever the wind
of God
blows in.
We are the lonely.
We are the thousands
who walk alone
in your midst.
Look around.
See us.
Invite us in.
We worry and
we fret,
it's just something
we do.
We open the door
to this poison -
odorless and colorless,
it creeps across
thresholds
and into our very blood.
Doing battle
means
a bit of boot camp:
disciplined action
and mental grit
while sending sighing
prayers heavenward.
Grab hold of a
grounding stone
and breathe -
in, then out.
Body, soul and spirit
function together,
gears mesh or clog
as each is oiled
or filled with gunk.
Find an ear to speak into -
a trusted soul to hear.
Into the worry pools
and eddies,
God's presence exists.
Learn to see Him
in the dark;
reach out your fumbling,
stumbling hand
to find His there.
Though He may not seem
to speak,
He is there.
And that "there" is more solid
and actual
than the storm that rages
around and through you.
Let the God of comfort
hold you
as you tremble.
Let the Father
of compassion
feel your anguish,
take it,
mold it
and
continue the good work
He began.
Trust His faithfulness
to see you through.
We are weak
yet He does not flee.
We lack trust
yet He remains faithful.
We worry.
We fret.
It's who we are.
He cares.
He shows up.
It's who He is.
