Never to Find

I read because I'm searching.
Have always been searching.
Used books stores are the best.
But Amazon these days, as well.

And the library ...
A source of endless unusual books.
Small spaces here need no more books.
So, get 'em from the library.

To continue the search.
For what? you may ask.
I have no idea.
But I'll know when I find it.

Or will I?
Is it the search that counts?
Is it the never finding that's pure?
Would "finding it" only be an illusion?

We humans crave meaning.
Meaning that requires something larger than the self.
So, I read.
I search.

And if you're searching, too.
Keep it up.
There is pleasure in the reading.
And a certain pleasure in never finding.

Or, as a Reformed thinker might put it.
It's God we seek.
And in our seeking, we discover:
It's God seeking us.

And we're found of God.
Even in our not finding God.
Because God cannot be found.
God cannot be claimed.

And as a favor to us.
God remains elusive.
So much of our humanity and our humility.
Is the searching, never to find.

Using Our Imagination

Conservatives lack imagination.
All they can do is look backward.
Like Lot's wife.

And we know what happened to her.
Or to anyone fixated on the past.

Because God is forward looking.
To a new day.
A new way of faith, hope and love.

God, always inventing.
Coming to terms with.
Making fresh arrangements.

Putting it together, anew.
Never interested in making the Kingdom of God Great Again.
But in sustaining the greatness of love.

There is no "again" in God's vocabulary.
As if the past held some clue to the future.
There is only a profound grace.

The Kingdom of God is at hand.
Here and now.
And then and there.

Yes, it was in the past
But the past is gone.
As it should be.

Like a marker along the road.
Many more miles to go.

It's the Spirit who rends the heavens and comes down.
Who drives the Son of God into the wilderness.
To know hunger and thirst and sleepless nights.

To fashion a being who can carry the cross.
Who can embrace the world.
Who can give life for life.

Now, that's imagination.
That's creativity.
That's the anchor of tomorrow.

The anchor pulling us along the way.
Into another day.

And maybe Lot's wife can have another chance.
Let the rains melt salt and wash away the resolve.
To yearn for the past and its meager offerings.

Maybe Lot's wife can have another chance.
To find her imagination.
To journey ahead and along the way.

To a new land.
A new place.
A new being.

I think that's how God would have it.
For all of us and the animals.
And especially the children with their songs.

Can we not imagine something beyond yesterday's offerings?
Is there not more to be had in God's pantry?
Time to unlimber the imagination.

To my conservative friends, Don't be afraid.
There's more to life than MAGA.
The Kingdom of God pushing us ahead.

Bless the Mourning of My Soul

Eternal God.
Grant mercy this day to me:

Lest I lose myself in sorrow.
For the ills of this world.
The travesty of religion.
The greed of this nation.
Its violence, guns, fears and hatred.

But take not the sorrow away.

For blessed are those who mourn.
Who mourn the sins of the world.
The suffering of so many.
At the hands of so few.
The few who wield the reigns of power.
The Pilots and the Caesars.
The High Priests and their Temple Police.
The juggernaut of a religious state.
And the state of religion, when love is lost.
And power embraced.

For all who mourn this day:
The blessing of your own mourning, O God.
The blessing of your own tears.
To wash our hearts and cleanse our minds.
And some broken bread to give us strength.
A cup of wine to refresh us.

For the long day's journey.
And restless nights.
When thoughts churn.
And heartache intrudes.
No sleep for the weary.
Weary from love.

Bless the mourning of my soul.

Hiding in the Church

"Hiding in the church" he said.
A reminder of how the biggest
Opioid in America
Is its religion.

Especially evangelicalism.

All talk and hymns and praise music.
Me and Jesus.
Jesus and Me.
Jesus forgives.
I'm saved.
When I die.
I go to heaven.
Or, with a little luck (Ha),
Jesus comes before I die.
And wipes out the bad guys.
With his guns blazing.
Muscles flexing.
What a Jesus, white and beautiful.
Beautiful and mighty.
My Jesus ... mine, mine, mine.
All mine.
And then I go to heaven.
*Fold hands now, sing piously, eyes closed, sway gently*
Let the world know how much you love Jesus.

And the opioid does its work.
Hiding in the church.
Woo hoo ...

A Nervous Weathervane

There, thirty feet off the ground.
High enough to catch some air.
A nervous weathervane ...

Not quite sure of the afternoon's proceedings.
Like an unsure shopper not sure of the aisle.
To find whole wheat apple sauce, or was it non-dairy milk.

Who knows the will of the wind.
At times suc ... as these.
Blowing ill, or might it be hope.

A nervous weathervane.
In that time of the day, when the air itself isn't quite sure.
What once was that way, might now be thatta way.

Could be, maybe not, or just a hint.
It'll take awhile for the remains of the day to work it out.
To find itself ... thirty feet off the ground.

We Are Cursing Our Children

Psalm 147.13 - "God blesses your children...."

This hit me hard today.

That children become the measure of God's blessing, mercy, protection and wellbeing. How the children are doing says a whole lot about God, for sure, but even more about us, and our faithfulness to God's purposes.

Yet, it would seem that are children are cursed, rather than blessed. Not that God is doing the cursing, but rather we are, with a proud determination, it would seem, to have it our way, no matter the "collateral damage" [read: dead children].

We have violated so many of God's purposes and plans ... we have refused to heed the cries of our children, blaming them, blaming their parents, blaming everything and everyone we can, even the "act of god," for the tragedies that befall our children day upon day.

That such should happen in so many parts of the world, desperate and war-torn, only adds to our guilt - for we loudly proclaim our godliness, our great American abilities, our strength, our prowess ... we're all about greatness, or so we say.

And, yet, our children suffer ... in our cities racked with poverty, our rural areas stricken with joblessness and opioids; across the land and throughout our nation, the children of America are dying for want of nutrition, safety and by untold violence everywhere.

Not even God can undo the horrendous decisions we make to satisfy our twisted desires to own a gun ... to have power ... to be able to threaten others ... to be tough and mean ... and live as we please ... looking to the rich to help us along the way, even as the rich continue to steal every dime they can from education, healthcare and the nation's safety nets, cleverly playing upon our fears so that we'll buy even more guns and continue our violent ways.

Not even God can bless the children when we're working overtime, it would seem, to curse them.

Going to Cemeteries

At Hollywood Forever ... said to D, "I miss going to cemeteries ... as a minister to officiate burials, or when riding my bike years ago in Livonia where there were two huge cemeteries for safe biking.

Cemeteries have always spoken to me - a simply line, I suppose, "We made it, and so will you."

At the time, they all did what humans do ... love, hate, and love some more ... many reared families, worked hard, laid awake at night fretting ... some lived through hell, most lived honorable lives, some didn't.

But they all made it ... and then one day, the dust claimed them again, and to the dust they returned ... and whatever theological or ontological musings one might have, there's a certain relief in this cycle of life to death ...

To make room for others ... for others to give it a try ... to build something better, or at least to keep things in repair.

To learn from them who now rest ... to be encouraged by them ... to finish their work.

And then we lay our burdens down ... not always easy ... none of us say goodbye without tears.

But goodbye we must say ... sooner or later.

I miss going to cemeteries ... they're instructive, even healing.

"We made it, and so will you."

Transcendence

I do possess.
I must posses.
A transcendence.
Of spirit and heart and love.

Not to escape history.
Because that's just plain nuts.
To want something good.
Without seeing just how horrible stuff can be.
Is just plain nuts.

No. Not to escape.
But to believe.
To live within the maelstrom.
To hope.
To trust.

That the tortured cries of humanity.
Like the children of Israel in Egypt.
Have a hearing.
And will not endlessly be forgotten.

A transcendence to see better.
The dim outlines of hope.
Often obscured in the harsh glare of greed.

The bright lights of fame and fortune.
Towers of steel and cement.
White houses of shame and deceit.

Hard to see hope in the glare of greed.
In the blinding light of lies and lechery.

Transcendence is no fool's errand.
No widow's blind rage against death.
No momentary escape from reality.
But reality itself.
The living heart of creation.
History's machinery runs on human folly.
And transcendence, too.

Transcendence has teeth.
Spit and spine.
Piss and vinegar.
And is not to be trifled with.

Transcendence reminds me of the rising sun.
The cloud of unknowing.
The majesty of a late-night moth.
Headed toward the flame.

Because the flame is hope.
Home.
Heart.
Everything.

So it goes.
History howls in pain and anger.
Cruel people have their day.
Death reigns its malignant poison.

And that's where I live.
In history.
With its late-night sobs.
And day-light despair.

Transcendence is no escape.
But my strength - to not fall into the darkness.
But into the light.
Like a moth to the flame.

The light of the world, said He.
And many laughed for his want of realism.
But it's his realty that transcends.
Not to escape, but to transform.

To endure, if nothing else.
Until that day when death meets its match.
When greed has exhausted itself and lies dying.
In its own debris of broken promises and poisoned water.

To endure.
To engage.
To enlarge.
To energize.

Faith, hope and love.
Grace, mercy and peace.
Beauty, justice and mercy.

The arsenal of transcendence.
Armed not with might but with right.
Love, not lust.
Generosity, not greed.

Transcendence.
The Lord is great.
And greatly to be praised.
Hallelujah and Amen!

Even for Snots

To live big (I'm tempted to say bigly) is
The Christian Way.

Because of Christ.

God has reconciled us to God's self -
Through Christ, and that's deeply personal.
That's the one-on-one part of the story.
The me-and-Jesus chapter.
But turn the page.

God has given us the ministry of reconciliation:
Unto one another, for one one another.
And that's community.
Call it the church. Or,
My neighborhood.
My town.
My kind.

And lest anyone stop there, Paul reminds us:
God reconciles us, as well, to the world.
To the nations.
To the stars.

The three elements of reconciliation; a
Fact accomplished.
Already.
Done.
Finished, in Christ, for Christ, with Christ.
Unto God.

So, we live big.

In the deep recesses of our spirit, to
Belong to God, now and forever:
Without doubt, without fear, without question.

And then to one another ... which is a bit harder.
Because of who we are.
Sinners some might say.
But maybe snots would be a more apt expression.

But we soldier on,
Trying to love one another, as we love God.
And maybe:
We're tempted to stop right there.
With God, and with those of our community.
Our own kind.
Our own snots, so to speak.

But I suspect if that's where we stop, reconciliation falters.
The whole scenario goes sour like forgotten milk.
The personal becomes narcissistic.
The community becomes exceptional and possessive.
Fearful of the world out there.
Unwilling to take the final step with Christ.
The biggest step of all.

The third step that finishes the deal.
The fulcrum on which the other two teeter and totter.
The Third Step:
Empowers reconciliation for what it is.
On all the levels ... can't have one without the other.
A trinity here.

As big as God's heart.
The whole world included.
I can't pick and choose to have
Only God.
Or only God and my clan of snots.
It has to be the whole world, too.

He's got the whole world in his hands, we sing.
And that's true.
And so must we, to complete the circle of love.

To live big.
As big as God, or not at all.
"Be perfect as your Father in heaven is perfect" said Jesus.

He says it, because,
It's possible:
Even for
Snots.