Who are we? This horde, these faces, these stories
from so many places. Broken hearts, bleeding hearts,
whole pieces, some shattered in parts. On this ground,
at this time, living, watching, listening.
Who is this man, off centered, around whom we have gathered,
rather, who does he think he is? He seems fond
of asking the question of the crowd, out loud,
with no pretense, only kind eyes and calloused hands.
Some are chattering, others flattering, some enamored
while we all sweat in the heat, feet tired. Bone tired. To the bone
weary with the to and fro and forth and back,
stress and misery is not what this crowd lacks.
I stand somewhere behind, to the left. Not yours, his. And watch.
One of the enamored. Distracted enamored. Listening. Wondering.
Mind wandering, heart ensconced. More often than not, lost.
Yet, today, grounded. One of many in this circus of normality.
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Open your ears, open your eyes, only
let your lips stay pursed while I speak my verse.
Untwist your mind, cease looking ahead
turn ’round, focused sight on what is behind.
The raveled spin of leaders of yon blur
stories still unheard, histories untold.
Victors smash icons and mythologies,
replacing speech for vernacular,
and we are left with the wreckage and pain,
told we are inane, insane, daft, and plain
when we demand the propaganda cease.
They must tell a story to spread a lie,
to barbarize those they have brutalized.
To keep your lips pursed, for to prevent you
from opening your mouth and asking now
the reasons for which you have been kept blind.
I am unlike you near this open flame
where words beat hollow rhythms in my head
while memories pour like waterfall’s surge.
The song in my mind is a requiem.
Your eyes, your mouth they then held the same shape.
Empty. And the sound was not echoing,
only finding itself lost in the smoke
dissipating in midnight’s cold chill.
Yet you were seen beyond the masquerade.
Masks cannot hide the vulnerable
when love’s thunder shatters the midnight veil
and dawn breaks upon the charred logs’ last remains.
I will scream at the dark and shatter the sky,
when I reach past the anger in your eyes.
I want to walk ahead, to find that narrow way.
These lines, though, they never fall in straight places;
the road curves, then jogs, then curves again.
I become lost in the fog of dawn’s embrace
wandering again, wondering again.
Can you tell me when the hooded man,
with scythe in hand, decided
that it was his prerogative to usher my heroes
across the river? Tell me why I cannot bribe Charon
with someone else’s blood to bring them back.
Tis not just to remove from a withering world
her voice, her heart, her wisdom, her eldest sons
whilst her youngest are only still crawling
on roads and paths
that will never be laid straight with falling lines.
I am a baggage carrying, wounded follower of Jesus. I have a very strong love/hate relationship with the church and a dream that the Church can be something more than a blind person leading blind people. I have a traditional past to which I continually respond, unable to leave that on the wayside of my faith journey. It’s like attempting to exorcise part of my heart; it has shaped who I now am, is part of me, is a closed chapter in my narrative with a sentence in my epilogue.
For the past few months, I have wandered away from disciplines; I grew up with the Scriptures. They are overly familiar to me. Boring most times. Yet I believe that the One in whom I believe has this in ways beyond my comprehension. I have not walked away; I am wandering, still searching, yearning to want to want to engage with the Spirit that is Love. Sometimes I will pick up the Scriptures and read a passage or two; I have no metaphor to offer that does not somehow paint me out to look like a dreadful sinner. My soul is not dry, so it is not like water; my heart is not particularly lonely, so it is not like some long lost friend. I have not been hungry, so it is not like food to a starving stomach. It is simply good. Yet, I don’t know how to risk taking more and more of it in without it somehow becoming boring and familiar all over again. And, yet, I am still found within its narrative.
I, probably like many people, am wandering. But, I am following a wandering, itinerant teacher. Throughout Church history, we have heard it said that Jesus was on his way to the cross from birth. However, we only know the end of the story if we have read it all the way through (which I’ve done innumerable times). Yet, if someone allows the story to sweep them up in its magic for the first time, it really does appear as though Jesus is wandering around his little corner of the earth. Teaching, eating (lots), healing (some), hanging out (lots, too), and teaching some more. And then he pisses off the wrong people, gets crucified, dies, and comes back to life. No, I haven’t given away too much of it. Go ahead, read it. It’s worth it. Just don’t read it over and over and over again ad nauseum. I’m not fully convinced that’s the best approach anymore.
I have tasted and seen what is good. I have seen the face of God in my dear friends’ daughter’s eyes; I have held the face of Christ when I held her in my arms. I have participated in a communion that is (though the phrase be overused) too beautiful for words. I have been reproached, corrected, and saved more times than I care to count by people who welcomed me, loved me, then booted me out of the nest, only to re-welcome me when the time was desperately necessary. And then they booted me out again. And I have experienced that twice now in my life. I yearn to find that again. I am the idiot who sold everything he had to buy a field where he found a treasure. I’m just not sure that the field is in a geographical location as much as it is in the living room of a young couple with an extremely life filled and life giving little boy. Or around a television set watching hockey (what the hell is that anyway?) with a group of guys. Or discussing the theological ramifications of what it means for 3/4s of a church to all move into the same neighborhood, hoping that change will come through their hands and feet, their latte skills, and paint brushes.
I am wandering. I am not lost; although there are many things that I wish I could lose. I am in search of a dream; I have gone hunting after a promise. Most days I am in unfamiliar territory but am grateful that the footsteps of the giants that I follow are deep enough that the storms of life don’t wash them away. And I am grateful to be surrounded by a crowd of witnesses who have also sought for this dream and hunted after this promise. I’m not sure I believe anymore in the “straight and narrow” path. I think it’s still narrow, but after having walked it for more than twenty years now (sheesh), I’m convinced that there are forks galore on this road. And I have taken one once again.
When I was growing up in the church, I remember hearing countless times that one shouldn’t go round the same mountain multiple times. It was a metaphor that was used to teach that one should learn the lesson that God was teaching you the first time around. I’m not sure that I resonate with the way that the metaphor was used then, but I’m beginning to have a new appreciation for the concept of circling the mountain.
I often struggle with faith. Like recently, I haven’t had a spiritual discipline of “quiet time.” That usually means spending some time reading the bible, praying, and/or meditating. Not necessarily in that order. I am clearly aware of this lack of discipline but also clearly aware of a nagging question of whether or not Christian spirituality is actually something that can be measured. Does the next best pop-theologian with a cool cover for their book have some sort of divine measuring tape to tell me how I should determine if my relationship with God is dynamic? My prayers lately, usually while in the work truck, consist of a desperate whisper, “Today I believe that you have this more than me, God. For that I’m grateful.” And again I circle the mountain.
I also often struggle with the church. The Evangelical variety to be precise. I think, for the most part, that I’ve written it off. Within its philosophy and theology, I see an otherworldly sense of religion. Other than a rare occasion I see a hope for something beyond humanity, as in eternal life stuff. I don’t see nor experience much of a this earth experience. Much more so, do I rarely experience a love one’s neighbor ethic. In my experience, Evangelical Christianity is extremely North American. It is a navel gazing religion nearly devoid of a meaningful message that speaks to the lives of people longing for an experience with God that is tangible. For something that can be shared in a hand shake, in a hug, or in a desperate cry for friendship in an increasingly lonely world. And again I circle the mountain.
Today I have a nagging frustration in my gut. Something I would describe as impressed cultural guilt. You see, as a teen in a southern church in the U.S., I was guilted into reading Scripture, praying, etc. It was how one’s relationship with Jesus was measured. I did, from that, receive a deep sense of connection with God that continues through to this day; however, the guilt I could really do without. How does one shed a piece of the fiber that was intertwined into their very being? And around the mountain I go again.
Today I am angry with the Western Church’s inability to adopt a collaborative approach to theo-praxis. Today I desperately wish that Western theologians would realize that our hope for the Western Church is not within our own minds, our own walls of theological education, much less the walls of the church where that Western theology is distilled into an “I’m okay, you’re okay” theology of individual relationship with Jesus. And I’m tired of the nice ways that people tell me I have no idea what I’m talking about. Give it thirty years; maybe then we can talk about how your camps are isolationist temples to idols of North American ideologies that have no further place in the evolution of the Church. Forgive me for my angst, please; I’m simply tired of North American indifference to the obvious change taking place in our society. And again I circle the mountain.
The mountain. I have gone round and round this mountain, to which folks who know me best can attest. However, on this go around, I see a crack in the mountain that I didn’t see last time. I see a stream of fresh water flowing from that crack that I didn’t notice on the last go round. I see a flower growing from a rock. And I see a ray of sun shining through the dark clouds that have gathered at this mountain’s peak.
So, today I’ll keep the metaphor. Not the guilt. And I’ll keep trekking around this mountain, tiring out my feet, oftentimes bloodying up my knees, sometimes thrusting my hands into the soil at its base, listening to the raucous sound of birds, the roars of lions, and the claps of thunder; I will smell the flowers and the carcasses of societies that got lost in their arrogance, and I will taste the sweet water that issues forth from the mountain as well as the salt of my tears and sweat from my brow.
And again I circle the mountain.
