A Rainy Morning

by Ted Kooser

A young woman in a wheelchair,
wearing a black nylon poncho spattered with rain,
is pushing herself through the morning.
You have seen how pianists
sometimes bend forward to strike the keys,
then lift their hands, draw back to rest,
then lean again to strike just as the chord fades.
Such is the way this woman
strikes at the wheels, then lifts her long white fingers,
letting them float, then bends again to strike
just as the chair slows, as if into a silence.
So expertly she plays the chords
of this difficult music she has mastered,
her wet face beautiful in its concentration,
while the wind turns the pages of rain.

I Happened To Be Standing

by Mary Oliver

I don't know where prayers go,
or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
half-asleep in the sun?
Does the opossum pray as it
crosses the street?
The sunflowers? The old black oak
growing older every year?
I know I can walk through the world,
along the shore or under the trees,
with my mind filled with things
of little importance, in full
self-attendance. A condition I can't really
call being alive.
Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that's their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.

While I was thinking this I happened to be standing
just outside my door, with my notebook open,
which is the way I begin every morning.
Then a wren in the privet began to sing.
He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
I don't know why. And yet, why not.
I wouldn't persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don't. That's your business.
But I thought, of the wren's singing, what could this be
if it isn't a prayer?
So I just listened, my pen in the air.

Resurrection Day 2014

A rumbling in the pre-dawn darkness - a shaking of the earth - soldiers' courage shatter and they fall down as if dead - the crackling, scraping and crunching as a huge stone is carelessly tossed aside as little more than a minor inconvenience - the burial clothes lying hollow and empty as death itself - and the light . . . the blinding light of an angel's garments that shine like lightning . . . Easter has come.

The creation story was good . . . Moses and the Red Sea, well, my goodness . . . Christmas morning was a morning like no other . . . then Good Friday . . . 

Curiously, unlike Christmas morning, there are no choirs of angels on Easter . . . I like to think it is because even they were struck dumb with wonder . . . some covering their gaping mouths in astonishment . . . while others hid their faces in their hands - crying tears for the sheer terrifying beauty of it all.

But this Easter morn my thoughts are not only of that day of days so long ago but of the many resurrections we see all around us as we journey through this life . . . relationships forever broken only to be healed once more . . . those who battle addictions who finally break the chains . . . those mired in their own despair who yet choose to get up and greet the dawn . . .

Those huddled around their pitifully small flickering flame of hope - guarding it with their last ounce of strength against all of life's storms even after all others have given up . . .

When scientists say it is not possible and philosophers say it is not logical . . . When family says hope is gone and friends say the damage is beyond repair . . . when counselors say it is not reasonable and the doctors say it is terminal . . . When all the world shakes it's finger, wags it's head and pronounces . . . Death . . .

God replies, "Death? What do you think you know about death . . .?"

Then slowly, quietly, and oh, so gently, he kneels down next to us in the cold darkness of our tomb, cups his hands around ours so desperate to keep that small flame of hope alive and says, "Would you mind if I warm myself by your fire . . .?"

We become that small boy with the loaves and fishes . . . the widow with her last penny . . . the disciple who cries out "help my unbelief" . . .

And after kneeling quietly in the darkness with us for a time . . . the God of the universe stands, stretches and says "Thank you for sharing with me what you have . . . now may I share myself with you . . .?"

and bushes blaze . . .

waters part . . .

lightening cracks across our doubtful sky . . .

and the very stones that sealed our fate begin to roll away . . .

that which we were told was hopeless and impossible suddenly becomes the new reality . . . 

the deaf begin to hear . . .

the blind begin to see . . .

the lame pick up their mats and walk . . .

From all corners of the earth people cry "not possible!" . . . "not logical!" . . . "hope is gone!" . . . "the damage is beyond repair!" . . . "not reasonable!" . . .  "it is terminal!" . . . with one chorus the world cries "DEATH!"

It is then that God stands to his full height . . . stretches his arms wide as he once did just three days ago . . . shakes his wild hair and beard, throws his head back and laughs . . . a hearty . . .bellowing . . . heart-full laugh . . . and roars a reply that reverberates through all of his creation . . . "DEATH?! What do you think you know about death . . .?"

The God of the universe has his entire will bent on one desire - your Resurrection.

He will bend every rule . . . .

He will pay any cost . . .

To see you flooded with the glory he has always intended for you  . . .

An existence drenched in love, overflowing with joy, engulfed in peace, ruled by patience, inspired to kindness and goodness, marked by faithfulness, at rest in gentleness and secured by self-control (Galatians 5:22).

So if you find yourself lost and alone, fearful and dismayed in the darkness of a tomb - hold on and take heart my darling - your Resurrection is coming.

A bruised, battered and broken, resurrected Jesus kneels beside you, weeps with you, takes your burdens onto himself . . . and then he will dry his eyes as a mischievous smile spreads from one corner of his mouth to another and curious twinkle appears in his eyes - a mix of rage and love, loss and hope, surrender and power and he will shake his head, chuckle softly, look you in the eye and say, "Wanna see something?"

Then throw your arms around him and hang on - things are about to get wild. Your Resurrection day has come.

Happy Easter.

I Want a Battered Jesus

We have all seen them - pictures of a tall, handsome, peaceful and serene Jesus. I have grown to hate those images.

I am 6' 1" and 200 lbs. I picture Jesus shorter than me - a guy I could probably "take" in a knock down-drag out if that's what it came to . . . .

I picture a battered Jesus. A short guy at the bar with a black eye swollen shut, a fat, split lip and a smile that let's everyone know he is as tough as they come.

I don't want a drycleaned Jesus.

I want a Jesus who smells like a locker room and when he catches me staring at him, slides his bar stool out, spreads his arms wide, smiles and says, "You want a piece of me?"

I want a Jesus who goads me into a fight and let's me get a few good punches in before he overwhelms me and erases all thoughts but the searing pain I have inflicted upon myself - a Jesus who puts me flat on my back, pins my arms and thumps my chest over and over all while laughing and asking, "Who's your savior?"

"You are!"

"Who died for your sins?"

"You did!"

"Who's your daddy?"

"Same as yours!"

"Who's gonna buy me my next beer?"

"I will!"

And slowly he let's me up. I mutter "Dick" under my breath and he replies "Asshole".

Then I sit side by side with him, order us another round, and just before we sip, he places his arm around me and says, "You gonna say grace? Or do you want another piece of me . . . sweetheart?"

Naturally I reply, "You got lucky last time"

And the bar stools scrape as we square off against one another once again . . .

"No need to keep them cold" he chuckles to the bartender - "This won't take long . . ."

"Go to hell", I say.

"I have," he laughs.

He cracks his swollen knuckles, looks me in the eye and says, "I came BACK"

And away we go.

Next round is no doubt on me.

This is Not Easter

". . . a time to mourn . . ."
- Ecclesiastes 3:4

This is not Easter.

This is the in-between.

This is the tomb of our souls.

Anything but this.

I prefer the cross to this - at least there is breath and sensation - but this . . . nothingness . . . .

This darkness . . . .

This death . . . .

You had God and Jesus and the whole thing "figured out" . . . you were wrong . . . if not wrong about everything, wrong enough to make you question everything . . .

This is when God doesn't make sense - when the pain is too deep, the betrayal mind-bendingly hard to fathom . . . Abandon all hope - you had it all wrong . . .

So lay it all down, your desire to control God and others . . . lay it down . . .

Your pride in your own wisdom which has become foolishness . . . lay it down . . .

Your arrogant words spoken with such conviction have returned to you as ashes in your mouth . . . spit them out and lay them down . . .

Everything you thought you knew about God and life, others and yourself . . . your dogmatic judgments you have been clinging to in your blasphemous pride . . . lay them all down . . .

Will. You. Now. Cling to Jesus? . . . .

The cold lifeless body of a failed fairy-tale revolution?

Its all well and good to clap your hand to your mouth in horror on Good Friday . . . but will you now follow him to the grave? To your own death and destruction? The death of everything you hold dear? . . .

Will you willingly walk into the tomb as the stone scrapes closed and know only Christ, and Him crucified?

Will you now - after all that happened yesterday . . . admit you were wrong? . . .

Will you finally . . . for one God-damned day . . . humble yourself? . . .

This is not Easter . . . .

Lay it all down and step into the abyss . . .

This is the tomb of our souls.

There is no way out . . .

Unless the way out is through.

Seee also: http://thedawgrun.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-long-march.html

It Is Finished

Quote of the Day

"Courtesy is as much a mark of a gentleman as courage."

- Theodore Roosevelt

"A gentleman is one who never hurts anyone's feelings unintentionally."

- Oscar Wilde

"Be cautious of those who confuse kindness with weakness."

- Noah ben Shea

"A man who is intimate with God will never be intimidated by men."

- Leonard Ravenhill

Pray First

"I ought to pray before seeing any one . . . Christ arose before day and went into a solitary place. David says: ‘Early will I seek thee' . . . feel it is far better to begin with God - to see His face first, to get my soul near Him before it is near another."

- Robert Murray M'Cheyne

Quote of the Day

Legalism doesn't make people "better"; it makes them worse. Moralism doesn't produce morality; it produces immorality. We make a terrible mistake when we believe that the answer to poor performance, be it moral, spiritual, or relational, is more Law. People get worse, not better, when you lay down the Law.

- Tullian Tchividjian: Glorious Ruin: How Suffering Sets You Free

On The Inability to Pray for Others

A dear friend asked me a question recently:

You know...too much of the time I feel that I am so wrapped up with my own needs and worries that I don't have the capacity to love and pray for others to the extent I would like. Do you know of ways to remedy this?

My Response:

My most desperate prayer is a groan.

When God grants me the strength, I pray, "Jesus help me"

After a week or so of that I come to "Thank you for the blessings of my difficulties"

Then "Help me to see beauty"

Then "Flow through me to others"

And that's usually when I begin to love others enough to pray for them.

I am not sure I believe this but I sort of do: You cannot pray out of your own strength - The ability to pray is a grace given by God. if you can't muster a prayer its because God is not allowing it - Ask why he is allowing you to feel desolate and alone - he is showing you something or teaching you something or removing something from you. When we can't pray, its because God is breaking us - the question is, "to what purpose?"

Two common explanations for the inability to pray for others are:

1) You have sin in your life that is blocking that
2) You simply don't love others enough

I find both of those pretty thin gruel.

I think a better explanation is similar to why you shouldn't swim after eating - you blood is rushing inward to your digestive system where it is needed - there isn't enough in your extremities to avoid cramping.

When we can't pray for others its because we are in a pseudo-state of survival spiritually speaking. That energy is needed to be turned inwards at the moment. God needs you to digest something and make it a part of you before you go out "swimming" with others.

So groan. Beg for help in the simplest of prayers. Thank God for the furnace of adversity. Ask God to help you see goodness. Submit yourself to his purposes. Then pray like the spiritual powerhouse you were created to be.

But then again, what do I know?

A Man In His Life

by Yehuda Amichai

A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.

Vegan

by Sue Ellen Thompson

My daughter hauls her sacks of beans
and vegetables in from the car and begins to chop.
My father, who has had enough caffeine,
makes himself a manhattan-on-the-rocks.

It's Sunday, his night for sausage and eggs,
hers for stir-fried lentils, rice, and kale.
Watching her cook eases his fatigue
and loneliness. Later, she'll trim his toenails.

He no longer has an appetite
for anything beyond this evening ritual.
But he'll fry himself an egg tonight
and eat dinner with his granddaughter. For a widower,

there is no greater comfort in the world
than his girls and his girls' girls.