A Lenten Consideration

From dust you came.
To dust you shall return.
Dust.
Ash.
The ruach lifts the dust
For an allotted time, in an allotted place,
And it seems to have a life of its own.
It believes its entitled to a life of its own.
Silly mist.
Vapor.
Dust.
Ash.
The ruach-filled dust lives "its" claimed life
In laughter and games,
In sorrow and pain
In wasting minuets - days,
In sin,
Truly believing it is "its" life to spend.
A fool-hardy ownership.
A condemned self-lordship.
But remember, O my soul,
Remember.
Dust.
Ash.
Vapor and mist.
Remember.
Repent,
And believe in the Lord Jesus Christ.

Hypocrite: An Ancient Grecian Acting Mask

I am a Pharisee.
There.
I said it.
It's ugly.
But true.
I am one of the obnoxiously
Self-righteous.
There.
I said it.
My hair's just right.
My clothes are oh-so-appropriate.
My words are perfectly diplomatic - tolerant and inclusive.
My reputation carefully crafted - and almost spotless.
"Good teacher..." I say.
"Why do you call me good?"
The letters are red.
I think:
Because isn't good what you are?
Right, appropriate, diplomatic, tolerant, inclusive...
Or maybe that is my idea of
Good.
Because you did say
The prostitutes and tax collectors get in before me.
The harlots and cheats?
Before me?
Before "good?"
From the mouth, mind, and heart of this Pharisee, you should not be called "good."
I'm beginning to see:
My good is all bad.
My right is all wrong.
I ought to:
Do the work of the Father,
Tend to his people,
Work in his field.
Dirty, sweaty, calloused, and wise
With unkempt hair,
Ragged clothes,
Words and reputation formed from labor,
Not vain practice.
Grace is good.
"Teacher of grace?"


Inspired by a sermon by Aaron Baker on Matthew 21:28-32, "The Man with Two Sons," at Covenant Presbyterian Church, February 2nd, 2014.

A Silver Sliver of Hope

There is a silver square on the subway,
Shining, without words or faces or colors.
It should be an advertisement - but instead, it shimmers
Quiet.
In the midst of all the idols and ways of men,
The path of the foolish to "my best self now."
I think of my best self in the way of men.
I think of my best self without the God-man,
And I laugh -
And shiver -
And furrow my brow.


There is a woman in my neighborhood.
Well - truly, a small girl in a woman's body.
The foster system chewed her up and spit her out
Fuming.
She runs and laughs and cusses and screams.
She speaks of waiting friends and pretends to know everyone.
But, I know she is alone
In that building where they don't check your record.
It is the only place she can be.
And me -
Too.
Where they don't check my record.


There's a homeless man that sleeps outside my door.
Orange sleeping bag, black coat, long beard, dead eyes.
I have seen him, but never heard him.
He does not speak.
Hardened.
Once, I offered a blanket and cup of tea - he sold them.
Because you have to be a stoic in a polar vortex
Alone - with an orange sleeping bag.
Chiberia is no place for kindness and warmth and hope.
Certainly not hope.
In my hermeneutic of suspicion,
I see me in him.
The stoic in Chiberia, alone, with my orange sleeping bag.


The silver square.
The woman with the record.
The stoic with the orange sleeping bag.
The altar to the unknown god - another option.
The truth of condemnation - all have sinned.
The truth of depravity - no one does good.


But!


The silver square - the other option.
My best self is him, the God-man.
My record is him, the justified.
My hope is him, the holy.


And the truth is all around and on and in us.
There's a silver square on the subway.


There's another option.