Things I Can’t Not Say

Don’t be misaligned,

don’t let your faith be defined

by lines drawn in shifting sand.

Don’t fall prey to hate

upon hate.

Let us not piggyback on politics

and legislated ethics.

Let go of perceived needs,

undeserved rights,

unneeded exemptions.

Who is your King?

To Whom do you submit?

Who holds your soul, after all?

Render unto Caesar so you can

turn the other cheek.

Freedom is not in the holding on.

Who is your king?

That calf in gold,

the one of your own making?

Where is your trust?

Those paper and ink abstract notions

re-named and re-claimed by any man,

consumable when put to the flame?

We put our trust in borders of wire

and wall and water and imaginary lines.

Are you willing to relinquish your citizenship, your membership,

you rights and rightness?

Revoke your borders?

Abandon your status?

I have called you to be a people without country,

without home,

without name,

except Mine.

No other name.

Deny my father.

Refuse my name,

And I’ll be newly baptized.



What did you expect when you
tied on your robes, donned your chains,
your bells, your incense and oil;
when you saw him walking through crowds
paying his taxes, spitting in mud,
loving his enemies?

What did you expect when he unrolled the scroll,
broke your rules, fulfilled the law;
when he challenged your pride and died
on a thief’s cross?

Who did you expect:
A righteous warrior?
A crown prince?
Certainly not the Suffering Servant,
the Sacrificial Lamb.

What did you expect when you
put on the respectable clothes,
drove too fast, went to his house,
looked for your seat, the one with your name?

What did you expect, arms folded
mouthing songs about more about yourself than him;
critiquing the offering protocol, the message,
waiting to feel better?

Who did you expect:
A good-looking rock star?
A charismatic politician?
Certainly not the Risen Christ,
the Almighty Lord.

What does he expect, but a
heart broken and pure:
clean hands, empty of straws
grasped in a rush of fear;
eyes fixed on him?
Who does he expect?
The ones he calls “Beloved,”
even them,

even me,

even you.

Morning Glory

I found this in one of my writer’s notebooks and polished it up a little (a very little).  It feels like a deep breath to me; the sun rising and the possibility of another chance, and the unifying beauty of worship.  It might not fit the devotional standard, but it seems very devotional to me.


Morning dawns and skies break

A dove cuts through the pale

Colors descend and ascend

On created glory


You pour over me,

move over me,

sing over me,

dance over me.

Your oil covers my wounds,

heals the land

The broken places snap, connect, fuse, stronger now

Your mercies are new every morning


Move my flesh out of the way

Change the atmosphere

Air rises to meet my face

The wind carries your fragrance,

Takes your Bride captive

Brightening her countenance,

Purifying her soul

The beat of wings, a thunderous dance,

Pounds the silence,

Stirs the Body,

Meets Your rhythm

Her arms like banners

Her feet like drums

Your joy in motion

Forgetting the right and left

Forgetting the disgraces

Your mercies are new every morning.