Freedom in Chirst

..............Charismaticism Evangelicalism Glossolalia Justification Legalism Transubstantiation Sacraments Pre-millenialism Trinity Antinomian Fundamentalism Regeneration Creationism Unitarianism Post-millenialism Predestination Conservatism Intelligent Design Consubstantiation Orthodoxy Dispensationalism Postmodernism Calvinism Baptism Kenoticism Monasticism Liturgical Free Will Sanctification Liberalism Arminianism Cessationalism Conversionism...............

We like to cut God up into pieces;
To measure his heighth, depth, volume, weight, circumference, and value;
To classify and quantify him;
To package him up in plastic containers to keep under our beds
and make us feel safe.

But God does not live in a box.
He doesn't dwell in a Tabernacle of theological terms,
but in the joyou laughter of our children,
the tears shed by the poor and the neglected,
the beautiful hum of creation in action,
and the deafening silence that pierces the night.

Smash the stone tablets of our new Law
and set up a Tent in your hearts!
our your faith onto this page and let this ink -
these doctrines of men that divide -
smear the paper until it's illegible
and all that's left is God!

Uncontainable, unfathomable, uncomprehendable - God!

God - A Politician's Best Friend

Tuesday, November,
The polls pulsing with voters
All checking boxes.

In their camps and tents,
Parties mobilize their troops,
Strategize, and plot.

Candidates shake hands
Smile, wave - put out a product,
Win your trust - smile, wave

And make no mistake,
God's there - sticker on the box -
A garuanteed sale.

Just mark it "God" and
The Evangelical Right
Will secure a win,

'Cuz in politics
God is bait to get votes, a
Candidates best friend

What I Love About Literature

in class
professor is asking us what we love about literature

"Realism, I say
concrete ideas
characters I can meet on the corner and shake hands with
the absence of a sugar-coated conclusion, because life isn't like that
Fantasies also, I add
because sometimes life is overwhelming
and I need to take cover in the shelter on the imagination
to take a vacation
to go where good and evil stand apart from one another
and good always wins
Surrealism too, I suppose
a canvas with paint splashed everywhere
a hallucinogenic dream transposed on paper
because when the supernatural
the hand of God and the face of the Devil
alter our world
life has a hard time fitting into categories
of course, Poetry
the skilled use of words and the page
to express through pictures
what can't be said in clear sentences
because sometimes God speaks to us through music
and words become lines, sentences become chords
the poem itself a symphony , a work of art
that jumps off the page and hovers in the air
and I almost forgot the works on Nonfiction
the stories of the world around us
the Earth we use and take for granted
the people and places that we will ever see except on paper
hell below us, the Heavens above
and everything in the void in between
Because the world is full of magic
and it often goes unnoticed
and then there's Drama
when literature is given life
hands, feet, and a voice to..."

I trail off
My mind wanders
I lose myself in trails and paths
and get lost in a beautiful garden

"Everything"

and I am quiet

Listening to Music in the Dark

Music is best heard under the cover of darkness.

And silence.

Too often the full effect of a song
is taken captive by the world around us.
The violent growl of a car engine
drowns out the somber emotion of a woman's voice
and the monotony of office clutter
overwhelms the passionate cry of a man's guitar.

But when you let the lights fade away
and flush out the chaos and commotion around you
you make way for the Music to take center stage.

And my God, is it beautiful.

You don't hear the Music -
instead it fills the room like an aroma
and you breathe it in.
It circulates through your blood stream
until it has filled your whole body
and you become one with it.

The guitar's gentle wail sends shivers down your spine,
the rhythmic kick of a snare and pounding of piano keys
become your heartbeat,
and the singer speaks to your soul, not your ears;
All the elements blend together and you feel at peace -
with yourself, with God, with the world
and you will never be the same again.

Ink on Paper

I heard a poet once say:
"I wonder why we listen to poets
When nobody gives a fuck"

It's a good question, is it not?

Poets fill their pages with words
Words that invoke beautiful images
Of life
Of death
Of the world we live in,
And open our eyes
So we can see ourselves for who we really are

But they are just words.
Ink on paper - nothing more.

T.S. Eliot told us our world was a wasteland
We agreed
And then went on trashing it
John Lennon told us that all we needed was love
We smiled
And then shot him in the head

What's the point?

Poets write the truth
We sort through lies and illusions
And put what's real down on paper,
Dress it up with imagery, metaphors, and rhythm
And present it for all to see

There's no question that this process
Of translating this vision into words
Is beautiful, even divine.

But a poem never changed anything.
It never saved the world or the souls of men.
It can't save someone from dying
Or feed a starving child.
It can't stop us from destroying each other
Our world
And ourselves

A poem is just ink on paper.

Nothing more.

Two Down, Bottom of the Ninth, Up By One

Your arm swept by my ear and released the ball
Hurled perfectly towards home plate and the advancing threat
The runner tagged
The game won
The corwd erupted in a roaring cheer
You threw your hands up like a mighty warrior
Victorious
Heroic
You patted the back of my grass-stained jersey
Told me it was a good effort, smiled
The misjudged distance
The stinging failure
They hoisted you up on their shoulders like a god
I watched from a distance, imagining all that could have been
It was ruled an error
To me it was a tragedy

An Episcopal Sunday Morning

In a large cathedral:
Ceiling vaulted, expanded, create majesty;
stained images of the prophets stare down
And the Saint opens up his arms to invite me
to the altar where the procession parades towards.
They march triumphantly, scepters and crosses in hand,
books open, voices milling the massive chamber:
"Let us come adoring, and with sacred awe appearing."
I close my eyes. I feel the organ and the voices
swirl together and fill the room like a Spirit;
There very words become less distinct and fade to
a mysterious and heavenly haze that
enriches my soul.

The Street-Side Speaker

I saw an angry man today
standing atop a wooden platform
waging spiritual war on the sinners,
paying Him no mind.

His hands were raised high in the air,
one holding his book, his weapon,
the other clenched in a fist as he
reached out to no one.

From his mouth he breathed fire
and sulfer steamed, staining his speech;
the accuser preached of sin and death -
judging, condemning, destroying.

It saddened me to see that love
was as much a stranger to this man
as he to Christ; and so on he spoke,
yet no one was saved.

Writer's Block

There is nothing worse than
a blank sheet of paper,
to many a Fertile Crescent, a valley of
rich soil in which life is conceived and nurtured,
but to me a desert, a desolate
wilderness where I gnaw in agony
at my dry and shriveled tongue
as I claw the scorched earth
desperate for water - no
pillar of fire to guide me, no
manna on the ground, no
water from a rock to quench my thirst
and give birth to a nation
of ink and words.
Pestilence plagues my pages,
locusts swarm and my ink
turns to blood as I stare at this
blank sheet of paper.