King of every king
and yet this was Mary’s boy.
blood spilled grace on me
and still Mary’s boy
piercing your heart Mary
to save me
and his kingdom
What a terrible loss
to watch this one you feed, changed, embraced
carried, protected, and nourished
now condemned to bear nails and thones
whips and shame
so that we could all come to the table.
and face the Gethsemane of every broken generation
he cried for his Daddy as the sunset brought shadows
on the edge of town.
You had others
but that night He was your only Boy.
There once was a church on a hill by the bay,
with a wonderful spirit of love, you might say,
till a ragged stranger came inside
and rumors abounded far and wide.
Some thought he came from a shelter or prison,
and feared he might cause the church shame or a schism. Continue reading “The Ragged Stranger”
[blockquote align=”left” variation=”orange”]The fuel of desperation compels us to open up our closets, or treasures, our secret wounds, our addictions because pride is no longer an option for us.[/blockquote]
There once was a church upon a hill
where everything was fine until
the paint inside was getting old
and peeling in some spots, I’m told.
The pastor called a business meeting.
And after the preliminary meeting,
The deacons cried, “Come one! Come all!
What color should we paint each wall?”
They gathered in the sanctuary,
each determined and contrary.
Sister Gail said, “What do you think
about a very chartreuse pink?”
Brother Dave said to the crowd,
“Isn’t that a bit too loud?
I prefer a subtle blue.
It makes the walls look clean and new.”
Six women rebuked, “We wanted gold!”
It seems much warmer. Blue’s too cold!”
The pastor said, “I’m here more than all of you. I agree with Dave. The walls should be blue.” From that point on their voices grew stronger. Each emotional plea became longer and longer. Then a voice of strong and stern love silenced the church as it spoke from above. “You wonder why you can’t hear My call when your greatest struggle is paint on the wall. Paint your church the pale color of skin, for you let no other races come in. Paint your church a wealthy green, for you ignore starvation that you’ve seen. Paint it white and clean as uncalloused feet, for you refuse to share My joy in the street. I agree that your walls could be painted in blue, for your hearts so cold are given to few. You give many renditions of church as a game, but you fail to give water in My Holy Name. You pray using eloquent thees and thous, and yet you forget about the heres and nows. You struggle to be an earthly saint, but My love must not be covered in paint.
If you’re baffled by my list, you should see God’s.
If you’ve ever been picked last at a ball game,
passed over for a promotion,
you’re thankful for a God who equates elitism with immorality.
You thank God for His list.
(Hey, I’m even on it!)
On the lost in foreign lands
On the hopeless needing helping hands
On the broken- desolation’s child
On the unwed mother’s lonely mile
On the blind who stumble in the dark
On the ones who miss the mark
On the hungry, void of bread
mourners ’round their loved one’s bed
On secret shame, remaining still
On those embattled for Your will.
On an outcast soul’s despair
When broken hallelujahs fill the air
Amidst the wreckage, You are there
May we be angels unaware.