Too Much

It was too much.

I stuck a needle in my

arm.

Sleeping medication.

So I wouldn’t see.

It was too much.

I’m actually a Trinitarian

who’s a hopeful universalist,

but you all had me believing

in the five points of Calvinism.

I nearly swallowed

the whole tulip.

Totally depravity.

I don’t think that’s the

whole story, but

that’s what I’m seeing,

and it’s hard to pretend

that I’m not witnessing

the things that I’m

witnessing.

I’ve given the mystery

and the tension and the

stress of it all over to God

because I can’t carry it; I—

I stuck a needle in my

arm.

Sleeping medication.

I tried to cope by

going to distraction;

I dove into novels.

I searched other worlds,

plumbed Narnia and

Middle Earth,

Greece under Xena,

flying Doctors

in spinning blue

telephone boothes,

and even Jessica Jones—

for signs of the Kingdom

of Heaven.

I found God in the midst

of my attempts at escape—

or rather He found me,

speaking and romancing

my heart through parables

and it was too much.

I couldn’t stay asleep.

I couldn’t stick the needle

of fantasy and imagining

and escapism; I couldn’t

inject my veins in a futile

attempt to escape what

I was given to conquer

by the power of the

Holy Spirit.

It was too much.

Pragmatist

I’m either very conservative

or extremely progressive—

depending on which

day of the week

you can catch me.

Conservative in the sense that

if you come for the children

I will come for you.

Don’t you dare try keep them

from Jesus or seek to

“hurry them on their way.”

Progressive in the sense that

I believe in women preachers

and the power of circuit riders;

you won’t pigeonhole this chick.

Speaking of which,

I also like chickens.

(They are funny and random.)

But I really relate more

to wild horses or maybe

even wild donkeys.

Donkey, like the one

who saved Balaam’s own.

I believe his name was

“Jack.”

Donkey, who had so much

value to offer once

he dropped his stick

and started to listen.

But God saw the plight

of the donkey and

checked the mad prophet.

The “Proverbs 31” woman

used to depress me,

but now I realize she

is more empowered

than a modern-day

feminist.

That lady’s praised for

participating in the bliss of

both entrepreneurship and

domesticity.

Less of a woman

for neither.

“Helpmate” must be equal,

or she isn’t good for anything.

Different she may be,

but that’s what makes

her special.

Man and woman—

perfect foils.

I’m either very conservative

or extremely progressive—

depending on which

day of the week

you can catch me.

Don’t kick a man

when he’s down

in front of me.

Don’t kick this

woman either;

she’s a bit scrappy.

I’m either very conservative

or extremely progressive—

depending on which

day of the week

you can catch me.

Potatoes

I’m offended by potatoes

because they aren’t like

the tomatoes—

and tomatoes are more

easily squashed and

less easily washed.

Potatoes are too solid.

This somehow makes

me feel squalid.

Tomatoes are just

brighter.

(They make my heart

feel lighter!)

I’m offended by potatoes

because they aren’t like

the tomatoes—

and there should be

a law against

starches fried

and waffle-like.

(I think all of this

as I ride my trike.)

Dear God,

why did you even

invent such a thing?

Why did You even

make onions with

more than one ring?

I’m offended by potatoes

because they aren’t like

the tomatoes—

I’m offended that

God made them

so I’ll pretend that

He doesn’t exist

because obviously

this is something

that He missed.

Until at least

someone throws

a tomato at me

because I’ve been

spewing bad poetry.

Then maybe we’ll

start talking again.

I’ll share my beef

with tomatoes

and be thankful

that Someone actually

gives a darn.

Grid

If you don’t find peace with mystery,

you’ll probably go insane.

There are some things in life

that do transcend your brain.

“My brain is God; I made it so,”

we do so oft protest—

as for control and sense of stuff

we do so often wrest.

I love to delve in quests and search;

please do not get me wrong.

But what’s it worth (no joy, no mirth)

when I can’t sing a song?

Brick

Put a brick

on her head.

She’s growing

too fast.

She’s cuter

this way—

pays attention and

does what you say.

Put a brick

on her head.

If we don’t,

then this will

not last.

She’ll start

asking questions,

not follow

directions.

Put a brick

on her head.

We’re scared.

We don’t know

what she’ll do.

Keep her at

basics: 2+2.

Put a brick

on her head.

“I was in your

corner, but

you didn’t see.

Too afraid

of me

being me.

“You were taught

to be scared of you.

All I wanted

was for us

to be true.

“Lies don’t

become me;

they look bad

on you.

There’s no need

to numb me;

it’s time that

I grew.”

Saying the Quiet Part

The subjects we dance

around. Why?

We feel safer

in the dark.

But I don’t want

to be in the dark;

I don’t like it

here.

It’s scary.

It’s in the dark

that things go

fester, unseen.

Why?

We’d rather rot.

Rather rot than

be seen for

who we really

are.

No,

I don’t want to.

I don’t want to

rot.

The “awkward” child.

Saying the quiet part

out loud.

I don’t want to

rot.

I’d rather be

in the light.

Look ugly—

at least until

the things I

thought

were me

disappear—

burned away

in the eternal

flame.

The everlasting

fire of

God’s love.

So, call me

a candle.

Let me burn.

I will say

the quiet part

out loud.

Riddle Me This

Why do

jesters often

speak the truth?

Why did

Jesus talk

in parables?

Why did David

pretend

to be mad?

What are pearls—

but beauty from pain?

Riddle me this.

Why the foolish

to shame the wise?

Why the lowly

to address the king?

Why the shepherds

and the wise men

and the baby

in the animal

feed bin?

Riddle me this.

Idols of any kind

are knocked down

whenever we

set them up.

Leaders fall

off pedestals

we build.

Have we missed

the genre

we were

written in?

Mistook comedy

for tragedy?

Riddle me this.

Grace: Spell-Breaker

Did you miss it?

Nails pierced

hands and feet.

Three days in the ground.

Rise up!

Meet and greet.

Dear Galatians,

Remember me?

Commissioned by

the Father, not by man.

(And not by your local

hotshot prophet

named “Stan.”)

There’s only one True Gospel—

no add-ons.

No sequels.

There’s only one

I AM, and He already

wrote the prequel.

There’s only one

“I’m Finished.”

There’s only one

“My Bride.”

There’s only one

True Lord—

lights up the dark

on the inside.

There’s only one True Gospel;

there’s only one Salvation,

only one Yeshua

who leads you off

sin’s plantation.

What started with grace

won’t be perfected by

the law.

Any plan to do so

has a crucial flaw.

Life breathed by Spirit

is not rule chiseled in stones.

The fruit of legalism

is a valley of dry bones.

Dry bones, try bones,

do-it-all yourself bones

leading yourself to groans

and moans locked outside

heaven’s gate but not by

God’s will; you just stopped

yourself before you even

climbed up that hill

empowered by the Spirit

where a full meal waits.

(Please, no hates!)

Selah.

Speak

Speak.

Speak one way,

speak another.

What are you saying?

Paint a picture.

Would you grow?

Would you cultivate

a garden?

It is not enough

to hide—

to remain concealed

in the shadow

of half-truths.

But does the raw

beauty of truth

astound you?

 

Is it

too much?

Or can you

look it

in the eye?

Speak.

Speak one way,

speak another.

If you seek

to tear me down,

will you not also

destroy yourself?

I,

who am

your mirror.

Do you despise

the beauty within?

Do you consider it

weakness?

Frailty?

Are you afraid

to love

with depth—

depth being

the point of no return—

depth being

the nail of Jesus,

not the kiss of Judas.

Either you are hot

or you are cold.

I cannot love

halfway.

It is all

Or nothing.

Speak.

speak one way,

speak another.

 

Song of the Lioness

I hear the rumble;

I hear the roar.

It stirs something

in me,

draws me

to soar.

It’s the sound

of my King;

He calls me

“My Queen.”

He yearns to

hear

the bellows

of the deep.

Peer into

those fiery eyes—

in which

neither weakness

nor strength

are found despised.

Fierce protection,

perichoresis;

pardon me, now,

while I write

my thesis.

FREE!

My roar fills the air

as I leap  and I bound

and I dance for

my maned one—

called sometimes

“Lamb,”

called sometimes

“Slain one”!

Beautiful!

I see You

in rain, in sun.

I hear your

whisper;

I feel you

run.

We are not

so far off,

you and I,

for here

betwixt us

meets earth

and sky.