Spin

Cyclical spins push forth pull back
Topple the head and disorient drum and stapes
Forward pushing stubborn momentum
Spokes somersault into revolution never slowing to gather themselves
Inertial forces command the unwilling motion of the reluctant

"Stop"

Allow my bearings to find me
But wheels of motion only gain speed
Ever quicker, the centrifuge threatens to separate my blood parts
No control.
The spin controls me but can't control itself
Velocity reaches out and overtakes gravity
Portions cannont be held
Freedom finds them and they detach to begin linear flight
Structure crumbles; comes to rest in motionless fragments
Ruins of uncontrollable physics.

Hope

White-knuckled fist grasping the very last knot
of the Great Braided Chord.
Pain gathers at the tips of calloused fingers
taunting and promising relief if they only let go.
Tendon and sinew shred as shoulders burn
and threaten to escape socketed homes.
Weight of painful experiences gathered over time
pulls at finger and fist and shoulder.
Only HOPE keeps burning hands from releasing.

Reach out your hands and clutch the darkness.
Brush it away and only more dark fills its place.
Steps taken are unknown and unseen
on this path whose light has long since extinguished.
Trip and stumble on those obstacles placed
specifically for your feet.
Fear is crippling the long unknown walk
into uncharted places of uncontrolled danger.
Only HOPE motivates the next dark step.

What choice do we have?
Letting go of the rope assures our destruction
and standing still and alone in the dark is no life at all.
But, there is always HOPE.

Pursuit

Lately I've felt the weight of knowing that the majority of things I've been striving for and working towards will not last more than a decade and will break or rust and end up in the garbage. Even knowing this, I still work just as hard for these things. This is my attempt to explain. Hope it makes sense.

The pursuits of my heart chase after mere things.
Whatever value inherently exists within these trinkets,
I terminate on the wind-blown desires of my fickle imagination.
My soul aches for divine communion.
Yet, in response, I reach for the absurd and mundane.
Efforts to pacify the inward hunger by misdirection and slight of hand,
only serve to increase the unquenched appetite and distend my starving spirit.
What healing would it bring if only I heard a single word from You?
What fullness would I gain from a vision of my Savior?
What warmth would accompany a slight hint of Your life-giving breath?
Where can I go to find that which sustained those ancient men?
I thirst for Your guidance.
But my evil soul flees from Your presence.
It kidnaps and carries me on its broad shoulder of stubborn conceit
as I strain to reach back and call out for Your rescue.
Greed and selfish desire hold me hostage.
The self imposed chains of worldly pursuit have anchored me to this immovable stone.
I cannot break free from my junkyard prison.
My only hope is in Your release.

Form Prayer 1

NT Wright talked about prayer in Simply Christian. He wrote about form prayers being effective and the current trend in Christianity of folks thinking that a prayer has to be completely original in order to be acceptable to God. I tend to hold to the opposite belief. There are prayers written by other dudes that can send me deep into the meaning of God's nature and help me focus on certain aspects of my life.

This is a short form prayer I wrote in the last few days. I started thinking about all the things that went through my head when Dad was really sick. These thoughts were developed when I came to the realization that God might not have given my father Pancreatic Cancer so that he could beat it.


Great God of evening and morning
Keep this night from overtaking me
And if I must face this darkness
walk the unlit path before me.

Prodigal Returns Home

The stench of my sin heralds my arrival from a distance.
Remnants of my companion swine.
Odor assaults you from the shadows.
Stalks you from the very places where I cursed your name.
Filthy dirt of foreign lands covers and cloaks my hands
Guilt gorges at the great banquet table of my sin.
Never satisfied, it hounds my thoughts and memories
and holds for ransom your great name.
Your gracious gift of sonship, waste it no longer on me.
For I have scorned your paternity.
Inheritance manufactured through blood and thorns and splinter and callous, you gave with joy.
I have trampled your gifts like sand in the street.
My greed driven thirst, unquenchable.
Do not run to meet me on the road
Preserve your righteous energy.
Save your rings and robes and livestock feasts for the sons who were true.
Save your affection for the worthy ones.
Give me only your feet to wash.
Reserved for your purpose is the balance of my life.
Use me in your service until my last breath.
A slave, no longer a son.

Only God

Our God is the only God.
He gives breath in the morning and rest at night
He brings the sun to its warming work and soothes the earth with its daily retreat.
He lays his hand of mercy on those who have rejected his presence.
He protects the souls of those loyal.
For his name’s power grows when he shows mercy.
And the faithful trust him through their pain.
Our God is the only God.
He gives freely from his abundance and his heart is open to all.
He brings the rains of catharsis and the thirsty gain strength from his waters.
He lays his Child of Promise on the splintered altar of Redemption.
He cleanses the hands of the guilty.
For his son is given in agony
While the faithless targets drive the spikes.
Our God is the only God.

Broken

All creation is bent eternal.
The winds howl their chilled requests
confused to the North and South.
The trees creak and crack and moan
as ring upon ring upon ring surrounds.
The oceans project their rage with white crested waves and squalls
in perpetual demand, “How Long?” “How Long?”
The birds sing a sweet verse and cease
waiting as if response will free their song.
Scorched sand of uninhabited land cries out
through visible waves of heat, “I thirst”.
The plates of earth shift and shake with violent collision
laboring simply to find their footing.
Cancers perform their victory songs
for multitudes of tear soaked faces.
Man is weary;
hunted down by the fixed sum of his numbered days.
The gentle voice of liberation
Whispers from the throne
“soon. very soon.”