II.

Old things die in the cradle of their birth

moaning, thrashing at the foundations

of the deep, at the roots of the world.

The gentle retirement of autumn

from verdant hues to gilded crowns

belies a Tellurian strife

of rock and water, of wood and flesh.

Ever the world; the heart,

resonates from cavernous expanse

the sounds of fragmentation, of rending.

No shy repose for aching bones

only the dull throb of yearning

only the parched resolve for consolation.

Winds weep and wail in the wilderness.

Souls groan under assault.

Thunderheads beckon, burgeoning,

as their shadows envelop the valley floor.

Earth cries out for violence;

with birth bound in the breaking.

Prince and pauper

mere and marish

alike in solemn expectation

with eyes horizon-fixed for the red dawn

and in their prayers that rush 

to fill the void of night.

I.

As ever,

when the day dawns

and the age of things wavers

the heart knows the deep

inadequacies and yearns

for the consolation

of the home warmly lit

and buffeted with snow.

Rest in the Arms

A few weeks ago, my daughters spent the weekend at their grandparents’ house. Consequently, I didn’t see them for nearly three days. After picking them up on a Sunday night I was excited to go through our nightly bedtime ritual. We brushed our teeth, got into our pajamas, read our story, and sang our songs. I turned off the light in my five year old’s room but soon heard the tell-tale click as the door swung open again. My wife and I made eye contact and engaged in a silent game of rock, paper, scissors which apparently I lost because I found myself meeting my bleary-eyed daughter in the upstairs hallway.

“I’m lonely,” she said quietly, “can someone snuggle?” We walked back into her darkened room and I tucked her once again into her bed and lay down beside her. I put my arms around her; making sure to keep my bearded face away from hers.

As I lay awake, she slowly drifted off into contented sleep. In the darkness my mind was preyed upon by my sins, flaws, and inadequacies. Even as the pangs of despair softly chimed I marveled that I have a heavenly Father who longs for me to run to His waiting embrace; who longs to hold me in His arms in spite of my disobedience; who longs to wipe away my tears and frustrations.

Speaking through His prophet Hosea, the Lord called out to His rebellious people Israel, a people who had taken for granted the blessings granted them, who had disregarded His commands, who had turned to other worthless idols --- they chose dead wood over the Living God. They had given the lives of their children as sacrifices to those no-gods and had executed prophets, the legitimate messengers of God. When confronted by the approach of the invading armies of Assyria and Babylon they turned not to their Lord but attempted to buy the help of neighboring countries. If anyone deserved to be abandoned and indeed punished it was this rebellious and disrespectful people. In spite of the abundance of evidence and guilt, this was the Lord’s message to His people:

When Israel was a child, I loved Him,

And out of Egypt I called my son.

The more they were called,

The more they went away;

They kept sacrificing to the Baals

And burning offerings to idols.

Yet it was I who taught Ephraim to walk;

I took them up by their arms,

But they did not know that I healed them.

I led them with cords of kindness,

With the bands of love,

And I became to them as one who eases the yoke on their jaws,

And I bent down to them and fed them.

They shall not return to the land of Egypt,

But Assyria shall be their king,

Because they have refused to return to me.

The sword shall rage against their cities,

Consume the bars of their gates,

And devour them because of their own counsels.

My people are bent on turning away from me,

And though they call to the Most High,

He shall not raise them up at all.

How can I give you up, O Ephraim?

How can I hand you over, O Israel?

How can I make you like Admah?

How can I treat you like Zeboiim?

My heart recoils within me;

My compassion grows warm and tender.

I will not execute my burning anger;

I will not again destroy Ephraim;

For I am God and not a man,

The Holy One in your midst,

And I will not come in wrath.

Instead of further threats of punishment and the certainty of retributive justice, the Lord implores His people to come back to Him. “How can I give you up, O Ephraim? How can I surrender you, O Israel?” The love and compassion of His nature oozes from His words. “I will not destroy Ephraim again. For I am God and not man, the Holy One in your midst.” He longed to have His people return to Him; to be swept up in His arms; to restore the relationship that was squandered. The Lord desired it for Israel and He desires it for us. He wanted it so much that He sent His Son to save us while we were still sinners, BEFORE we could offer any gift or obedience. He longs for us to run to Him, to bury ourselves in His embrace, to weep, repent, and mourn.

I long to be a comforter for my daughter, that I might in some small way help to heal the pain and alleviate her fears. However, I yearn a thousand times over that she, I, and whomever reads these words would rest in our Savior’s embrace, that we would confess our sins (which He already knows), pour out our pains and fears (of which He is also aware), and live in the freedom won in Christ.

Rhythm of Communion

Standing this morning in worship as we were preparing to take communion I was struck by an observation. I held in my hands the bread cube and the little plastic cup of grape juice and I tried to identify myself with the millions of other believers across the globe and across time that have stood united by these same words and elements but my eyes and thoughts were drawn to something else. As I watched, I noticed that the surface of the grape juice trembled with the vibration of my own heartbeat. It resonated with the beat of my heart. The ultimate aim of communion is to remember the sacrifice and be united with Christ; to resonate in unison and submission to the one we call Lord. Yet we know too well our failings, our frailty, our immaturity--- the things that often break our focus and our communion with Christ. As I stood watching the visible reminder of the rhythm and patterns of my life I prayed that I would continue to abide in Jesus—my Savior. That I would resonate with His words and the life He modeled. This is our prayer of communion: that we take Christ into our lives physically and symbolically (depending upon one’s views on transubstantiation) and return again the proper rhythms of righteousness. Our aim is that the beat of our own heart, manifested through our thoughts, words, and actions, would become increasingly synced with that of Christ, that through our continual abiding we would be further sanctified by and come to desire more to know the person of Christ. As we stand united even if just for that moment, we pray that we would decrease, that we would still our hearts from the distractions of life: sin, worry, anger, resentment, idolatry, and that in that stillness the surface of our lives would ripple with the reverberations of the Lord; that in the absence of distraction, the Spirit would abide and fulfill its perfecting work. 

Speak

We will sing

as seasons turn

as skies grow dim

as fires burn

when flowers beat

the long retreat,

the crushing march,

the great defeat.

When flesh proves weak

and hope has fled

and shade across

the sky has fled

and verdant hues

turn sickly pale

while harvest winds

moan and wail

still our tongues

will yet rehearse

the ancient words,

the stirring verse.

We will sound

the royal call

with faltering hearts

while kingdoms fall.

When misty veil

draws ‘cross the sky

and mournful clouds

toward heaven fly;

with grieving hearts

while flowers fade

when darkness falls

as daylight wanes

our hearts will cry

profound lament

yet still resound

when tears are spent

with song of hope,

that smoldering coal,

persevering portion

within our soul.

Our groans will preach

a hope yet distant

past starry bowl,

---a joy resplendent.

When joy sticks

in our throats

when words fail,

learned by rote,

in darkest hour,

though they be weak,

our anxious souls

resolve to speak.

Dearest Rutherford (The Crossroads)

Dearest Rutherford[i] (The Crossroads)

Dearest Rutherford,

I pray this letter finds you well

though perhaps you sleep

beneath the covers of tranquility

at Spiegel Grove[ii], where your heart ever resided.

What thoughts, I wonder, fill your slumber?

Valiant conquest?

Or dreams deferred?

What vagrant thoughts fill now your idle hours?

Do you wake to the cries

of our twice-bound brothers

descending again into ignoble barbarism?

--- into living death?

I must ask

with as much civility as I can muster,

did the thrush sing

as the thin mist rolled like silky tendrils

off the Potomac[iii] that cold April morning?

Did the sun, that glorious ember,

perceive the err of its rising that day?

Were the seeds of acrimony evident

or was the veil of expediency too thick?

Its melody too alluring?

Did you weep

as the troops beat their retreat

across the taciturn Ohio?[iv]

Did you rejoice with each vote cast;

each tacit proclamation?

Did you wail as the tide of Christ-won progress

slipped back into the murky

waters of oppression and despair?

Did the halls echo with Tilden’s[v] laughter

even as your banners flew triumphant?

Did you weigh, upon your noble brow,

the question of enforced morality?

Could you know the cost of complacency?

Or were the gears of patronage

wound too tight,

to grind the seeds of humility

into the meal of progress?

Do they grind still?

Dear friend,

do not misjudge.

I condemn you not,

though angels stand ready for the reaping

and judgment beckons upon the horizon

kissed with the kindled watch-fires.

I wish only to know,

while the Emancipator’s form

lay quiet;

lay cold, in the dust,

while the scores rested

in Arlington[vi],

in Gettysburg[vii],

in Andersonville[viii],

and thousands upon thousands more

made their beds in

unmarked field and furrow,

could you hear the whisper stirring from the pregnant earth?

The cries of the people rising to the Lord?

Could you perceive the provocative voice

beckoning from the crossroads

while the fires of democracy burned low?

Did the stench of purification

descend upon Wormley’s[ix] that day?

What remained when the cheers of adulation fell silent?

With the curtains drawn

and the flames extinguished

and the creak of old wood resounding in the night,

were too your dreams of equality snuffed

beneath the douter[x] of pragmatism?

Where does the corpse of idealism lie?

Forgive me,

my friend,

for my own reproach is heavy,

a weight I fail to bear

and I am crushed beneath the crippling

blows of impotence and despair.

My love I send you,

though you dwell I know not where,

beyond the veil

where sorrow, perhaps

fades and hope swells anew.

Look upon us, we who remain,

whose tears wet the parched earth;

whose feet bear the scars of prolonged sojourning

and whose eyes probe restlessly

for the lamp of justice and salvation.

---

[i] Rutherford B. Hayes, the 19^th President of the United States of America elected in the contested election of 1876 and was confirmed in 1877 through what is known as the Compromise of 1877, an informal and controversial agreement between the Democratic and Republican parties in which Democratic electors would switch their votes to the Republican Hayes, in return for, among other things, the removal of Federal troops from the South (a provision of Reconstruction) and the restoration of ‘home rule’ allowing the Southern states to deal with blacks without Northern influence.

[ii] Spiegel Grove was the estate of Rutherford and his wife, Lucy Webb Hayes.

[iii] The Potomac flows through Washington D.C. where the informal Compromise of 1877 was secured.

[iv] In the pre-Civil War period, the Ohio River served as a dividing line between the slave states to the south and the free-soil states to the north.

[v] Samuel J. Tilden, Democratic candidate for President who lost the election of 1876 despite winning the popular vote.

[vi] United States military cemetery established in 1864 on the former site of the estate of Confederate general Robert E. Lee’s wife, Mary Anna Lee.

[vii] Gettysburg National Cemetery was established in 1863 to inter Union casualties. Also, it was the site of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.

[viii] Confederate prison near Andersonville, Georgia designed to house prisoners-of-war. Noted for its brutality and abhorrent conditions, it held approximately 45,000 Union prisoners. Of that number, 13,000 died within its walls largely of malnutrition and disease.

[ix] A five story hotel in Washington D.C. where the Wormley Agreement, precursor to the final Compromise, was signed.

[x] An instrument used in the snuffing out of candles.

Follow Christ Together

Originally written for my church, Ypsilanti Free Methodist Church

There is going to be a day (or many days) when you are going to ask yourself why you even bother to be part of a church at all. It’s going to happen. No matter how mature the community of believers or how orthodox the theology, there are going to be moments when you’re just want to run off and head for a solitary cabin in the woods. It’s inevitable. It’s inevitable because every single person in your church is just like you, flawed, imperfect, and often unintentionally hurtful.

So even with all of our eccentricities and failings, why keep at it? Why continue to follow Christ together instead of on our own?

We were designed to GATHER together in community.

The short and definitive answer is that we were designed by God to meet together and experience Christ together. Based on their understanding of corporate worship and communal spiritual life in the nation of Israel, the earliest believers implicitly understood that gathering together was critical to their realized faith in Christ. So to it is for us.

In fact, the writers of the New Testament seemed to take involvement with a larger group of believers as a given and spent little time exhorting believers to be part of a church. What they do spend a considerable amount of ink on, is encouraging believers to live together in unity. The church is the first place that we demonstrate our love for each other. It is not enough to love in theory. The church is where we are able to love in practice and deed. The church is that opportunity.

We GROW best in the context of community.

Beyond being an outlet for the love we have been given in Christ, the church is our opportunity to be encouraged and encourage others to follow Christ more closely. Through experiences such as worship, preaching, discussions, and prayer (among many) we grow and are stirred towards obedience by the words AND witness of fellow believers. The church is not simply a location for believers of Jesus to congregate but rather an entity in which the Spirit of God ministers to the individual and the corporate.

We are sent to GO out in mission from a place of community.

In addition, the church serves as a jumping off point for ministry and missions; a place for believers to be equipped for ministry as we fulfill our individual and corporate command to go into the world and make disciples.

We follow Christ together because it is the way we were made. We follow Christ together because it is how we best grow. We follow Christ together because in doing so, we honor Christ by loving each other.

(white) Skin

Forgive

this (white) skin

this fickle frame.

Exorcise

this heart of leisure;

safe,

complacent,

confused,

willing but bankrupt of stimulus,

engaged but uninspired;

more apt to see the brush strokes of creation

in the stars’ advance across the washboard sky

than in my neighbor’s skin;

to feel the passing of the Lord

through the rippling field of wheat

but dismiss the thumbprint of the Creator

reflected back through fractured mirrors.

So I stare

down the barrel of an incomplete theology

with an inconsistent personality

dressed in the vestments of piety

concealing the filthy rags of impropriety.

Impassioned doctrine lacking application

is abortion of a stillborn faith.

A spirit self-identified as committed to life

bearing the fruit of ignorance,

impotence;

indifference;

of a calloused soul.

How many suffer

for fear of confrontation

as I seek ease

at the cost of a man’s emancipation?

In what hour will it be revealed

that the blood shed was shed for all?

All us weary sinners?

All us wounded saints?

When will my insatiable quest for justice

lead to the Spirit beating down

my own front doors?

When will delusions of holiness

be littered with the shards of my deception?

I am bound

to the sins of my own  privileged condition.

When my consistent

ethic of life ends

at the point of my own nose;

When the depth of my understanding

is bound

to a swifly vanishing tide pool of experience.

Vision worn thin

by vigorous omission.

Eyes gone dim

paralyzed by conviction

while apathy and ease

make short work of

atrophied ambition.

Stumbling

Struggling

Shambling steps

toward a future glory

through the streets of grime and

acrid aromas of our

sin-stained, grey-hued

day-to-day existence.

Come, Salvation,

come

meet us here

for tomorrow

for today.

Tune my heart to grieve;

my soul to hope;

my feet to march;

my lips to pray;

and tears to trace the lines

on this (white) skin.

Nebo Cabin

The interloper warmed his numb hands

before the warm gleaming of the stove.

Snow melting

pooling on the concrete floor

smelling of dust and pine.

The first cruel pangs

of sensation crept back

as he slowly massaged his hands

repetitiously.

The wind howled wickedly;

The ancient oaks

thrashed violently;

threateningly.

Night fell with icy resolution.

Specters encroached in the gloaming

of the forest

stark

bereft

abandoned.

The radiance wavered.

Elongated shadows waltzed

upon the floor

with sly foreboding.

Again the wind

whistled through leaky seals.

The chill bit

with callous indifference.

A somber acknowledgement grew

and the light fled further.

An Image

She looked down into the waters

deep

as clear as crystal---

shimmering,

and saw the clean, bleached trees

but not trees---

bones,

bones solemn and ancient

lurking like roots of the deep.

Fathoms below.

Far away.

Quiet and lonesome.

Monstrous, familiar.

Love Others

Originally written for my church Ypsilanti Free Methodist Church

Can we be honest for a moment?

Sometimes we have a people problem.

Oh, we like people--- sometimes, but we like them on our terms. At our most cynical we tolerate people for what they can do for us. Even at its most benign, our concern for others can be a tainted mixture of motivations. Our hesitation is not without cause though.

We live in a world in which war, terrorism, injustice, politics, and crime are inescapable. Even those we choose to love grieve us with offenses both trivial and heinous. If we love, it is a guarded love and in spite of ourselves.

The problem, for Christ-followers (and it is a big problem) is that Jesus, on multiple occasions explicitly ties together loving God and loving our neighbor. When asked about the greatest commandment He naturally answers, Love the Lord, but then problematically adds on “love your neighbor as yourself.”

Often, quite often, in fact, we operate as if our faith in Christ is independent of other people. Sometimes it is easier to love the Lord than it is other people. We know the trustworthy character of the Lord but people--- well, we know the track record they have going, and it’s not good.

For those who choose to follow after Christ though, the command to love others is inescapable. We aim to love not only those who deserve it but all we encounter. In loving our neighbors regardless of what they have or haven’t done, we model the way Christ loved us. He did not choose us when we were holy people with our lives perfectly arranged (we’re not even those people yet) but loved us while we were hopeless, wretched, and lost.

So we make it our aim to love through action our neighbors--- strangers and brothers alike, always acknowledging that it may be difficult, painful, and messy but also keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus who, quite inexplicably, loved us first.

perpetual motion

perpetual motion

frantic flailing

the boy in the crowd

jeans with frayed knees

hearing the words

seeing impending knots, inescapable.

Imagining the buffalo

stoic at the treeline,

the leaves performing their delicate ballet,

the glaring peaks

lonesome, inviting.

My Brother

At work, late one August day,

a boy with coprolalia entered

holding the hand of his mother.

He began to shout expletives

at another shopper

and spat upon her

as she passed.

We do not blame the boy

but the condition that oppresses.

We do not hate the man

but the twisted seed of illness.

My brother is not my enemy

though he may name himself as such.

I take no offense

from my sister’s hate

but from the forces that compel her.

I do not hate the world

as though it plots against me

with willful intent,

but fight instead against its ruler

who leads by lust and lies

and subtle manipulations.

Our hearts yearn for justice

while our prayers plead for grace;

knowing the penalty

so longing for release.

Love God

Originally written for my church, Ypsilanti Free Methodist Church

We love to say that we love things; lots of things: TV shows, sports teams, and of course, people. We’re naturals when it comes to loving things. Granted, the depth of our love varies. We don’t love pizza the same way we love our spouse (or at least would never say so). At its core, what we call love is a sort of a transaction: emotion and intent manifested through action. We love our spouses so therefor we choose to spend time with them and make sacrifices for them. Yet as quick as we are to say that we love things, we also know the fragility of these loves. Sports teams lose. TV shows drop in quality (usually around the fifth season). Even relationships, in which we have invested so much, can cause us incredible pain.

We are, it would seem, created to love. The question then, becomes what we love.

Jesus was once asked which the greatest command that God ever gave was. Without hesitation, Jesus answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment.” This phrase, known to the Jews as the V’ahavta, part of their statement of faith, Jesus says is the very foundation of most of the Ten Commandments. It underpinned all other acts of obedience.

Jesus tells us who our love is meant for. We were created to love God; not in the way we ‘love’ an activity or a movie franchise, but with every facet of our being. Jesus tells us to love the Lord in a way in which we are willing to sacrifice everything about ourselves (our thoughts, our time, our money, and even our lives) to demonstrate our affection. To those who first followed Jesus, this means sacrificing homes, families, livelihoods, and ultimately their lives. What are we willing to sacrifice? Better still, our love finds its ultimate fulfillment in the Lord. When we love the Lord we are using love for its intended purpose. Unlike all the other things that we ‘love’, the Lord--- and only the Lord will never fail or forsake us.

Our aim here at Ypsifree is to be a community that lives out that first, greatest commandment in all that we do and all that we are both individually and corporately.

In Shadow and Silence

Beside the Soda Butte where the river

lingers vaguely amid the lupine,

the yarrow, and the alpine grasses,

bison lounge ‘neath copse of aspen,

chewing absently, placidly.

Under azure sky, bespotted

by plaintive clouds whose shadows fell

and danced upon the valley floor,

blooms dip their heads in solemn repose.

Here in the tumbledown wilderness,

there grows a rose.

Eagle soars through lofty expanse.

Marmot anxiously circles in quiet

anticipation, gazing up

as that gaudy orb dimmed; fled in

celestial occult into

interminable and utter

darkness. Each bird and beast forlorn,

into chaos led as the moon,

jealous, claims vapid victory.

In the shadow and the silence

there grows a rose.

Hollow, unnatural night grows

muting the high-country air as

the first twittering of night-songs

rise in slow fettered confusion

yet all remains deathly still til

cold, veiled peaks adorned in purple

vestments appear as ashen dawn

crawls laboriously from

its unearthly captivity.

Shapes form. Phantoms depart. Revealed

now, queer shadows bloom, misshapen

from tree and beast; bold escapees

of some unwholesome Neverland,

being forcibly reformed by hands

unseen, into their native states.

The breath of life resumes as death

retreats, mourning fleeting triumph,

into utter annihilation.

The river babbles beneath the

ancient bridge, whose timbers yield slow

to rot and decomposition,

singing sweetly as it ever flows

to points unknown. Still, from shadow

there yet grows a rose.

Two Things about Superman

Here are just a couple of thoughts about Superman, who has become so ubiquitous that we can barely look at him objectively anymore.

So we all marvel at Superman’s x-ray vision. We envy it. It most certainly is useful in busting unsuspecting criminals (who were not wise enough to hide behind lead). Our more adolescent selves view it with much more lurid potential. But consider some of the more challenging aspects of possessing x-ray vision:

(Clark Kent walks into the Daily Planet office)

Perry White: Clark, you’re giving the presentation to the shareholders this morning. No arguments.

Clark: (meekly) You got it Mr. White.

(Clark stands at a podium in front of ten rows of suit and tie clad shareholders.)

Clark: Good morning shareholders.

(Clark looks down at the podium to check his notes and sees that… he is naked)

Clark: Nooooooo! Not again!! Oh, yeah right, x-ray vision.

I mean we get terrified if we have one dream about going into a high school classroom without clothes on. Superman has to deal will it every time he looks down at his own body.

Also….

The vision we have of Superman is this super buff All-American hero and I get that’s part of the appeal he was created for. At the same time, in many iterations of the classic hero, it is the yellow sun of earth that grants him many of his amazing powers. So, I mean, does he really have to be all that fit? I mean it’s good that he keeps himself in shape and looking good and all, but if he were, say, 250 lbs. with a beer gut and a double chin he’d still be able to fly, be impervious to bullets, fire heat vision, leap tall buildings, etc. Sure, he might lose something if he compares himself to other Kryptonians, but I mean he’d still be far superior to every human living on Earth. I wonder how our perception of the “Man of Steel” would change if he had just a bit of a paunch. Would Lois kind of glance up over her fork during dinner at Kal-El and give kind of a disapproving stare as he shoveled another helping of potato salad into his super-efficient Kryptonian gullet?

Standing for truth, justice, and the American way!

This My Soul Knows Very Well

Juggling eccentricities

Bound by cords to current

Ensuring indulgences stay current.

Swimming upstream;

An uphill battle

For fear of missing out

Of an inconceivable pursuit

Of inadequate expectations.

A world gone from dial up

To dialed out;

Form hard bound

To loose-leaf;

From hard fact

To belief.

Are we bound

By gossamer cords when trivial becomes our Right

And Caesar provides his circuses

For the thirsty soul?

There’s a sign reading:

“Please, don’t feed the bears”

And we, like wildlife, gorge unaware,

Choosing all we want

Over all we need.

Its veiled illusion

When every want is streaming,

Streaming,

While all the while drowning, screaming.

When Friday’s release

Brings more excitement

Than Sunday’s relief.

How does the cross fare

With vision impaired?

Just give me these new chains

I’m done with my old ways

I don’t care about justice

I’d rather be entertained.

I don’t care about deep truth

Or freedom’s song

I’ve got a sweet tooth

And this life owes me one.

We don’t need drugs

With Netflix,

Our quick fix,

Our new pill,

Our sweet release.

Noble words of condemnation

With fingers on triggers

And hearts yearning for distraction;

Subtle deceptions,

Hollow consolation

To burdened souls

On weary roads.

Of this my soul knows very well.

Intricate addiction

Insidious design

Illusion to maintain---

A media throne

Inspires a faulty crown

Placing pleasure before your good.

Infections selfishness

Mammon’s little cousin

Indwelling poison

Placed before my brother.

Satanic perversion

Clothed as cheap amusement;

Artistic endeavors

God-lit and beautiful;

Abhorrently tortured; twisted;

A wasteland from Ithilien’s dreams;

Into a pacifying concoction

That places another’s joy

At the foot of my whims.

Of this, this my soul knows

Very well.

Immediate extradition

Requires explicit examination;

A denial of self,

A new emancipation

From the hoodoos of YouTube

And the foolish pursuit of wealth

As the means to remain entertained

Which undermines all else.

It requires deep thoughts

In a darkened room, alone

And a willingness

To put other’s merriment

Before your own.

It requires a severe disconnection

A rending of bone;

A snapping of conceit;

A spiritual insurrection.

Ultimately --- death

For we cannot sustain it

We cannot placate it

This god of entertainment.

Who, oh Lord, can save us?

From a life of vapid searching

Of constant unfulfillment

Of want

Of longing

Of epic disappointment.

That is no life;

No American dream

Though in the half-light of addiction

Sweet it seems.

What hope?

No repeats

Only rebirth.

A quest for pleasure laid upon the altar of stone.

Life anew

For God and neighbor alone.

No half measures.

No Baals of health or wealth.

For idols cannot stand

Against a crucified self.

Of this my soul knows very well.