She ran to Him

She ran to him, knowing, what no one else knew

(Knowing he would carry her)

She ran to him, knowing, what she was too young to know

(too small to see, too new to know)

That he would hold her thumb, kiss it

She ran to him, with overweening arrogance, unconceivable presumptiousness

un-justified pride

Knowing he would comfort her

She ran to him, with wisdom beyond the hokhmim

Knowing he would cuddle her

And so the child came crying

Demanding the kiss of God

And so the toddler came indignant

Ordering the arms of God

And so the kingdom cometh

For so does it come

And so the child enters

For she is too young, she knows

I stand here between the water and the shore--

I stand here, between the water and the shore

The clear water swirling under my knees

Sun shining so bright off water

So bright it hurts my eyes

I stand here, I came swimming

running through water at the glimpse

of you

So familiar, dark head and outstretched hand

Calling, about fish

Now I stand, in time frozen

Staring

as I was among the exiles by the Chebar River, the heavens were opened, and I saw...

and the air so clear it hurts my lungs

You stand, looking me straight

in the eyes.

I see the hairs on your arm

real and distinct

I see the roughness of your sleeve

Pulled back, its threads catching the morning wind

I see your hand

with a thumb-sized hole in it, scabs lumped at the edges

And the side of a broiled fish in your hand

And the Glory of LORD went up from the Kheruv...and the House was filled with the cloud; the court... with the brightness of the the Glory of the LORD,

and the sound of the wings of the Kheruvim was heard as far as the outer court, like the voice of El-Shaddai when He speaks...

Sun so bright it hurts my eyes

Air so clear it hurts my lungs

I stand between the water and the shore

You stand here also, your eyes meet mine, again

Holding out half a crisp-roasted fish

You look, into me, with clear bright eyes

Like the appearance of the bow that is in the cloud on the day of rain, so was the appearance of brightness all around, Such was the appearance of the likeness of the Glory of the LORD. And when I saw it, I fell on my face, and I heard the voice of one speaking...

“Come and have breakfast”

The Thing I Can Never Say

Why is it like this?

Why are human beings so---like this? We are so-----there is so much---pain. It hurts to care about people. It hurts to even care. My mother tried. She had a best friend. They did so much together---and then, there was something, and my mom flew to Switzerland and tried to help her, and the friend didn't want to listen to her.

And then there was loss.

Why?

It hurts too much, it hurts too much,

to care.

Like stretching out your hands to feel

and finding you can hurt,

and

your touch not help, not feel, not intercede another's soul

and losing the friend

Why did you even make us to love, God?

It hurts too much

We hope too much

and fall, fall

God, I don't want to care anymore. I don't want to feel all this anymore. It hurts too much to love people. And feel loss.

Jesus, why did you do this to us? Why do you even command us to love? To send us out into the world, to maim ourselves? To find ourselves in this choked room where people cannot hear my voice, calling out over and over, in a hoarse lecturing judgmental monotone?

Why bother, why even bother to love?

Is it not an incredible vulnerability, to love. To lose. To be the loser. Lord. Why. Why.

Lord, why? Love for you, was so much loss. You lost your little one, and he went, far into the messed up dark world of people longing for love, and stretched his hand out into it.

Stretched out his little hand in Bethlehem, in a cow-trough we put him in, because there was no one who wanted to shelter him in a house that night.

And you stretched you hand out again, as you carved tables for your brother Jews. And hammered, and squared, and lathed the edges. You stretched your hand out, in a village town, and lived and broked bread and kept the Shabbat's, and studied the Torah Scroll, together, growing 20 years of quiet life.

And the Talmud writes, he was an idoloter, and any Jew that follows him, no longer is a Jew, but join him as the apostasized.

And you stretched your hand out, to touch the leper's flesh, and felt it grow, whole, beneath your touch.

And you stretched out your hand, and healed hte blind man's eyes, and then he went and told your enemies on you.

And you stretched out your hand, and touched the homeless men, who mutter your words amid pleas for money and cigarrettes wandering hte dirty streets.

And you stretched out you hand, on some Judean grown wood cut by a Roman lathe. And there among the Pastors and Bureaucrats laid down to wait the nail be driven through it.

And the hammer falls, the the flesh of the child God sent, splits beneath the stroke.

Blood spurts out, like the blood of the goat, sent out to have its head split.

Blood flows down the old wood of that simple tree, lathed by precise Roman hands.

And the Bureaucrats step back a little disgusted with the whole thing, and the people stir in their places. We didn't want him here, didn't want that man here.

And we turn our backs and trudge down that hill, except for a few hysterical women. Who follow him as if he were alive, and one of them, poor girl, a mess, sits with tear emptied glassy eyes, unable to leave the burial site, staring.

'don't waste your time' we say, touching her shaking shoulder, looking into her shell shocked eyes. 'Just go home, get yourself a cup of tea'

God it hurts too much to care. And the baby's got splintered hands now, rough man's hands that are cold, with big holes busted in them.

And before we did him in, he said

"Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. If anyone serves me, he must follow me; and where I am, there will my servant be also. If anyone serves me, the Father will honor him.

It hurts enough to balance life the way it is--and keep---from being broken open and hurt and lose---why do you come here and tell us to love and lose more?! You thought you were 'helping'? We don't need that kind of help. We don't need more of that kind of stuff in this kind of a world. Don't try to make it hurt more with all that.

Why should we care, God? Why should we damn well care what you send. Unwanted "gifts" are a burden. Its the same as punishment. Sorry about your baby. You shouldn't have sent him in the first place, if you knew this was going to happen. Its your fault. We don't want it God, take it back, here you go. Bye. Don't look at me like that. Its your fault. You knew what I'm like. Go away. Its the way of things. People are like this, God, I'm sorry. We're like this.

Then---my God the ground is shaking, shaking, the sky splits, and

I find, myself, looking into a tomb busted through--by---what is that light? My eyes! Blinded, blinded by a light so bright it burns, bright as fire on the wings of the morning, bright as the wings of the Cherubim, bright as the dawn over the Euphrates River, when Hizqiel fell on his face and saw----

I am falling falling, and can't--won't look up. But He's there. The busted hand--strong fingers-- clears the hair from my eyes, lifts my face till I see him in the eyes. His eyes, staring at me, staring into me, looking into mine. His eyes.

'Follow me.'

And they were bringing children to him that he might touch them, and the disciples rebuked them. But when Jesus saw it, he was indignant and said to them, “Let the children come to me; do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.” And he took them in his arms and blessed them, laying his hands on them.

He saw in one instant-illumined

Darkness all around, darkness surrounding without and within

He gripped the wall, choking through the darkness

and in one instant, saw illumined before his mind's eyes her face

the face of one who by Galilee

washed and wove, and flattened bread

nursed, comforted, held and tread

the threshing floor of Nazareth

and quietly bore a child doomed for death,

that saved might be the cursed children of her race

the kind, worn face, of her who wrought---

through hard obedience, and toil, and sweat on cold, hard ground

through repeated sacrifice on sacrifice after two pauper's doves

---a crude clay lamp, able to be lit with fire,

Into her small, worn, woman's hands was given,

That which prophets longed to glimpse, wise could not see,

for which mystics climbed the highest peaks, begging heaven--

--and into her hands, into her womb was placed, this holy mystery

Fire of heaven, a baby's suckling mouth, blinding the seraphim, a child's cry for life---

and poor, unwed, unexpected, unbidden

her hands were open to receive

This terrible, helpless, awe-full gift of heaven,

from Him who sits enthroned between the cherubim

She lifted up her life, offering up that which was not hers yet hers to give,

till she offers back up to the One who gave the gift given

One who wrote the stars and set the sun and grew within her womb,

now--

opening her hands once again,

opened to lose, to loose, to return to heaven the awe-full gift

now--

beloved familiar child-grown-man

offered up to Him seated between the cherubim

whom the angels must veil their face,

And cry out "glory" with hosts and seraphim,

Now murdered,

mauled, bloodied, flesh torn by the children of men

a sacrifice

Those hands, opened to receive to offer--

the most awefull mystery

the most precious baby

the most bloody sacrifice

--Now molded, purified, fired, refined,

a hollow lamp,hollowed out to be filled with the oil

Burning with the flame of Heaven.

He gripped the wall again, and breathed, and breath filled his lungs--

A simple crude clay lamp able to be lit with Fire

And the light of that Fire shall burn away the darkness of the world

Christ child

removed until it is ready to publish, by its perfectionistic and genius author (who is not me...)