My Love

My love is that ruach breath of life
blown into dust by Divinity to create man
and God said, "It is good!"
My love is that line separating life from death.
Good from evil.
Night from day.
Male from female.
My love is higher than the peak of Kilimanjaro
but is so ancient that it remembers
when it had not yet been measured.
My love is so smooth it corrects your grammar
before a word is misspoken.
My love wears camouflage to protect itself
from snipers in trees and
enemies with heart shaped hand grenades
My love will make you stay up all night
like the darkest awaiting the dawn
My love transcends without trespassing
and communicates without commandeering.
My love feeds on beauty and grows exponentially
being born in my mind yet
borne on these futile words.
My love is light, life and forgiveness.
My love was baptized in the Jordan
Prays to the east
Understands sutras
And meditates on peace
to the end of zen
And is solely and eternally for you,
For you are...
My love.

The Non-Rugged Cross...and Me

I sat in the sanctuary yesterday and at one point, I looked up at the massive cross in the sanctuary and I began to think my way through the Baptist Hymnal. The cross is often spoken of as "rugged" and I imagine that both pieces were roughly hewn from a tree native to the region. The trouble is that our churches - many in the reformed tradition, at least, have these well polished crosses that don't look like anything bad ever took place on them or anywhere near them. There are no blood stains on these lovely sanctuary icons. There are usually no holes where the nails would have torn through the flesh of the Messiah. There are often no indications that there were actually two pieces of wood fashioned together to hold the weight of a grown man. And so I wonder, what does this smooth, pretty cross actually mean to us.

I had an occasion to minister to teenagers in a chapel service at a Christian school and we wrote our worst conceivable sins on small pieces of paper and affixed them to a cross that had been fashioned specifically for our Lenten service. To celebrate Good Friday, we tacked our paper sins on that cross and later, when we celebrated Easter, we shared communion and "miraculously" the sins on the crude cross had somehow been removed. It was not divine intervention, but rather it was one of the most pastoral acts I have ever enjoyed. Cleaning up the work of the cross was a moment of standing on holy ground if there ever was one. Presenting an assurance of pardon afterwards has never been more meaningful. But our rugged cross was never replaced with a newer, prettier model. We just kept the homemade cross in the chapel area for a few weeks as a token of what we had experienced. The rest of the work of remembering was tacked on our hearts and actions.

Yesterday, I looked up at what has to be a 20 foot cross made from something that looked too fancy to hold any sins that I might have ever participated in. I thought it was just too big and too grand for a Jesus who probably was not taller than 6 feet in His human form. One of the two preachers spoke about the medical reality of crucifixion and as he talked, I thought, this cross does not speak to that awful and gruesome reality! Then it hit me...

This cross serves a dual purpose...for me. Yes, it serves to remind me that I do believe that Jesus entered the world through a bloody birth ritual but also exits this human form through a bloody death ritual. I imagined Jesus coming out of the tomb and with the folding of his garments, there was also the folding of those little slips of paper that represented my sins. (and the sins of the world, of course) As Christ came from the tomb, leaving behind those things that did not serve Him in His resurrected form, among them was this "Old, rugged cross" and in its wake, He leaves the reminder that all things...ALL THINGS are made new through Him. Even the memory of an old, rugged, yet necessary cross.

Be advised, this does not in any way diminish the dirty work of the cross or the necessity of a rugged, blood stained, fluid splattered, splintered cross. What it does, however, is remind me that I am very much like that larger than life cross in the sanctuary. I am not what I appear to be. What I represent is not exactly what you see at first blush. I am like that shiny, looming icon in the sanctuary. I might look all spiffy and polished but there is a back story that you need to allow me to share with you. The story of the work that went into polishing me from what I was into what I am which is not even a hint of what I am about to become! In 2013, I want to share the back story of that lovely polished larger than life icon with as many people as I possibly can so that they too, can experience new life! I invite you to join me in telling the behind the scenes story of the non-rugged cross! As a matter of fact...I dare you!


Shalom!

The Revel-a-tion Will Not Be Televised

This is one of my all-time favorite sermons. My cousin told me long ago that I should post sermons in this blog...so here goes. The church name has been amended and you will need a working knowledge of Gil Scott Heron's "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" in order to really feeeeeeeeel this one. This was for a church that had recently blended two congregations into one in an inner city and was struggling to work our her new identity.

The Revelation Will Not be Televised

You have chosen for today the text from the prophet Habakkuk 2:1-3 which reads:
1 I will stand upon my watch, and set me upon the tower, and will watch to see what he will say unto me, and what I shall answer when I am reproved.
2 And the LORD answered me, and said, Write the vision, and make [it] plain upon tables, that he may run that readeth it.
3 For the vision [is] yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.


The text is the centerpiece of a three-chapter book by and about a man named Habakkuk who knew a God named YHWH. As I read this passage repeatedly over the past few weeks, I began to feel as if I were watching some sort of ancient reality tv show. It was a if I were sitting on the sofa watching my wide screen plasma tv (I did say that I imagined it, right?) watching Habakkuk and YHWH having a conversation. Yes, ancient reality tv, that'll preach, won't it? I am sure that it will because don't we all have some level of interaction with our friends on the screen? Isn't there a reason for watching the characters on our favorite reality, fantasy, and other tv shows so intently? We watch as characters' lives unfold, revealing the complexities with which we can relate and from which we often repent in private but won't discuss for fear of judgment by our friends and fellow viewers.
I believe that I have connected my own heartfelt concern for the underdog and for justice with my love of Law and Order (the original, SVU and CSI). Soap operas provide an escape from the humdrum existence that we call life and allow us to live in lovely Genoa City if only for an hour. Jerry Springer and Maury Povich make us grateful for the particular dysfunctions in our families because nobody really lives like that…or do they? Oh and let's not forget the excitement of feeling famous as we sing with the contestants on American Idol. We get a glimpse into other people's lives and that helps us to live out our own. And so it is with the prophet Habakkuk. In this book, we get to peek into his life of prayer and find him bringing his concerns to God and we find God providing the answers…
Habakkuk's people are in trouble - again. They have not been doing right and since Josiah's reform is a thing of the past, Israel is like a child gone buck wild. God is sending their enemies, the Chaldeans to get them back on track and this is troubling to our friend Habakkuk. He is perplexed because even the worst Jews are not as bad as these oppressors, so why not try another technique, YHWH?

Perhaps someone here can relate to the prophet's dilemma. He had people, a mission and an agenda. Has that ever happened to you...as you have made these two congregations one? Perhaps someone here has had an agenda or an idea about how things should be done and it seems like God and your fellow worshippers are ignoring your ideas and your agenda…perhaps someone here wants to know why some churches in the district seem to get more funding and be able to do more than us and it doesn’t seem fair..we pray, we tithe, we study, so why can’t our agenda happen the way we want it to? At this point in the marriage of the two congregations, perhaps the wedding ceremony is not yet over yet and you're asking, "what’s up with this?" Aren’t we all supposed to be the bride of Christ? So why is her dress whiter and why are her bridesmaids thinner and why is her caterer serving surf and turf while ours is serving tuna and ground chicken from foil pans from the dollar store? The bride may be having some wedding jitters this afternoon, because the wedding is not turning out like she thought it would, but hold on – don’t let NB be a runaway bride just yet. There is good news for this bride today.
Habakkuk saw fit to seek God for an answer. He says, "I will stand at my watchpost and station myself at the rampart. I will keep watch to see what he will say to me and what he will answer concerning my complaint." And without commercial interruption, God sweeps onto the screen and answers. It’s like the last few minutes of Law and Order. All of the clues are presented and the lawyers have presented their cases and now we await the judge's answer. Somehow, in that moment, the couch is my watchpost and like a tree planted by waters, I shall not be moved until I know how it ends.
Well friends, that may be fine for watching Law and order, but when it comes to the revelation of God’s plan for our lives, it will come when we seek it and are willing to wait for it. And I have news for us today – God's revelation will not be televised. Now before you have a flashback and pull out a big pick with a fist on the handle, just give me a minute to work this thing out. Remember, Gil said revolution, I’m saying revelation!
For those of you who need one, please allow me to insert a black history moment right here. In 1970, Gil Scott-Heron recorded “The revolution will not be televised” and a rhythmic sliver of truth was told about what was happening to African Americans and what we needed to do about it. The recording was, in my opinion, as prophetic as any canonized prophecy. In this 3 minute recording, Gil Scott Heron calls our attention to the consumerism that seemed to lull our people into a narcotic-induced sleep. He reminded us that the much-needed change for black folk would not come as a result of any of the junk that came to us via the tv. It would not happen just because we sat at home and waited for it to unfold, but rather because we had to go out and make it happen. (my favorite verse: Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and Women will not care if Dick finally gets down with Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people will be in the street looking for a brighter day.)

So what do Gil and Habakkuk have in common? As I see it, they both speak the truth of the situation and tell us what we need to do. Habakkuk told the people that God said write the vision and make it plain. To say write implies that there is one. You can’t write what is not there. You cannot write what has not been given! And it does not say revise or amend...it says write...write something new that I will give you! When two become one, though sometimes you end up with double vision! So what we need to do is regain our focus. YHWH tells Hab to write the vision so that it may be see by the runner who passes by for there is still a vision…
No matter what it looks like in other churches
No matter what your budget is for the year
No matter who is the designated layperson for this or that Sunday
No matter whose child sings solo – there is still a vision
No matter who says they’re quitting church because someone didn’t like their potato salad
No matter who says it can’t be done because Camden just is not ready
No matter what hell comes and no matter how high the water
God says there is still a vision and it will not lie.

But God warns Habakkuk as well. He says, see those folk who seem to be abusing you right now? They’ll get theirs. Just leave the Justice work to me and stick to the vision I gave you. Get your vision lined up with my vision and watch it unfold and see just how I make it happen for you. I’ve got news for you, it won’t require TIVO, DVD, Comcast or Cablevision – No this vision is a divine vision and not a Cable vision.

God’s revelation needs to be written but not on tablets of stone, nor hearts of stone. It needs to be written on hearts that have been broken in Jesus’ name. Hearts that see poverty and weep but also pray and then rise up off of bended knees and put willing hands to work. Hearts that see death and destruction and begin to cry unto God to empower us to make it right. Hearts that see work that needs to be done and not merely the obstacles to getting it done. Those are the hearts that wear the vision. See, folk are in their homes right now watching tv to escape from the pains and paradoxes of this life but God is trying to send answers through NB. You don’t need to secure a 30 minute spot right after Bobby Jones Gospel Hour to reach people because the revelation will not be televised. Yeah, this corner's drug runner needs to be able to see the vision. The number runner needs to see the vision. The child running away from an abusive home needs to see the vision in you. The hungry and homeless need to run by on a Saturday night and see and share in the vision of the feeding ministry. The folk who hung out on Saturday night and are looking for Sunday Morning Asylum at NB need to see the vision clearly and remember, they may be hung over, so the vision cannot be closed captioned, because the revelation will not be televised! They’ve got to see what God is doing when they see how you’re living. The revelation will be LIVE!

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and drop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on snacks and
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because God's revelation will not be televised.

God's revelation will not be televised.

God's revelation will not be brought to you before the Sopranos and will not be sung by three tenors
God's revelation will not be on Comcast but it will be available on demand!

God's revelation will not be televised.

God's revelation for NB will be not brought to you by the
Host of PTL or the 700 Club.
God's revelation may help you enjoy everyday life.
God's revelation may give you your best life ever.
God's revelation may help you handle your he-motions

But this revelation will not be brought to you by Jakes, Joyce, Joel or Jamal because when it comes to the NB revelation – they don’t know Jack...but y'all do know Jesus! So...pay attention because this revelation will NOT be televised!

God's revelation will not be televised, Brother.
There will be no CNN, no TBN and no TBS nor TNT but believe me
When the revelation comes, you will know drama!
God's revelation is not grown folks radio - it's all folks radio, so don’t listen for Steve Harvey, Michael Basedin or Tom Joyner. It will not be a Tyler Perry production and as for Harpo? Heck no!! This revelation will not be televised.

God's revelation will not be televised.

God's revelation will not come after three installments of 19.95 payable by visa or MasterCard, but the revelation will be priceless.
There will be no slow motion or still life of George W. strolling through Camden in a red-white-and-blue nor in a red, black and Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving for just the proper occasion.

God's revelation will not be televised.

God's revelation will not go better with Coke.

God's revelation will not fight the germs that cause bad breath but it will fight the demons that cause bad life!

This revelation WILL put God (back) in the driver's seat.
This revelation will not make your teeth whiter, but it will make burdens lighter.
This revelation will not stop the violence but it will give you perfect peace.

This revelation has been in syndication since the first broadcast called "In the beginning" and if you just stay tuned you WILL receive a word from our Divine sponsor.

Set your dial to WGOD that’s John-1-1 on the FM dial – In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. God Who? God who said I am that I am and I will be who I will be – there is no shadow of turning with me!


The revelation will not be televised, WILL NOT be televised, WILL NOT BE TELEVISED.

The revelation will be no re-run brothers;

The revelation will be LIVE!

So what is this revelation? The revelation is this – what God has for NB has yet to be seen. The revelation will not be televised, but it will be live and direct. It will not require a cliffhanger but it is an old, familiar story – The revelation is this – God sent his Son to die for a sinner like you and me and the ones all over the city of Camden just waiting to be introduced to the Savior. Why not do like we did in the 60’s and light a Holy Ghost fire in this city and let it burn baby burn! Burn out the hate. Burn out the pain. Burn out the hunger. Burn out the drugs. Burn out anything that is not like God! And out of the ashes...a new beginning shall rise! Yes, THIS revelation will not be televised. This revelation can only be...A-LIVE!

Vertigo Schmertigo!

As December's days dwindle and the new year looms in the not so distant future, I have had time to consider 2012 and its many ups and downs (hey, that's funny when you consider that vertigo can take you from standing up straight to being flat on the floor...begging the room to stop spinning so violently). Vertigo is an attack on one's sense of balance. It can be caused by any number of things (including those which cannot be found with an MRI or an evil test that blows air into your ears to see how you react...but I digress). What I have found is that I spend an inordinate amount of time investing in other people's success and dreams and happiness. I have sacrificed time, money, and surely a few other things to make sure that others are able to pursue their dreams. Meanwhile, I am barely doing the minimum daily requirement to sustain my own artistic calling. I say that I am limited by my job and my motherhood duties but that's not accurate. I hide behind those things and rationalize that other people are a better and easier investment...when I know that is not necessarily true, just convenient. Thus, my output is not aligned with my intake and this leads to the imbalance that is vertigo's powerful stranglehold on my creativity.

So, with a self-diagnosis of vertigo as the result of an imbalance of time invested in other people compared to time invested in my own talents, I'm headed off into the new year with a continued and sharper focus on my writing. I have treated it like a hobby that comes after all of the more important things. Writing will now return to its rightful place among the most important things. For every reminder in my calendar that deals with other people's gifts, there will be one for my own gifts as well. Instead of simply reading other people's good writing, I will add my own to the mix and see what happens. I will accept the warm invitations into the venues where artists dwell, work, share, and live. I will become a part of the active artistic community instead of sitting on the voyeuristic sidelines. (Lord help me, I think I just realized that I stopped breathing two sentences ago!)

The prognosis is good. I will restore the balance in all of my life's accounts. Leaks and drains will be patched and plugged. Rips and tears will be stitched and mended. Old wineskins will be mounted on the wall in memoriam and the new wineskins will be carried close to my heart where they may be filled with new revelations waiting to be poured out. When the Spirit says, "Move!" I will move. When the Muse says, "Write that down!" I shall write that down. When the Sirens say, "do it later...listen to our song and drown it all out..." I'll put wax in my ears and sit down with a pen (or an iPad) and write until they get laryngitis from trying to break my concentration with their seductive song of "it's easier (and safer) to just enjoy other people's work".

The way I see it, the worst thing that can happen is that I'll litter cyberspace and the blogosphere with fits and starts that ramble on without ever say much of anything. The best thing that can happen is that...I might actually be good at this thing and someone's life will be touched, inspired, or changed. (And I may even have more time and money to pour into the others who are risking it all for the sake of their gifts and passions!)

If you are among the gifted (and I am certain that you are) I invite you to join me in the restoration of our balance and the pursuit of dreams and real happiness. (Or in the words of James Brown, "Get up offa that thang...and dance (or write, or employ whatever your gift is) until you feel bettah!"

My Kind of Christmas

My kind of Christmas

If you are looking for a blog about chestnuts roasting and snowmen, reindeer, a Yule log and gifts under the tree...please close this page immediately. My intent is to simply share a few thoughts on "MY kind of Christmas" and not to throw shade on any that is not like mine. (Hey, you're still reading? Okay, cool...)

Yesterday, I was listening to songs and speeches from "The Roots of Resistance." This is a collection of works that tell the oft-silenced story of revolution in this country and others during the turbulent and messy 1960's and 1970's. I chose this soundtrack for my morning because for me, Christmas is all about revolution. I do love the sentimental journey of spending time with loved ones in front of a fireplace and sharing a big meal with family and baking cookies and all of those other Christmas traditions. Yesterday, however, I was struck by the idea that Christmas, as a religious experience, is about revolution and change.

It hit me that it was nothing short of revolutionary for a limitless God who was already Emmanuel in so many ways to put on the limits of flesh and be one of us. Is it not revolutionary to think that a God who could have just created a body from dirt and breathed into Himself and come as a full grown Savior chose the dangerous ground of a womb and a birth canal? The idea of cells splitting in the newly ripened womb of a teenaged girl who didn't have the plus sign on a stick but had an angel come to her and tell her that she would bear this child, who would be called holy! Teenagers are notorious for being contrary! How revolutionary that God would choose this one to bear the Incarnate Word instead of one who was older and more schooled in the mysteries of the holy!

Forgive me for sounding like Jones the Baptist, but how can you not hear the drums of revolution when you sing the line "Mild He lays His glory by, Born that we no more may die" in the second verse of Hark the Herald Angels Sing?? This One sets aside the glory that is rightly His as the Son of God and comes through a treacherous and previously untested birth canal for my sake. I was born into sin. He was born to save me from it while I was in the midst of it! That makes me want to run to the bathroom mirror and with a disheveled ponytail and my pink robe and piece of toast in my hand (I ain't ready for locusts just yet) scream at my own reflection, "REPENT!!! The kingdom of Heaven is at hand!" Do you not get just how revolutionary that is??

Note to self:
Repent from a cozy life that privileges you to turn a blind eye to injustice. Repent from your Easy Jesus attitude that classifies sins by size and color.
Repent from your stubborn and stiff-necked thought that it's someone else's job to shepherd the people...and it must be done in a sanctuary.
Repent from your self-imposed limits that keep you from doing what you were put here to do. (I'm singing O Come O Come Emmanuel and not thinking about what to do when He shows up! Have a plan for goodness sake!)

Okay, I have returned from my moment in the mirror. Repentance is a revolutionary act! It is a decision to do something completely different! That's what Christmas means to me my love (Stevie Wonder voice). I want Christmas to be the start of something new and powerful and useful for the world and not just myself! I want Christmas to be the start of something revolutionary in my life. I want to be an agent of change in this world. I don't want to give the world a gift that comes with a receipt so they can exchange it for one that they like or one that (they think) is a better fit! I don't want to abort the baby by being less than I was created to be! I don't want to waste the gift that was given in the form of a helpless baby who grew in stature and wisdom to become the One who would not only die but return with ALL power in his nail scarred hands. I almost inserted a parenthetical apology for this beginning to sound like a sermon...Ha! That's my first act of repentance. I will not apologize for telling the Old Old story of Jesus and His Glory...(feel free to start singing if you know the words)!

So, with revolution on my mind and the blood of change agents in my veins, let me lead us in a few lines of what may be considered a song of revolution for those who have waited for the baby to arrive:

Yea, Lord, we greet thee, Born this happy morning;
Jesus, to thee be glory given!
Word of the Father, Now in flesh appearing!
Oh, come let us adore Him, Oh, come, let us adore Him,
Oh, come let us adore Him, Christ The Lord!




Shalom!!

Staring at the screen

I sat staring at the screen

I sat staring at the screen for a while. I wanted to write something brilliant and eloquent. But I just sat staring at the screen for a while. That's not like me. I usually have plenty to write about but today, I just sat staring at the screen. It feels so strange to be speechless. I think I am still in shock from the news that you are gone. Then I go into wordsmith mode and remind myself that gone is a grief-bearing euphemism. My seminary trained mind is trying to make sense of this but my human heart wants to put you in heaven with wings and a white robe and clouds...my sense of humor wants to imagine you taking the white robe off so you don't get bbq sauce, cigar ashes, and Crown Royal on it...it is Heaven, after all! I got the text in the middle of a class and I checked it immediately because it came from my sister and it wasn't during our regularly scheduled "hello" texting time frame. I was shocked...and my eyes welled up...and I was frozen in time and space for a moment. I was brought back by the words, "Miss Jones, are you okay?" I could only nod "no" and hope that my frown would squeeze those tears back into my tear ducts for just a little while longer. I did what you would expect me to do. I collected myself enough to tell a joke and redirect the energy for the moment. I had to shut my mind down to avoid the questions and irrational conclusions. I reached out to your oldest girl...who calls me Momma and sends me holiday text messages and I felt trapped in a helplessness that felt like a bubbling, gurgling tar pit that pulled me down and held me still up to my neck so that I couldn't even will my muscles to move. You know I think I'm pretty big and bad sometimes, but I couldn't stop the thoughts..."Didn't you just email me yesterday about my last blog entry?" "Didn't we just text and laugh about our MRI experiences on Monday?" "How..." And I had to stop myself again because (I'm a control freak and I don't do well with things that are bigger than me and...) this was not going to help me understand what had happened. I'm still expecting you to show up at my door with a Christmas tree...because you KNOW I'm not buying one and who says no to a 250 pound National Guardsman in uniform talking about, "Hey, I brought a Charlie Brown tree for you and Maya to decorate...and I went to the dollar store and bought some decorations because I know you don't have any. And I brought some Crown (for myself because you are so bourgie that you drink stuff I can't spell) so that I can laugh at you because I know your inner control freak won't allow the tree to just sit here." Then, of course, I'll order wings and roll my eyes because you are NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!! But you have been a friend to me when I needed one most. That's just who you are. You're the ultimate go-to guy and I know that innumerable hearts are broken today. I'm still working out my grief and figuring out how to be the go-to person for the girls...especially that big one who has a mama but calls me momma too. You've done a great job of leaving a legacy of love and laughter (hysterical, side splitting, tears rolling down faces laughter!) and I'm still sitting here staring at the screen...wondering if I should hold down the delete button and erase all of this...and then I realize that if I learned anything from you, it is to always be true to myself and what could be more true than writing...even if I'm writing about how I'm staring at the screen. I'm still working it all out in my mind but this is where I am...still shocked...still managing my grief...still staring at the screen...I'll see you, Spike!

thoughts on rhythms

This morning, my thoughts are on the dissonance between my life's patterns and Nature's rhythms. I wake before the sun comes up and work until after it has gone down. Rarely do I take in any sunlight unless I go out for lunch and then, I am focused on choosing food, going out to get it and then choking it down before my next class. No wonder the doctor said that I have a vitamin D deficiency. The leftovers from lunch become dinner on the train ride home which everyone wants to fill with the activity of their choosing. You know, things like phone conversations (I ride in the quiet car for a reason), grading papers, working on the next day's lesson, checking in with my teenager, texting, catching up on Scandal, Grey's Anatomy and Nashville. For the record, after a day of back to back classes, sometimes, I just want to be still for a moment and remember that God is bigger than all of my daily activities and Shonda Rhimes' best writing. God has still set a time for everything and it doesn't always coincide with the overcrowded calendar app on my iPad. God's rhythms are beautiful and perfect. The dissonance I perceive has come from building a life that sometimes causes me to sing a song in the key of Living Just Enough For the City instead of singing my song in the Key of Life. For now, this is my rushed, breathless song sung in a raspy, overworked voice. But I believe that the day is coming when I will sing unto The Lord a new song! That song will be in God's perfect meter and I will sing in the fullness of a voice reserved for God's song.

A Good Wife?

A good wife?

A married man told me that I would make a good wife. He should probably discuss that theory with my ex-husband. The comment...compliment...came as a result of an act of thoughtfulness on my part. I frequently take on the role of the Mother figure (my inner feminist/womanist is pacing and screaming obscenities at the thought of the stereotype but let's move on anyway). This means that when people are running around stressing themselves out and not eating properly and pushing themselves beyond what is natural and healthy for the human body, I am watching. I watch and wait for the chance to offer some relief. Remember the "Candy Lady" at church? Yeah, kind of like that but healthier. I always bring extra food in my lunch bag because inevitably, I will end up reaching in the bag to share and it is so much easier to just bring extra than to share the carefully measured portion I packed for myself. (I believe that's what is meant by putting on your own oxygen mask first...) If I bring one apple, I bring two because someone will need a snack. If I pack one turkey and swiss on a whole wheat croissant...I might as well pack two because someone will either passive aggressively salivate on my desk until I offer or they will simply ask..."Jones! Got any more like that?"

Now, if I am the Mother figure, then you can best believe that my colleagues are my children. Some prefer to 'go hungry' because they don't like green apples. They want a red one. They don't like Swiss cheese, they prefer cheddar. They don't want anything that they have to heat up. (Then, my inner Black mother kicks in..."Oh, you ain't REALLY hungry then!") In any case, if I am going out to grab a coffee or mid day ghetto soda (Welch's grape, Fanta or Sunkist orange, black cherry or cola champagne (or any of the other flavors whose names are written in Spanish on the label of that tall glass bottle!), I will typically ask the busiest people if they want something. This often delays my trip by as much as 15 minutes but for the sake of helping someone make it through the day, it's worth it to me. And for the record, I do not see this as motherly or wifely duties. I see this as an act of humanity that says, "I see you." I don't really think that people are concerned with what they eat as much as they are concerned with someone seeing that they are hungry but that may be a story for another blog.

So, back to this good wife thing...my co-worker mentioned that he was under the weather and all I did was bring him a teabag from my stash in my desk. Well, I offered it with a raised eyebrow and a careful reminder that he should just pause his day while the tea steeped in the cup and collect himself so that we wouldn't have to visit him in the hospital. He thanked me sincerely and looked at me for a minute and said, "Jones, you'd make a good wife. You know that?" I smiled the "if you only knew" smile and said, "Yeah, I would...but this ain't why!"

find me (draft)

find me

i tend to get lost
in my own thoughts
so
i need you
to find me
i tend to get lost
in life's fairy tale forest
so
i need you
to find me
i got lost and wandered
into abusive hands
so i need you
to find me
and heal me
i retreated into darkness
so
i need you
to find me
and light the way
i can be so much more
than lost
but
i need you to find me
and protect me
i am never far from home
but i tend to get lost
so
i need you
to find me
i think i was sent
to seek you
but i got lost
so
i need you
to find me
and bring me back home
so yes
i need you
to find me

a special kind of crazy

that special artist kind of crazy

When I have been taking medication for vertigo, migraines, or other illnesses that plague my otherwise healthy body, I fear that writing will reveal what I call my writer's crazy. That little piece of me that is only best used in its raw unfiltered state. But the problem with that is that it resembles that lace edge of a lady's slip when it dips below the hem of her dress. The point of the slip is to keep the dress from clinging and to let it fit better, thus, making a better visual aesthetic for the viewer and passers by. Ideally, no one should know that there is a slip beneath the dress except perhaps a seamstress or tailor. So it is with writing. I want you to see the good fit. I want you to see the result of clear thinking and careful editing. I do not want you to see the crazy that underpins the writing that I have dared to share with you. I do not need for you to know that like my Sunday dress, my Monday writing also requires a slip to keep the writing from clinging unflatteringly to my real person. My skin. My bone. My flesh. I need that distance. You see, writing takes me to a place that most people, if they are wise, would fear to peer into let alone tread. It is a place of sweet darkness wrapped around a brilliant light almost like a bulb planted in rich soil.

I fear that under the veil of mind-numbing medication, I am less of an editor and more of the uninhibited artist. Artists are difficult people to endure. We are slaves to our passions and sometimes, that means we sleep erratically. We have so much inside of us that is not always prepared for sharing and so we bear the burden of carrying that creativity inside of ourselves like a woman who knows she is with child, yet does not show. We often work in solitude but when collaborations happen, there is always the danger of inappropriate interaction from the sheer joy of being understood, if only for a moment. Then the illness of creativity returns and threatens to destroy our very normal facade. You who sleep soundly at night without being lured by the siren call of an artist's burden will never know how much work goes into wearing the mask of normalcy so that you can accept us for who we are - and often judge us for what we create. You are quick to buy our cast away products because they are easily digested. It takes a keen ear or eye to appreciate our real work because you are not trained in the openness to receive it. (Put art and music back in schools please!) You are lulled into the peace of poor production and you think that what is mass produced is best.
But those of us who know that Coltrane is not heard, but loved and experienced understand.
Those who loved Prince's work before hearing the Purple Rain soundtrack will understand.
Those who taste Bearden's colors on a canvas will understand.
We who read the sacred texts (Bible, Koran, etc) and hear something that is not on the page and defies the act of parsing or sermonizing will understand.
We who awaken to new notes yet are not equipped to transcribe, sing, or play any will understand.
We who hear turns of phrases that move us deeply will understand.
We who watch artistically inclined children struggle to be normal and normed by those who have imbibed the kool-aid of pop culture's false normal will understand.

The drug sleep

It's ironic that I am writing about sleep...when I can't seem to quiet my mind for a stretch of 5 hours so that I can sleep. My favorite song is Wildflower (by New Birth) simply because of the line, "Be careful how you touch her/she'll awaken/sleep's the only freedom (oh) that she knows". I wrote this after a day of drug-induced sleep which is the only treatment for the vertigo which plagues me.

The drug sleep

The drug sleep is a dreamless sleep
It is a heavy lead blanket that does not heal
but instead, it merely suffocates
and whatever can withstand the suffocation
will survive
It does not heal
I repeat
It does not heal
instead
it offers solace
to make suffering easier
but there is no comfort
and there is no way out
there is just this thick
miasma
of sleep
without dreams
a sinking into an abyss
without dreams
a drowning in silence
without dreams
I'd rather swirl in
vertigo's vortex
than be rendered dreamless

No Means No

No meant No

I told him I had to have it
He told me no
I told him that I needed it
He told me no
I would have done anything for a yes
I needed him to give me a yes
I became desperate for his yes
But he told me no
I began measuring our relationship
by the yardstick of his no
I doubted myself
I cooked his favorite dish
I perfumed the right spots
I made myself the absolute incarnation
of his every fantasy
And yet, he told me no
Was I not pretty anymore?
Did he not love me anymore?
Had I done something wrong?
What was this No?
I panicked and feared that I
might have to use force
I would MAKE his No into a Yes!
I have ways of making a No a Yes!
I feared that I would need the big guns
of tears and irresistible seduction
because I had to have it!
He stepped across the threshold
Concern etched across his forehead
I prepared the teary eyed greeting
(Just in case it worked this time)
He looked into my red eyes
Frowned a little
and spoke to me
"I know you need and want this from me
and I know that you know that I love you
but, baby, my answer is still no.
I will not do this. We always said
that No would mean No, right?"
I nodded my yes.
"Okay then. As much as I want to say
yes to your every request...
and you do look fetching
in your special request dress...
and you smell even more delicious
than the meal on the table - but
No still means no."
I accepted his No.
It was our arrangement to accept
that No meant No
regardless of who said it.
No does not demand explanation
although it appreciates it
No meant no
So, I had to buy my own feminine products
Because he clearly,
emphatically,
unwaveringly
said...No,
I will not buy those items
Not even for you!
It is not a measure of my love for you
It is simply my own personal limit
and baby,
No means No!

learn to love poem

It's a draft...publishing pushes me to keep working on it...

I want to learn to love you

I have spent my whole life
trying to love people
who let me love them
wrongly

Now, I want to love
rightly
But I wonder
if anyone knows
what that looks like
in real life

What does it mean to you
to be loved
is it security
is it love languages
is it quantifiable in data
like ones and zeroes
or is it messy
like real life

maybe I won't know it's love
until I know what it's not
but
I need you to teach me
so I can love you
Rightly

I want to learn
to love you
rightly

Advent-ageous Prayer (Malachi 3:1-4)

Today, Malachi 3:1-4 has me thinking about what it means to be cleansed and purified. First, it means that the Refiner can see the dirt that is embedded within my person. These are not necessarily defects, but rather impurities that have become a part of me because I was not careful or because I wrongly assumed that I could get close to them and be immune to their effects or worse yet, because I thought that I might play in a strange sandbox and later just wash away the sand but anyone who has ever tried to get sand out of a black girl's hair knows that it is an arduous process that requires expert cleaning and sometimes means a few grains of sand may stay lodged in the natural kinks and curls of the hair for a while. I was thinking about the refiner's fire and since the closest I've ever come to that kind of fire was in the kitchen when I've cooked with wine and waited for the heat to burn off the unnecessary alcohol, I had to take a minute to really think about that process.

This is not just an external cleansing of surface dirt. The refiner's fire melts the gold or silver, changing, but not harming, its physical state for the moment while impurities rise to the surface and are skimmed off by the refiner. This is not a microwave process. This process takes time and the gold and silver must yield fully to the process. This made me wonder if I have come to the refiner's fire repeatedly with newly washed, sand-free hair, clean ears and fingernails, a freshly scrubbed face and the nerve to give up my turn in line because I feel clean enough to make it just one more day. Have I come to the refiner's fire after taking a bath and merely left the refinery in the emperor's new clothes - still having internalized the real dirt and grime that only the fire can burn off? I wonder if I have yielded to the refiner's fire and the Refiner's touch or if I just yelled, "It's too hot! I'm melting! Please stop!!" Hmm...

Dear God,
Please melt me today and cleanse me of the impurities that have become so familiar that I no longer see them for the dirt that they are. Today, I offer myself to you in the hope that I will be made ready for your return. Today, I ask you to cleanse me so that I might go into the valleys and fill them with the hope of your return. As liquid takes the shape of its container, allow me to flow into low places, bringing hope and peace and joy. Today I am yielding my ears and my heart to hear your clear call to repentance. Today, I will wait while You pin my impurities to an old rugged cross and instead of leaving the refinery in the arrogant delusion of wearing the emperor's new clothes, I leave in a reversible robe of righteousness - white on the inside, camel hair on the outside. This is my Advent-ageous prayer for today.

Amen

I am not the Grinch who stole Christmas

Every year around this time, someone inevitably refers to me as the Grinch. Why, you ask? Largely because I do not enjoy the "holiday season" like most people do. I like watching people get excited about decorating their homes with lights, lawn ornaments, bows, and shiny paper. I like seeing new babies drowning in those big red hats with the white fur trim. I like seeing the family portraits with the holiday background and if you send me one, I will put it on display in my living room. If that makes you happy and does not harm anyone in the process, then deck the halls and fa la la all you want, but please do not be offended when I am not inclined to follow suit.

As a child, I was never as interested in a tree and the boxes beneath it (like I didn't know that the biggest ones had underwear, tights, turtlenecks and socks? Santa my eye!) as I was in the story of the baby in the manger. My mother tells the story of how she was physically ill when she found out that there was no Santa. We don't share that experience. I'm not sure if I ever believed in Santa but it was not because my parents didn't try. I enjoyed the cartoons that meant Christmas was on the way and would fight you if you got in the way of Rudolph's Shiny New Year or The Year Without A Santa Claus! Okay, I digress...

Christmas has always been a lovely time of waiting for Mary's baby to be born. I always wondered why we had Christmas pageants and parties but never threw Mary a baby shower. I felt like we should have helped her get ready for the baby because that's what we do when a baby is coming into the world. She was married but she was still a teenager. And she sang that really cool song, the Magnificat (the one she learned from the liturgy of mothers who came before her...so...umm...where is the legacy of the women in this story?) Were the same angels we heard on high her midwives? Who caught Jesus as he came through the birth canal? No one ever answered those questions and no one seems to want to ask them but I've held them since childhood. So, I'll beg your forgiveness if I'm not singing and swinging and getting merry like Christmas as Mother Maya says. I'm waiting to see how the story turns out. I like Advent's call to quiet reflection and delicate anticipation. There are some parts of the story that I need to carefully consider because we may not see these scriptures in the Christian worship schedule until next year this time. Mary has all three trimesters in the course of four weeks! And then there's the thought of a pregnant teenager...umm...I'm a mother and teacher of teenage girls...I need a moment here. I want to hug Mary and protect her as the elder women are supposed to do. I want her to know that there is truth in the angel's proclamation that she is blessed and highly favored. But that as the bearer of the Word, I need her testimony. I need Mary to be okay. I need Mary to know that she is my model for what a woman in ministry looks like. She is the bearer of the WORD. That word will speak long after lights blow out and tinsel loses its shine.

So, if you don't mind, I'd like to think on these things. I'll sip egg nog if you invite me but you won't find a tree in front of my fireplace. I'll sing a carol or two if you ask me to join in with your reindeer games but as for me and my house, we are waiting for our turn to hold the baby. The stores will be open after December 25th and the sales will be better. So, you see, I'm not the Grinch who stole Christmas. I'm the woman who is keeping watch over Mary until she delivers the baby who delivered me!

Shalom!

Calling Audibles

Calling Audibles

I did not know her, but I cried and grieved (and still cry and continue to grieve) for Kassandra Perkins. Out of the depths of an understanding of depression and the firsthand knowlege of suicidal tendencies, I also weep for Javon Belcher. This morning, I wonder how it is that an organization like the NFL can provide top notch physical care and in some cases, rehabilitation for these athletes and leave their minds unattended...or so it seems. Many of these athletes are "far from home" in a lot of ways and we certainly have not learned (or taught ourselves) how to live with the trappings of new wealth yet. Who preps the players for life beyond the field and who watches to see if they are playing by the rules off of the field. I mean, if you need a referee to remind you of the rules of a game that you play for a living, then might it also make sense that you'll also need a referee to keep you in line in real life as well? I wonder if any of these athletes have been coached in the fine art of living or if they are left to be seduced by all of the demons that money can buy as long as they don't drop the ball...literally. When the players are at the line of scrimmage, there is a term called an "audible" which means that someone changes the play - out loud, or audibly - and then, all will act according to what they hear. Is there no one to hear the audibles that are being called off the field as well? I can only wonder because I may never know.

This post is not bashing the organization, nor is it intended to place undue blame on anyone or any set of circumstances. I am just asking questions. Had Kassandra called any audibles that fell on deaf ears? All we know of the story is what we were told and as long as victims of domestic violence contine to be afraid to call audibles because they go unheard or unheeded, all we will hear are the obituaries of the victims at teary eyed funerals and memorial services. I will say more on domestic violence later in the week as I work out the kinks in my own story but I pray that we will both continue to call the audibles and hear the ones being called.

Maybe that wasn't just an awkward nod.
Maybe it was an audible.
Maybe that wasn't just a tight hug.
Maybe it was an audible.
Maybe that wasn't just a strained smile.
Maybe it was an audible.
Maybe she didn't really bump into the door...again.
Maybe it was an audible.
Maybe that pet name isn't just a sweet pet name.
Maybe it's an audible.
Maybe those grits on the stove are not breakfast.
Maybe it's an audible.
Maybe it wasn't a double homicide/suicide.
Maybe, it was an audible.


Shalom...

Advent and World AIDS Day - thoughts

Advent is a season of waiting for what we think we know and still maintaining an element of surprise and relief when it arrives. Those of us who work out our faith in the shadow of the resurrection have it pretty easy. We have a written record of this beautiful story of a God who puts on flesh as an act of love and then lets soldiers rip the wrapping at the crucifixion. Our waiting is tempered by a kind of knowing that sometimes gets in the way. It's not hard to wait for the gift that you know is coming...especially when all of our Christian rituals remind us that the One shows up year after year - whether there is a live baby or a chubby cheeked plastic doll in the manger scene in the annual Christmas pageant. We do all of our shopping and prepping because we know that there is a deadline on our calendar that reminds us that what we have waited for is surely going to appear. I wonder how our lives would change if we lived as those who can only wait with the hope that someday, the Messiah will come and save them...from Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.

Today is World AIDS day. I don't know anyone whose life has not been touched by the ravages of this disease...if only tangentially. Today, I pray with those who are waiting for a Savior to make them well. Those who suffer with AIDS know what it is to wait for something (the cure) that seems possible yet proves impossible in it's failure to appear. It's hard to believe that there isn't enough brain power to find a cure. It's hard to believe that there isn't enough money being poured into research to find a cure. It is hard to believe that no one is angry enough to demand that our government agencies check their/our priorities and find ways to put the quality of human lives ahead of egocentric pissing games. (I'll stop here because I feel a rant coming on and that's not my intent today.) I'm simply saying that in a world of inventions, conventions and small God-made-but-man-attributed-miracles...it seems like there just has to be a cure for the disease or at least some cure for the apathy that some of us show towards those who suffer. This is not the more excellent way.

There is a quote on the AIDS quilt that reads, "We're both dying, you and me. The difference is that I know it, and you don't." As I wait for the Savior to be born in a manger yet again, I also wait for a well-equipped world to find a cure for AIDS. I pray for my own heart to be mindful that no one dies from AIDS. People who have AIDS die from the same things that people who don't have AIDS die from...they just die sooner. I pray that I would put the need for human healing in a position to eradicate my need to judge, pre-suppose and feel superior because this physical suffering is not my particular physical suffering. I pray that as we enter this season of anticipation and waiting for the One who was, and is, and is to come that we would remember those who wait...for a cure and perhaps this year, we might offer them our space in line as we wait...

Shalom