Take This Cup

April 22, 2009

This is another in the "Dirty Jesus" series. The opening scene of The Passion of the Christ helped visually. We need to remember that Jesus the man did not want to go to the cross. This was his struggle in the garden. No man wants to endure that kind of torture. It was "God in Christ reconciling the world to himself." (II Corinthians 5:19) "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son." (John 3:16) Our Father in heaven loves us and our sin required a sacrifice. The Christ, the Lamb of God, provided that sacrifice not because "Jesus loves us", but because he was obedient to the Father. "For as by one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous." (Romans 5:19)


Take This Cup

…and then you went a little way
into the garden to pray.

I'm sure your students tried
to pray. It's hard work;
they just had a big supper.

But you have big plans on your mind.
God's plan. Not your plan.
Not your will. His.

You are the Father.
You can make another way.
               ("I am
               the way.”)
There has to be
another way.
Where's the ram in the bush?
Your will be done…
in earth…
No!
Let it pass from me.
Please…
make another way.

Falling on your face,
the stench of damp
soil in your nostrils.
Clenching the dirt with white knuckled fists;
force of your fists pounding the pebbles.
Forcing air out of your lungs
toward the darkened heavens.
Sweat pours from dusty pores.
Stinging sweat mingles
with blinding tears;
together flowing
through the dust of the day
forming paths of mud on your cheeks.
Soaked and tangled hair lashes at your brow.
Skin taut against tightened flesh.
Breath. Breathing. Breathe.
Heart beating so fast it
seems to stop
pumping so hard. Too hard.
Blood oozes from sweaty pores.
Great droplets
drip
drop to the dirt.

The angel appears.
Not my will.
Thy will be done.

Take the cup.

Of Priests and Prostitutes

April 2, 2009

My wife Lynn gave out several exclamations as she read this for the first time. I suppose it does border on the "R" rating. But how often do we sanitize the scriptures to fit our Sunday school view. God became flesh and dwelt among us. US. It's not always very pretty "among us". Stuff happens in the "flesh". But Jesus endured. He resisted temptation. And he was victorious. Jesus can sympathize with us. "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Hebrews 4:15, ESV)

I have combined two separate incidents from the life of Jesus; two different women with similar issues. If you have a problem reading this type of material, please do not read the Song of Solomon. I read this book of the Bible for the first time as a single man in the U.S. Navy. It made me blush.


Of Priests and Prostitutes

Thrown down into the dust,
her tunic torn exposing silky thighs
that beg to be touched,
revealing full breasts glistening with sweat,
a glimpse of a nipple.
                         (Come on. You know you want to look.)
Reviewed by the local Sanhedrin,
                         (Are those names being written in the sand?)
they require judgement.
The scent of her lovers still clings to her loins
and rocks are poised
             to pounce,
             to pummel,
             to purge her
sin, their guilt.
Looking past the passion,
the verdict is pronounced.
All are guilty,
one is forgiven.

As evening wraps its arms around the city;
as the sun caresses and deeply kisses the horizon,
she comes to you.
She has nothing to offer you, save herself.
So she kneels before you.
Hot tears spill from her eyes,
moisten your feet.
She lets down her hair,
stroking
your feet
with her thick tresses,
washing away the dust of the day.
Sobbing.
Bending.
Cleavage bared.
Heaving before you.
Were it anyone else…
And we know you were a man.
You were circumcised—
all the parts were evident
or someone would have said something.

They need not indignantly ask.
You both know
who you are touching.

Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

March 30, 2009

I suppose this could be categorized as an Easter poem. It takes place the day of the Last Supper. This is another piece that I want to include in my series concerning God getting dirty. The original inspiration came from one of our pastor's sermons (Cal Woods, Pointe North Community Church, Moncks Corner, SC) in which he related an experience in which he stepped in dog doo and tracked it into a church conference room.


Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

I jump out of the boat
and into the muddy water.
Dragging the boat to shore
silt and sand slide under my feet
and through my toes.
It has been a good day for fishing.
Hauling basket after basket
of flopping fish flinging
water and scales,
I think of the Passover meal
to be shared with the Master this night.

But the nets, dripping with kelp and fish crap,
need to be tended. Sand gnats
nip at my ankles as I hurriedly finish my tasks.
Running up the bank,
wet sand from my sandals
splat my calves. Rushing through
the pasture, tall field grasses slap my shins,
leaving their seed clinging to the sweat,
hiding in the hairs of my legs.

I push through the crowded market
of the multitudes making last minute
preparations for Passover.
The streets are covered
with discarded rotted figs and grapes
mingling with the dust of ages and
the urine of goats and dogs and sheep.
Heedless of where I place my steps,
I almost fall
when my foot finds the fresh leavings
of a sheep.

Vaguely aware of the odor
from my freshly soiled sandal,
I enter the upper room
and partake of the supper
with my brethren and the Master.
And though I try to ignore it,
the trail of dust and dung
I have imprinted upon the floor behind me
is evident to all.

Then,
at the end of the meal
after the bread has been broken
and the wine has been shared,
the Master girds himself with a towel
and washes our feet.

Gettin' His Hands Dirty From the Start

(March 10, 2009)

I was really tired that night. Really tried to sleep. I was already in bed when a line for another poem I was working on came to me; so, I had to write it before I lost it. Then another thought for another poem (I had notes for 2 or 3 in progress). I brought the flashlight into the bedroom so I wouldn't disturb Lynn. I really wanted to sleep, but if the inspiration kept coming I wanted to be prepared. Yet, I really wanted to sleep. This was merely part of a list of poems I would like to write exploring the divininty within humanity in the form of Christ or more precisely that God ain't afraid of getting dirty. I only slept for 3 hours that night.


Gettin' His Hands Dirty From the Start

I was out in the field the other day
just lookin' things over—
it was such a nice day and all.
I was just kickin' dirt clods,
when I came across one
kind of looked like my Grandpa Massey.
And lookin' at that clod of dirt,
               that looked like Grandpa,
got me thinkin'
about something I read in the Bible.

And in the beginning
there wasn't much of nothing.
So God made something,
and comparatively speaking,
it was kind of messy.

And the angels stood back,
amazed and afraid,
as God rolled up his sleeves
and stuck his hands elbow deep
in the mud.

Now to you and me
this mud was about as clean
as any mud can get.
After all, it's God-made mud.

But to God, who ain't had dirt
tracked into his kingdom for ever
('cept for maybe that Satan fellow),
mud is mud.

But he done it any way.
And by the time He was done
moldin' and pattin' and shapin'
this stuff,
He had done made a man.

Well, He wasn't quite done yet.
The fellow wasn't quite alive.
So what does God do?
Now at this point,
when the angels see God
start to do what He's about to do,
the angels gasp
(that's right—gasp)
'cause God begins to give
mouth-to-mouth to this mud-man.

And lo and behold,
the guy starts to breathe.
And to walk and to talk.
And he names all the animals
and tends to this garden God made.
And then he ends up
doing something stupid later on
that gets him kicked out of this nice place
to places where he has to break up clods of dirt.

But God really took a shine
to this guy anyway.
And the angels are still amazed
at how much God cares
about these walking clumps of dirt.

Me.
I kicked the clod that looked like Grandpa.

Simply Divine

(June 18, 2004)
This poem will probably cause some uproar among "religious" people. I mean no disrespect. It was written with great reverence. The intent is to show the utter earthiness, the dirt and stink and human manure, in which God put Himself.


Wiping his ass with his left hand
leaving the predetermined area
away from the community;
wandering among the throngs who had come
for God knows what;
inhaling the tangy salt of sweat,
his own and that of the multitude,
mingled with sea air;
exhaling three decades of breath coated with
wine and fish, milk and honey,
devoid of Listerine™;
scratching an itch in an encrusted right nostril;
ignoring the gnawings of his own belly;
lifting dusty heels and dirty toenails up a hill
to offer thanks and break bread and fish
with both hands.