David's Son.

Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.

For a long time--and by long, I refer to the large majority of my (albeit meager) lifespan--I never really cared that Jesus was David's son.

When people called Him the Son of God, now that was something. That was power and beauty and majesty.

David was a cool guy, sure enough. Man after God's heart, and all that. But in the light of God Himself, David was nothing--a broken, sinful wretch like the rest of us.

Why appeal to Jesus as the Son of Man when you can appeal to Him as the Son of God? It seemed to me, the Son of God would be much stronger to save.

But.

(It's funny how that word changes everything.)

One day I fell, in a way I had never fallen before. I felt the weight of dirt and blood settle on my struggling body and I knew it would crush me. I knew I would lose, and I did, and I lost again and again and I couldn't

look up

anymore. Shame, and fear, smothering me.

I couldn't look at God. I was so far away from holy.

That's when I understood that cry.

Jesus. Son of David. Son of Man. Son of a broken, sinful wretch like me. You who were born into this same mess of a world. You who bore the curse of your flesh and endured every temptation. You who dwelt among us. You who became us. You who understand weakness, who have experienced frailty. Please. 

Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.

Tidal Wave.

I glimpse their arms parting the sea with solid strokes before I slip back under, a half-gasped breath cradled in my starving lungs, and if I could keep my head above water for just a fraction longer, I might ask how it is they manage not to drown.

(I long ago lost strength to stay afloat.)

...

The world is large and full of shadows. I think the secret is (everyone knows but no one knows), we're all stumbling.

...

I once heard of a believer who built a boat, and though it rained for forty days and and forty nights, the flood could not touch him.

...

I once heard of a people who walked across the dry bed of a sea that was rolled back like a scroll, and made it to the other side.

...

I once heard of a prophet who was tossed into stormy waters, and a great fish swallowed him whole, and later spat him onto a safe shore. 

...

I once heard of a man who told the churning waves to be still, and they obeyed.

...

I once heard of a disciple who stepped on the water's swirling surface, and it held him like solid ground.

...

(I'm only trying to say, these oceans are as inevitable as they are impossible.

But even if we cannot swim, we have a God who can keep us from drowning.)

i hate everything

what if all we needed
was one day
to go absolutely
starkravingmad
knowing
at the end of that day
we would have
(undeserved)
their forgiveness
knowing
at the end of that day
we would
still
be loved

when did love become so weak

when did we learn 

to lock up

the passion when did 

we learn that we could 

never be both

we could never 

be honest if 

we wanted to be loved

For Years I Held the Bottle Upside-Down, but Every Last Drop was Gone.

You cry to me to haul up your rope, but I'm at the end of mine.

My fingernails scrape the bottom of the barrel, searching for something more to give. But all I find are dirt-stained hands.

---

Put your trust in me, and watch how we destroy each other.

(I am drowning, trying to save you.)

Place your hope in me, and we will die together.

(I will hold you close, I will pull you under.)

---

I met a Man and fell in love; His name was Water-Walker.
He told me not to be afraid; He said my name was Daughter. 

He told me things I'd never known; I knew His words were true.
He said He's searching every ocean, dear; He promised me He'd rescue you.

That Loud, Unholy Night.

It's a tradition I love. Every year, at Christmas Eve service, our congregation sings "Silent Night" as we pass the tiny flame from the candles cupped in our hands down the rows of pews lining our sanctuary. Once the room is filled with those warm, flickering heartbeats in the dark, we stand, file outside, and huddle together. All the while, singing,

Silent night, holy night;all is calm, all is bright. 

I adore the song. I truly do. But recently, in the midst of my recitation of the so-familiar tune, my Father reminded me that its lyrics, like so many of our other traditional Christmas imaginings (really now, a blonde baby Jesus?), are far from accurate.

The night was not silent. It was filled with the sounds of donkey-brays and lamb-bleats--with the piercing cries of a woman in labor--with the newborn wails of an infant come into the broken and screaming Earth.

The night was not holy. It was filled with the the violence of a world not yet redeemed--a night with no room for this child who would never know spot nor stain until the day He bore sins that were not His own--a night that within a few years would spark the slaughter of babes as a jealous king sought to destroy the only one who was ever good.

Jesus did not sleep in heavenly peace. He forsook heavenly peace, trading it for earthly sorrow, so that we, through the redemption of our souls and the indwelling of the Spirit (God with us), may know a peace from Heaven that none before us had ever experienced.

Jesus was not Lord at His birth. He gave up lordship to come as a servant. He came in complete submission to the will of His Father. He surrendered His authority, refusing to flee from death, refusing to call the angels to His aid--surrendering to the grave, to the curse of the mankind, to the Enemy--that He might gain the ultimate victory and offer all power and authority to us.

Yes, we know the ending to this story, and it is beautiful. But let us not water down its beginnings for nostalgia's sake. Let us not forget, Beloved, what our Savior endured for us. Let us never take His gift for granted--this dawn of redeeming grace.

Be a Pansy.

The December sun is warm on the backs of our necks as Grandma stoops down to pluck off a few wilted, purple blooms from the plant.

"You have to pick off the dead parts, or the whole plant will die," she explains. "It's called deadheading."

I tuck the information away, in the special portion of my mind I save for things I know will one day be important.

***

I often hear pansy used (and use it myself) as a name to denote weakness. But I've learned that pansies aren't really weak at all. They can bloom in any season, in almost every color. They're strong enough to survive through winter.

Maybe we should all try to be a little more like pansies. Rather than allowing the parts of our old nature to corrupt the new, we should pick off those dead pieces, as Jesus said:

If your hand or foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away (Matthew 18:8).

After all,

You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness (Ephesians 4:22-24).

Maybe we should learn to bloom in any season. Maybe we should learn to love our infinite varieties of color. Maybe we're strong enough to make it through the winter.

Maybe the next time someone calls you a pansy (...okay, well, it happens to me), instead of being offended, you should simply smile and say, "Thanks."

Maybe what the world calls weakness, is really a beautiful strength.

From the Belly of Hell Cried I.

I want to spew out curses honest as Peter's betrayal - overflow of this black-burnt heart spat through unclean lips - four-letter nails cutting holy flesh. Screaming

this body You gave,

why, oh Potter?

Screaming hatred at the malformed clay that cages my soul - screaming hatred at me - screaming hatred at You. Screaming

how long, how long, how long

I want to (oh God, I don't want to)

wallow in

my infantile selfishness,

my petulant greed,

my suffocating shame

my

I want to (oh God, I don't want to)

close my eyes against the tides

that always 

pull me back 

to the starting line

and (let me (please don't let me))

drown.

I had a dream

I spent everything I had, kicking out against thick waters. So close

to safety, my fingers clutching the dock's splintered edge. But

my arms were far too weak to carry my own weight. And

a creature, dark and hungry, was swimming up from the depths.

...

[Epilogue]
? ? later

When the morning came,

it came with sunlight

weeping mercy.