Epiph-anarchy; or, Strait Is the Gate, and Narrow Is the Way, Which Leadeth unto Life,

When you have been to see the Christ Child,
you nevermore can walk familiar paths—
those well-worn roads that wend to-ward Jerusalem.

What need of old paths anyway
after having laid down your wealth
cradleside of the newborn (no) king (but Christ)?

It is not true that all roads lead to Rome.
Some lead down to Egypt, others up to Golgotha.
Be not deceived by Herod or by Constantine—
even yet by Donald Trump.
For empire goes by many names,
but when it cannot co-opt
the gospel for its nationalism,
it cuts down innocents instead.

STFU; or, How to Be an Ally

The silence of Zechariah
makes space for

Elizabeth

to speak—

not that she needs

permission,

but that Zechariah

need not speak

and mansplain her own miracle

like Eli had once done to Hannah.

It is only after Elizabeth speaks

that Mary sings!

only after Elizabeth speaks

that let-it-be-with-me

becomes my-soul-magnifies!

Creatio ex Autos

For Ruth

I could invent 

a satisfying argument

about the Trinity and perichoresis

(swirling about in its holy dance)

or could build

a convincing thesis

out of the imago Dei

(how your creation reflects God)

but the simple truth

when I say,

God likes to spin

just like you,

my precious one,

is that

it is you

who leads me

in this holy dance,

and that

it is you

in whom I see

reflections of myself.

All my words

find new meaning when

I watch you spin

just like God Almighty,

who set the world in motion.

Flesh of My Flesh

God made a mudpie,

sealed it with a kiss

took out all the filling—

barbecued some ribs.

This Is the Bread Which the Lord Hath Given You to Eat; or, Part of This Nutritious Breakfast

Eat your Wheaties!

(Frosted Flakes)

Serving size:

enough today.

A Prophet Is Not without Honor but in His Own Country, and among His Own Kin, and in His Own House

Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, Year B

Son-of-Man deadnamed—
the carpenter, Mary's son—
they were offended.

You’re Welcome to Worship with Us on Sunday

“Leave her alone,” said Jesus. “Why are you bothering her?” —Mark 14:6a

The picnic seemed almost perfect
until a woman came in with her son—
two strangers, who had been sitting
out front of the church in the car
they had been living out of.
Like the woman with the alabaster jar,
she poured out the ointment
of her presence,
sharing hospitality
as she talked with us and
roasted hotdogs and marshmallows
and her son played with our own children.

The Closet

I want the church to be a place
where it’s the bigot
who hides in the closet.

I want the homophobe to be afraid
of being found out—
that they will be asked to step back
(or down)
from leadership,
or volunteering,
or going anywhere near the children
if they should happen to let it slip
that they believe that God does not affirm
all gender expressions and sexual identities.

I want those who hide behind hate
to absolutely cower
beneath the love of God
and love of neighbor.

I’m okay with those ones feeling
unwelcome
and uncomfortable—
the way they have made
(and continue to make)
the marginalized feel.

Let the queers and commies fill the pews!
And just let those bigots try to pass.

It’s them I want
trapped in the closet
(amid the skeletons and monsters)
to learn how it feels to be ashamed.

I want the church to become a place
with empty closets.

Who Are You Wearing?

It’s fashion week in Jerusalem.
Behold! Your king is coming to you
riding down the catwalk.
The people spread their garments in his path:
   Who are you wearing?
   Who are you wearing?
   Hosanna in the highest!

Costume change.
They lead him down the catwalk
(carpeted in red by his spilt blood)
dressed in purple robe
and crown of thorns,
and then once more in his own attire.
See now! Buy now!
The guards cast lots
to auction off his clothes,
Strike a pose!

One more time,
he changes clothes—
this time for a linen cloth.

O Christ!
you fashion grace
and clothe us in your righteousness.
May we model love
as you once did.

Sludge (October 11, 2000)

Shit rolls downhill
they say—
but so does sludge.
The byproducts of extraction
are not only sludge,
but exploitation and impoverishment,
despoilment and pollution.

Let us confess
that we have been complicit,
extracting converts
and denominational strength—
this land as rich,
it seems,
in souls
as it is in coal.
Our proclamation of the gospel
nothing more than
streams of poisoned water.