The Skylight is Falling, The Skylight is Falling.

There’s a hole in our roof. More like an aperture. In the middle of our kitchen is a skylight…an upside down crater in the ceiling. The window has fallen into disrepair, and every time I look up I see not only natural light, but mold, bubbled paint, and another opportunity to procrastinate.

So, last night, after a long and arduous day helping the heavy-set, white haired, red dressed icon from the north, I went “up on the roof” (Do you hear the song in your head? Youtube the Drifters.)

There is a big difference between channeled light and being out in the light. I was no longer simply looking through the skylight, but under the great big sky. The sun had run off to illumine another side of the earth, and I stood above the skylight and cricked my neck. I heard the melancholy moan of a train, and a drone of a plane. Clouds sporadically tip-toed by. Stars twinked at me in the gaps.

I sat for a moment.

“When this old world starts a getting you down…” (Cue the Drifters)

Well, yes and no. If the newsfeed spoon-feeds my anxious thoughts, rather than summons compassion and prayers, I get more “down.”  Just what are we to do with all this inflowmation? Then I thought of the skylight.

God is in charge of the satellite-skies as Mark Heard describes them. The square of sunshine graced to us is our piece of presence. Our little light, you know, the one that we’re gonna shine, is like the holey roof, the aperture which God’s great light can focus on a dark portion of this world.

Is there a possibility we all might be skylights? Sure, many, like mine, are in need of some repair, but hey, light still shines through. It shines in place, my place in the world.

“I am the light of the world.” Jesus

Prayer: Lord Jesus, help me today to be a little light in the dark places. Shine through me. Amen

By the way, the skylight is not falling, it is filling. Filling you to spill light on your place in the world.

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Look Both Ways, But By All Means, Look.

No parent wants their child

to play in traffic.

This parent didn’t know

so many children are the traffic.

Women and children

jammed in a highway of hell.

 

The wheels of hollow men merge,

spinning faster in banal queues.

Oppressor and oppressed

become shells, abandoned cars.

No body wins.

 

It is a thoroughfare of despair

as booths collect their tolls

for a way that leads to death.

Sex in a six lane slab

stalled and overheated.

 

Victims lay on their horns

which only whimper

while men keep

checking under the hood.

 

 

Oh my God,

what have we done?

When did humans

become traffic?

 

Last night I attended the above event. But I was broken once again over our humanity. At one point the hope in this seemingly hopeless pang was broadcast and historic names were dropped…Moses, Abraham Lincoln, William Wilberforce, Martin Luther King. All were men of prayer and placed their hope in God. As people of faith we can put dents in this. Let us continue to hope in God and become vehicles of hope for the oppressed. Thank you Lindsey for passion that grew into compassion that grew into action. My prayer is that it is highly contagious.

These are the last four lines of T.S.Elloit’s The Hollow Men

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

To which I say…It doesn’t have to end this way.
“The Spirit of the Lord God is upon Me, because the Lord has anointed Me to preach good tidings to the poor; he has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn, to console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” Isaiah 61:1-3a

 

Mercy Morning; Fresh Light

Caps of cumulus grab the first light

and float like golden vanilla scoops.

Blue grey fitted sheets crawl

beneath the infusion of pastels.

The sun brush strokes a new day.

 

When I close my eyes the leaves,

combed with cooler breezes,

mimic waves from Lake Michigan.

The blue noise settles my soul

and I receive this gift of Another.

 

*

 

“Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,

because His compassions fail not.

They are new every morning;

Great is Your faithfulness.

‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul,

‘Therefore I hope in Him!’”

Lamentations 3:22-24 The New King James Bible

 

 

 

 

Cruci-fiction?

Would I touch the open wounds of Jesus

if he were to stand in the lonely places

of my heart?

Would I dare thrust my hand into his

side like a spear?

Would I gently place my fingers

in the palms of his hands?

There are places where crucifixion

wasn’t fiction at all.

The suffering of the cross cascaded

down through history,

it being the pinnacle of paradox.

The place where love and hate intersect.

So now we sometimes use innocent

suffering and death as a crucible

of the non-fiction Christ.

We read history books to numb any

existential wandering in our own

back yard.

There are crucified hearts laying,

one by one, without a beat,

hoping loosely for a resurrecting

touch, look, hug.

Will I look at the whole worlds suffering

and lose their own soul?

I don’t want Your death to be in vain

when there are opportunities to

touch the open wounds of those

near by.