Blackened Friday

The year’s end is growing

nearer than near,

as the retailers succumb

to their one greatest fear:

What will happen

if, dreadest of dread,

our columns of numbers

end the year in bright red?

If projections we made

for how business will grow

turn out to be bogus,

where will we go?

If the limits on spending

hold out through and through,

how can we continue?

What will we do?

The craftiest marketers

have developed a game;

it’s quite unimaginative:

More of the Same.

More stuff in the aisles,

more ads on the air,

more hours to open,

frenzy everywhere!

Open the stores

earlier than early;

create mob mentality,

customers quite surly.

Forget about families,

make employees show up.

Turn a profit with volume,

while the turkey throws up.

Hijacking Thanksgiving;

on the profits we’re betting.

We’ll rename the holiday:

Have a prosperous Thanksgetting!

Remember “Good Friday”

preceding resurrection?

This one’s the opposite:

Blackened Shopping Insurrection.

What can we do?

What’s our reaction?

What gift does love bring  

in our speech and action?

How ‘bout we let grace

flow wild and free

onto retail employees

we know and see,

making tangible acts

of thanks and giving

to brighten their day,

with our words and our living?

If you go out on Friday,

make your purpose clear:

you’re there not to buy,

but to spread peace and cheer.

And if you stay home

with family and friends,

find a retail employee,

and give hope to their kin.

© 2015 Todd Jenkins

Beginning of Advent

'Twas the beginning of Advent and all through the Church

our hope was dying — we'd given up on the search.

It wasn't so much that Christ wasn't invited,

but after 2,000-plus years we were no longer excited.

Oh, we knew what was coming — no doubt about that.

And that was the trouble — it was all "old hat."

November brought the first of an unending series of pains

with carefully orchestrated advertising campaigns.

There were gadgets and dolls and all sorts of toys;

enough to seduce the most devout girls and boys.

Unfortunately, it seemed, no one was completely exempt

from this seasonal virus that did all of us tempt.

The priests and prophets and certainly the kings

were all so consumed with the desire for "things!"

It was rare, if at all, that you'd hear of the reason

for the origin and meaning of this holy-day season.

A baby, it seems, once had been born

in the mid-east somewhere – the first holy-day morn.

But what does that mean for folks like us,

who've lost ourselves in the hoopla and fuss?

Can we re-learn the art of wondering and waiting,

of hoping and praying, and anticipating?

Can we let go of all the things and the stuff?

Can we open our hands and our hearts long enough?

Can we open our eyes and open our ears?

Can we find him again after all of these years?

Will this year be different from all the rest?

Will we be able to offer him all of our best?

So many questions, unanswered thus far,

as wise ones seeking the home of the star.

Where do we begin-- how do we start

to make for the child a place in our heart?

Perhaps we begin by letting go

of our limits on hope, and of the things that we know.

Let go of the shopping, of the chaos and fuss;

let go of the searching, let Christmas find us.

We open our hearts, our hands and our eyes,

to see the king coming in our own neighbors' cries.

We look without seeking what we think we've earned,

but rather we're looking for relationships spurned.

With him he brings wholeness and newness of life

for brother and sister, for husband and wife.

The Christ-child comes not by our skill,

but rather he comes by the Creator’s will.

We can't make him come with parties and bright trees,

but only by getting down on our knees.

He'll come if we wait amidst our affliction,

Coming in spite of, and not by our restriction.

His coming will happen-- of this there's no doubt.

The question is whether we'll be in or out.

"Behold, I stand at the door and knock."

Do you have the courage to peer through the lock?

A basket on your porch, a child in your reach.

a baby to love, to feed and to teach.

He'll grow in wisdom as God's only Son.

How far will we follow this radical one?

He'll lead us to challenge the way that things are.

He'll lead us to follow a single bright star.

But that will come later if we're still around.

The question for now: Is the child to be found?

Can we block out commercials, the hype and the malls?

Can we find solitude in our holy halls?

Can we find hope, keep alert, stay awake?

Can we receive the child for ours and God's sake?

From on high with the caroling host as he sees us,

He yearns to read on our lips the prayer: Come Lord Jesus!

As Advent begins, all these questions make plea.

The only true answer: We will see, we will see.

©  1994 Todd Jenkins

Between Breaths

Photo by Linda M. Patrick

“God is in the vowels.” he said.

Words are formed in a mash-up

between the hardness of consonants

and the airiness of vowels,

but it is the self of God who resides

in our own inspiration and expiration –

the very act of our breathing.

This truth is born out

in the Hebrews’ name for the divine:

four of the softest consonants –

Y-H-W-H – and a sacred refusal

to inscribe the vowels.

Maybe the vowels don’t need

writing or even pronouncing

because the self of God is so soft,

so tender, even in its consonants.

Then he said, “I read somewhere

that God is not just in ‘breath’

but is also in the pauses

between breaths (the psalmist’s selah)

which, the writer said,

is the most peaceful part

of breathing – the pause.”

Whenever I consider the pauses

between breaths, my heart always

replays my mother’s last day.

A frontal lobe brain tumor

was pushing life out of her body,

and we sat by, watching, waiting.

Near the end, her breaths

became more shallow,

less frequent, more desperate;

until they were startling gasps,

so far apart, I thought many

of them were her last.

And then, another one

would erupt into the silence.

Between the breaths,

I prayed conflicted prayers,

not sure my heart could take

the explosive agony

of another one, yet begging

for there to be just one more.

In that place and time,

I struggled for my own breath.

I don’t know what your breathing

is like or whether you’re wondering

if God is in it, or even in anything;

but I can tell you that,

twenty-nine years after I found

myself trapped between the breaths,

I still find grace between them,

even after them.  

Some days, I feel myself

breathing for you.

Other days, I know you

must be breathing for me,

because it’s the only way

I could have possibly made it.

I don’t always feel God

between the breaths

with my skin, but

my heart knows,

and when it gets darkest,

it sings to me.

My prayer for you is that,

when the lights go out,

you hear a heart’s song –

yours, mine, or someone else’s.

© 2015 Todd Jenkins

Box

      Very few things

      actually fit in one.

      The ones that do

      are usually quite simple.

   Trying to stuff larger,

   more complicated things,

   like people and relationships –

   both interpersonal

   and community/social –

   into boxes seldom turns out well,

   either for the stuffer

   or the stuffee.

Save the box

for the end of life.

We'll all breathe easier

if you do.

© 2015 Todd Jenkins

Eternity

Sometimes I wonder

   if a big part of hell

      isn't getting exactly

         what we want,

      and being stuck

   with precisely the God

for which we've settled;

to be securely locked away

   from all who bear differences

      of origin or opinion,

         of appearance or circumstance;

to be covered up

   and weighed down

      by all the stuff

         we've gated, hoarded,

      and even learned to worship;

to be unable to fully

   let go to grace,

      always subject to a deity

         who rewards obedience

      and punishes transgression,

never quite knowing

   how much good is enough or

      how much bad is too much.

If we're already neck-deep

   in this kind of zombie-life now,

      imagine how painful it will be

         to choose the same path for infinity.

On the other hand,

   there's always mystery;

      changing, growing,

         shifting, surprising, surrendering.

      Where are you on the journey?

© 2015 Todd Jenkins

Holding On

Photo by Lee Lindsey McKinney

Fear took its best shot –

though it feels like its worst –

bombing, shooting, death-dealing

in dramatic fashion, driven

by forces beyond our comprehension.

Loss of life was intended

to be but the beginning.

The collateral affects are

an equally important objective:

difference, division;

all colluding to pull us

into hate's vortex,

shrinking us into "others"

equally bent on violent retribution.

Vengeance, as penultimate

exercise of power allowing fear

to set aside all meaningful similarities

and connections in order

to somehow even the score,

cannot and will not bring about

its own demise.

By its very nature, war ensures

both victor and vanquished

have the seed of violence

buried in their gut, and no amount

of neglect or freezing cold

or searing heat or negotiated armistice

will prevent its growth.

Our only hope is to crawl back

to the road leading

to a place called Healing;

an honest road of plowing

war's field until we reach

the deepest pain and then

begin the convalescent process,

rejecting escalation, trading

armistice's awkward pause

for peace in a deeper groove,

reconnecting human to human,

yielding to a love that listens,

clinging to a hope reminding us

we have to find a way

to keep ourselves in this together,

or we will find ourselves

out of it, apart.

© 2015 Todd Jenkins

Elevens

      Gratitude for service rendered

      is such an inadequate expression

      for all whose labors

      define the "V" in this day.

   To interrupt, if not wreck,

   your life with training

   for defending to the death

   is not a function easily disabled

   at the end of the day.

The moral injury of violence

so easily seeps into the marrow,

rendering life a volatile non sequitur;

exacerbating our lack of political

and cultural courage

in facing this requiem.

Let us dare to cease

our hiding behind the flag,

pledging, instead, adequate resources

for the amelioration

of battle's emotional carnage.

   Let us not merely put

   our money where our mouth is,

   but move it to the place

   where our heart beats.

      Let us risk speaking against war

      precisely because we are

      advocates for our veterans.

© 2015 Todd Jenkins

Remembered

Photo by Lee Lindsey McKinney

 In its snatching,

death believes it has

committed the ultimate theft;

believes the ache

of flesh-and-blood absence

is sufficient to tear

our faith asunder.

There are days when we would

halfheartedly agree,

because half a heart

is all we seem to have left.

Then it happens; someone else

remembers a time gone by

when the one we love spoke or

acted with grace beyond measure.

The memory is recounted to us,

and in its retelling,

a flickering candle

lights the darkness;

not totally and not for good,

but enough for us

to also remember

the love that has and

still does always surround us.

And in the moment

of that shared memory,

we know we are not alone;

we know love cannot be

taken away from us;

we understand hope

as a star refusing

to give-in to night,

no matter how cold

and dark it seems.

Today is the best day

to share that story.

Go ahead.

The stars are already

rising in the twilight.

© 2015 Todd Jenkins

Tumble

Early one morning,

as I poured my coffee,

I glanced out the kitchen window

at the oak tree by the shop

to see a crispy brown leaf

spring from its limb,

   gracefully tumbling down

   the shingled roof, surely executing

   masterful gymnastics moves,

   twisting, turning in mid-air

   with perfect lift, finally dismounting,

      sticking the landing

      in the tall grass

      that awaits a final trim.

   The other leaves on the ground

   spontaneously started a wave. 

   Those still in the trees lithely clapped

   their affirmation, patiently waiting

   on the next brave soul to let go.

Thus the wind directs a hopeful show;

each participant scored

on the scale of grace.

   Who am I that I am afraid

   of the Spirit's call to be blown

   into the dance that is

   the extraordinary routine

   of my life?

© 2015 Todd Jenkins

Rephidim

(Exodus 17:1-6)

Journey by stages through Sin;

  so decently and in order; 

    following the Lord's command 

      all the way to life-threatening thirst. 

Rephidim, meaning "spread" or "support" 

  but which looks for all the world 

    like "grave" or "hole of thirsty death."

      Whose direction is Moses following?

How dare you bring us out

  to this God-forsaken place 

    leaving us fully bereft of

      life's second basic necessity!

What “gift” do you have next?

  Is the very air we breathe 

    going to suddenly form a vacuum?

      At least that would be a quick death!

What kind of crazy God

  sends leaders following Moses 

    out to Horeb – “land of the dried up”?

      What sort of elders follow?

Let the redeemed of the Lord say, 

  “Our hope and support were dried up 

    between Rephidim and Horeb; 

      God intervened with shepherd's staff:

life-giving water flowed;

  new life out of rock as if 

    it had been waiting eons for

      one with audacity to strike!”

What's next? Life emerging from tombs?

  Forgiveness and future emerging 

    as a dove from under baptism's water?

      What kind of crazy God is this who turns

desert rocks into pools of water,

  tombs into celebrations of life,

    water into grace and forgiveness,

      Church into healing hope for the world?

© 2015 Todd Jenkins