Church

Church of the Spilled Blood
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Photo by Ashley Goad

I cannot and will not

be church unless I

first see church.

   No one will know church

   until we learn how

   to show church.

      We cannot have church

      as noun until we have

      been church as verb.

         Church is not an act

         of gathering, but

         an impetus for sending.

It's not a people,

much less a steeple,

but a living,

breathing manifestation

of Christ in action. 

 © 2016 Todd Jenkins

Here

Photo by Anne Apple

We are here.

Wordless, 

empty handed, 

but here. 

Holding ohana tenderly, 
   in palms calloused 

      from trying too hard 

         to do the right thing,

      with syllables stretched too thin 
   from trying to speak comfort; 

         elbow-deep in the casseroles 

      of our compassion; 

   neck-deep in  the feebleness

of our words. 

Time passes, grief still crashes

   tsunami-like, crushing retaining walls 

      like empty beer cans; 

         taking out city blocks 

      of structured dreams, 

   leaving you breathless. 

We are here. 

Wordless, 

empty handed, 

but here. 

We'll camp with you 

   under a starry canopy; 

      listening to the stories 

         of dreams washed out to sea;

      help you dig 'til you find 

   something to stand on; 

      sit in your empty foundation 

         'til you're ready 

      to reconstruct hope above ground. 

We are here. 

Wordless, 

empty handed, 

but here. 

         We're here to be batteries 

      for your heartlamp, 

   when the Easter bulb 

      is ready to shine light

into darkness again. 

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Bubble

Do you remember

   the neighbor kid whose parents

      were paragons of hospitality,

   sincere and nice, and as compassionate

as anyone you knew;

yet the boy himself was

   an arrogant little snot,

      always condescending,

      forever reminding you

   that he might as well

have been royalty and,

if you knew what was good for you,

   you'd give him a wide berth,

   the best seat, and

first choice of popsicle flavors?

Some people are like that

   with their religion;

      externally pitying all who don't

   see, say, practice, and pray

the way they do;

but secretly both fearing

   and abhorring all who wear

the robe of "other",

because faith's genuine article

   has enough courage to carry

      a little doubt in its pocket

         and enough humility to hold

      all of creation in awe,

   but doctrine can't afford to drift

in the sea of such luxuries.

         Don't be that kid.

He grew up wasting all the grace

   his parents lavished on him,

      when he found out that

   everyone else was

just as special as he was.

The bursting of that bubble,

   over a long season of self-neglect,

   not only made him and his world angry,

it also nearly broke him.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Water

The water's keys

are persistence

and community.

A single drop,

once pounded onto a rock,

no matter how hard it falls,

makes no visible difference.

Gallon after gallon,

year after year,

however, cuts a canyon

deep and wide, more grand

than any hammer ever has.

Take your cue from the river:

be soft, be steady,

and stick together.

Love flows not

from the anxious or the angry,

but flows long and passionately

for those who fall together

instead of apart;

those whose gentleness

knows no end.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Keys

   Sodus Point, NY

We spend too much time

   imagining ourselves

      not only having the keys,

   but also deserving them;

      not just to the church building,

   but maybe even to the kingdom.

      And then we walk

into the gospel’s brick wall:

   the phone rings;

      it’s a friend of a friend

   who works in the court system.

The story: an infant in Foster Care

   has been placed on hospice care;

      both parents currently incarcerated.

      Would we host a one-time

   court-granted family visitation

      in the church building?

This is when you realize

that neither of the keys,

actual or metaphorical,

belongs to you; you're

merely borrowing them,

until someone else needs them.

   You realize that such acts,

      small and inconsequential

   as they may seem, are what

being church is all about.

And then you hear a voice:

“Your next step toward being church

is to figure out how to enter

these stories earlier.”

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Carbon Dust

Photo by Kendall Cox

"You are dust, 

and to dust 

you shall return." 

(Genesis 3:19c)     

Nearly thirty years ago,

I watched a teenage pyromaniac 

stare in awe 

at a marshmallow on a stick, 

held over the fire way too long, 

a smile spreading across his face. 

"Whoa, dude; 

totally carbonized!" 

            ******

   In loving reverence, 

   cremains of the dearly departed 

   are treated as sacred ashes, 

   in a beautiful urn 

   on the family room mantle 

   or in a personal prayer space 

   or scattered across 

   holy woods or water. 

We are stardust, 

we are golden, 

and we've got to get ourselves 

back to the garden.

(“Woodstock” by Joni Mitchell)

      Darkness reminds us 

      we're surrounded 

      by billions of stars. 

         We rarely think of them 

         during the light of day. 

         But they're there all along; 

         were there long before 

         the first strand of human DNA 

         sparkled on earth;

will be there long after 

the final helix ceases to exist; 

sending their light via 

speeds stretching comprehension; 

shooting, fizzling in a constant 

galactic fireworks of magnificence. 

   With or without combustion, 

   our carbon-based bodies, 

   once breath and heartbeat cease, 

   are composted back into the earth, 

   embalming fluid be-damned. 

      The Lenten question –  

      or the existential one –  

      is not if we'll flatline, 

      or even when, 

      but how much humus 

      we'll provide the world around us

      while we're still 

      on the green side of the grass. 

         It's not a question 

         of greatness, fame, or fortune, 

         or of pedigree, real estate, and portfolio.

   

It’s about passion and purpose; 

not whether we appear 

to be shooting stars, 

but how our candle casts light 

into the shadows 

of the neighborhood. 

"Keep open house;

be generous with your lives.

By opening up to others,

you’ll prompt people

to open up with God,

this generous Father in heaven."

(Matt 5:16 MSG)

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Question

Photo by Linda M. Patrick

Everyone has a question

that bubbles-up most;

one that matters;

quickening pulses,

spinning the planet.

         In the end –

         and the beginning

         and the middle –

         it turns out not to be

         where or when or

         what or how or why.

               The one that moves us

               is the only one that

               truly connects us:

                      Who?

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Dugout

Photo by Lee Lindsey McKinney

 We hold one another's pain

   as close as we are able –

      as near as we dare –

         scratching through the pile

      of cooled ashes

   from fires long-spent

in the canoe’s bottom,

      searching for warm embers

   capable of hollowing

a deeper resting place for suffering,

   praying that our proximity and

      desire to sit low in the boat

         will carry us safely through

      the river's winding shadows,

   from the headwaters of sorrow

toward the ocean of hope.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Without Measurability

1 Corinthians 12:31b

"... and I will show you 

a still more excellent way." 

(a way without measurability)

Agape is a single-source phenomenon.

Apart from the gift and self of God,

it does not exist.

This kind of love is not spontaneous

or emotional reciprocity

for what someone else has done

for you or to you to make you

feel comfortable or happy.

It is a conscious choice to put

someone else's well-being

ahead of your own,

even and especially when

it is difficult and painful for you to do;

a choice made, not for the sake

of gaining anything for yourself,

but made because you know

that you were put here,

in this specific time, place, and circumstance,

to give other people

a chance to recognize godness within;

a choice made, not by the strength

of your own power or goodness,

but by the gift and grace of divine outpouring.

As long as we're earthbound,

we'll never be able

to love anyone, including ourselves,

fully, completely, or unconditionally.

Why?

Because we are not God.

What, then, are we to do?

This, and this alone:

love as freely and fully as we can,

each day, and seek to love more

each day than the day before.

Do it without measurability,

for this is the true character of agape.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins