Breathing

Photo by Elizabeth Lovelace Wisenbaker

The Bible is a diverse collection

   of documents, written

      by faithful people over

         a long period of time.

By the grace of God,

   its original words –

      some filtered through centuries

         of oral transmission,

then centuries more

   of scribal recording –

      have been translated

         into many languages

      so that people can hear and

   be inspired in familiar dialect.

Perhaps the single constant

   throughout scripture’s history,

      its present form, and

         its future formation,

      is the church’s insistence and

   reliance upon the very self of God –

by way of the Holy Spirit –

to guide our reading,

   interpretation, and application

      of it into both the physical location

         and the moment in time

      of our current human existence.

Both the allowance and

   the necessity of this guidance

      form the foundation

         for our understanding

      of this text as “Living Word”

   to and for the world.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Hope

The unicorns did not come

to rescue me today

as I had hoped.

Earth and sky did not rend,

ushering me into

a mother's tender embrace.

The tears I've collected

did not turn into a potion

whisking my pain away.

The darkness I found

inside my eyelids did not

remove the quilt of dread

laying heavy on my heart,

so I went to sit

with someone else

whose pain I felt

from a distance;

a pain so different from mine,

I could hardly believe

it shared a common thread.

As we sat, letting all

but silence fall away,

something larger but lighter

settled in and around us;

something uncomfortable

in its familiarity,

so close was it that, at first,

intimacy tilted toward intimidation.

Time rolled on, though neither

of us could discern its flow,

until our anxiety grew tired

of keeping guard,

finally standing down,

so our being known unfolded

into a sense of knowing

that had no desire

to keep score;

a horse content to graze

in the pasture of now,

neither pining for fields

long plowed under,

nor leaning hard into the fence

holding tomorrow at bay.

It was here that rhythm settled in,

heartbeats slow but strong,

breaths deep and long.

This is the vigil we keep,

though the longer we keep it,

the more we feel it keeping us.

No longer fearing

the sun's failure to rise,

we face the shrouded east

with a power so strong yet tender,

it can be no other

than the self of love,

in whom the roots

of hope are firmly grounded.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Hope Floats

Photo by Lee Lindsey McKinney

Memory and love have a way

of pulling us into

the rabbit hole of regret,

wishing for a do-over of circumstances

beyond our control.

We can almost convince ourselves

that, if we’d only said or done

something different, or maybe

shut up or done nothing,

we wouldn’t be treading water

in this gaping maw of loss.

Hope is forward momentum,

a life preserver tossed overboard,

or a random piece of flotsam,

buoying love toward the possibility

of an unknown shore – a coast

we didn’t know existed until now.

It’s not at all the paradise

we’ve spent our lives dreaming –

the one where plans come to fruition

and, at the very least, everyone survives.

Our prayer for you today is that

you’ll hold all the memories –

both beauty and pain,

as well as the mundane  –

despite their penchant

for weighing you down;

that you’ll let hope drift you

toward a distant landfall –

a place where windows and

doors long-locked, are opened,

and the sun rises each day,

promising possibility in the face

of a sea of exhaustion.

Hope floats; and our prayer

is that you’ll float with it,

as we float beside you.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

3 Tribes

When we reach the proverbial Pearly Gates –

obviously in the afterlife, as all humor assures us –

there will be at least three primary tribal cable cars,

and a pile of folks who can't make up

their minds about which one to board.

  The first car has stops labeled

  "Golden Paved Parkway",

  "Holy Harp Highway", and

  "Rulekeeper's Road".

  

The folks who race to a seat on this car –

ones you couldn't peel out with a pry bar –

are sure they're going to the mountaintop.

  They seem to have an incredulous

  facial expression, as if they can't believe

  some of the folks they've known for years

  are actually here with them.

I wonder if they might actually be stopping

back at kindergarten to learn rudimentary grace:

hold hands when crossing the street;

share what you have;

listen so you can learn;

forgive as you've been forgiven.

  The second car is hesitantly boarded

  by folks who aren't entirely convinced

  they should have been let through the gates.

They're looking over their shoulders

for a bouncer, sure that the ruse

will be up any minute.

  The stops on this car are labeled

  "Caboose AVE",

  "Skin of Teeth Street", and

  "Last Minute Reprieve LN".

These folks are convinced they're headed

for the Roach Trap Motel,

if not the Servants Headquarters.

  I think they might actually be headed

  for a big party - one thrown especially

  and specifically for each of them,

  where they'll see their own name

  written in the Lamb's Book of Life

  in the ink of love and the font of grace.

The third car doesn't really look like

it's on tracks that are going anywhere,

but the folks who are boarding it

don't seem to be concerned.

  They seem perfectly content to exit

  at stops labeled "Here Now HWY",

  "Leisurely Listening LN",

  and "Enough AVE".

If it looks like these people feel at home –

like they're natives - it's probably

because they realized long ago,

when the pretense and the pretending

fell away and they decided to live

a life of passion and abandon,

that both eternity and paradise

are present throughout our lives,

and not just a prize to try

and earn or fear losing.

  I want to be in the third car,

  but sometimes I find myself

  in one of the other two.

  How about you?

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Candles in the Wind

Advent's candles start afresh,

adding more light each week

as our hemisphere sinks

into winter's pall.

By the time we begin

the big celebration,

all four pillars of flame

surround the Christ Candle. 

Lent is a great reversal;

seven lit candles shining

into winter's night,

promising hope still,

but fading, one by one,

as the weeks progress,

foreshadowing Jerusalem's blindness. 

   Soon after the palms are waved,

   the only fire in many hearts

   is fueled by fear,

   generating little light and

   much destructive heat.

      "Hosanna!" so easily morphs

      into "Give us Barabbas!"

      and then "Crucify him!" 

         This anger outlasts the day,

         carrying its vitriol deep

         into the night,

         leaving the vigil

         in heavy shadows. 

Still, we hope into the depths,

motionless against the silence;

waiting for at least one sun to rise. 

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Loose Heart

Photo by DeEtta Harris Jenkins

"Loose lips sink ships."

the spy's handbook warns.

   What do loose hearts do?

   Do they sink things,

   or perhaps keep them afloat?

      I've seen what hard hearts do,

      and even cold ones,

      swung like a sling-blade

      along the dirt-road easement

      of someone’s life,

      knee-capping dreams

      and those free-spirited plants

      we call weeds.

But a loose heart,

a soft heart,

a warm heart?

   It’s one that has figured out how

   to crack without becoming broken,

   to give without being taken,

   to love without being consumed.

      A loose heart is a permeable heart,

      neither keeping all things out

      nor holding all things in;

   

a risky business indeed,

but precisely the kind of fibrillation

to which the gospel calls us.

   The loose heart gives because it beats,

   cracks because that’s how

   love leaks out and seeps back in.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins

Gardening

When your worldview

has fear as its foundation,

   your economic forecast

   will be calculated

   on greed and selfishness,

      your social schema

      concocted on separatism,

         your cultural construct

         woven by  exceptionalism,

your religious dogma

defined by exclusion.

   Hope is the antidote.

      She's the only one

      who can plant generosity,

      community, respect, appreciation,

   and inclusion in the garden

   of our individual

   and collective hearts.

© 2016 Todd Jenkins