Men will be men and we’ll all enjoy an extra hour of sleep. It’s been a day of reckoning, of examining my motives and determining future actions. A day of reading history, of the day men split atoms and ignited a fireball that consumed cities. We are fearfully and wonderfully made, so much so that we can destroy our own kind in so many ways. The cruel humanity that we must somehow overcome. That salvation is the cross and I wonder if I’ll ever quite understand it. A confusing mix of thoughts for a day with no definite theme–a realistic account of the day’s thoughts.

The lightning flashes on both sides of the road, lighting up the nighttime sky as if it were day. It flashes again and again, several times per minute. I check my blind spot while changing lanes and it flashes right when I turn my head, blinding me for a few brief moments. As I travel down the road of life, the lightning often flashes all around me, and sometimes I get caught holding the umbrella. You have to wonder who could be so foolish, and believe me, I’m asking myself the same question.

Reshapes. Reforms. Metamorphosis. Something beautiful emerges. It has the power. It has the respectability. It has the ingenuity. It has the quality. It has the dream. The ability exists to go where no one has gone before. To push hearts. To influence lives. To dust eyeballs and clean out ear canals. To incite action. To invoke change. Shall we sit around and watch TV? Or shall we act. Interact. And watch the love of God rain down and wash away the cloudy mess of sin, and feel the seeds of light growing so deep within.

Why can I only ask questions, never give answers?
Does the sun keep ducking behind a cloud, fearful to shine on me today?
Why do the leaves change in their brilliance and then crunch under my feet?
Why does the wind blow when I’m alone and my jacket not keep the cold away?
Is the green grass envious of my jaded philosophy?

Why is this the last page of my notebook?
Am I a September dandelion?
Why is the fire pit so full of rusty nails that–like my soul–are all that’s left after the flame.
Why do my new shoes hurt, when the grimy pair with a hole in the toe felt so good?
Is the crow black because of my sin?

Why does grandpa lie so lost, his will to live sucked away?
Does the phone always ring when I take a nap?
Why is the bench always taken?
Why does the spider scamper away?
Is the silver moon imparting courage lost to me?

Why do you go quietly into that good night?
Do you read this page and walk away unchanged?
Why are the days so packed with busy minutes and hurried hours?
Why do we exchange empty hellos with a hollow nod?
Is the sky gray because of our Monday apathy?

Why are Mom and Dad’s assurances a wet blanket to this cold little boy?
Why is there a forty foot stump outside my door?
Why does he make me smile when he doesn’t know my struggle?
Why is her hug like hot chicken & noodle soup to this frozen boy?
Is the earth blue because of our overwhelming humanity?

As I scream into the night
what I feel inside my heart.
Burning leaves and warming wisps of sun
fail to save the drowning soul.
Your assurances come like a
wet blanket to a
cold little boy.

Midnight contemplations of how it’s supposed to be. From the moment I shut the engine off, until the moment I open my bedroom door. Life stands still, strikes a pose, allowing me to consider for a moment the meaning of the stars. A lonely, after-hours walk from my truck to my room. In the distance the college students frolic on the empty, moon-lit football field. I pass the sleeping dorm, most lights out, except a few, up late talking, breathing, living. Down the wind worn steps with thoughts of what I did and did not do that day. Images of overwhelming humanity that come to me at night. Questions, regrets, dreams. So silent, the wind tickling the trees, the people tucked in their beds. Time for me to ponder how it’s supposed to be–and wonder if there’s even an answer to such a question.

Why is it that people lose their ability to think? Are we just too lazy? Too busy? Or do we just not care? It seems like people won’t take the time to think something through, and so they just dismiss it as weird or juvenile, or an inside joke. Maybe it’s outside their circle of acquaintance, so they just disregard it. Why are we so resistant to being stretched? Sometimes we need to think. Sometimes we even need to think outside the lines. Aren’t we called to exactly that?

Playful echoes of laughter are heard in the distance. The same rabbit crosses the path, scurrying off into the brush. But the girl with the book open on her lap is not there. I take each step slowly. Forcefully. I enter my building, and the heavy door thuds behind me. I climb the stairs and each step echoes. I look down to my worn shoes–a hole in the toe, frayed thread. The forty dollars my mother gave me to buy new shoes is still in my wallet. But these shoes have carried me through so much, and I’m some what reluctant to replace them. Call it busyness, call in laziness. My darkened room is quiet. Nothing but the hum of the computer, and my roommate rolling over in his sleep. I feel so purposeless. And yet so purposeful. Somehow that sounds poetic.

A rabbit crosses the path, pausing as I approach. It watches me, and then scurries off to the trees. Up ahead a girl comes down the path, book in hand. She sits down at the top step and opens the book across her lap. I pass by silently, and continue down the stairs. Three steps after passing her, she begins to read aloud. I slowed my pace, eavesdropping, as her words drifted into the night…

The swirls and actions and patterns of my day send my mind spinning. I’m losing control. There is so much I want to accomplish. So much I want to do. But it is not I. It is you. I so want to serve you. I so want every part of my being to echo you. But I stumble so often. I lose sight. I put you off. How can I want to serve you so badly, yet hardly make time for you? It’s the constant paradox. It’s the constant illusion of the lukewarm heart. No wonder you want to spit me out. But please don’t. Set me ablaze. Let the smoke rise from my heart like the burnt offering, and let my life be yours. Raise me from this bland existence and make me so much more. Make me yours…

Her words trailed off into the night as I descended the stairs, but they reverberated within me. I wanted so much to turn back and take hold of these words of wisdom. Words from an unknown book, read by an unknown girl. But something propelled me onward. Something kept my heart wandering.

A menagerie of views assaulting my mind…

—

Why is it you can cry out to the dark night sky, ask the starry host your inner most questions, probe the celestial sphere for earthly answers–but you don’t look up to the blue sky and wonder why? The night seems fit for asking questions, the lightness of the day hinders all questioning. No one looks up to the bright blue sky and cries out for an answer. You look up to the bright blue sky and are silenced. Something about the blackness of night imparts within you the boldness to cry out to the creation. In the glory of heaven there will be no night. The light will shine forever, for the Son of God will be that light. The comforting light that calms our fears, answers our questions, silences our confounded cries.

—

I don’t seek a clean Christianity where the answers are plentiful, the pews sparkling, the white-tooth smiles gleaming, and everything runs smoothly. I don’t want a Sunday-suit, clean shaven church. Worship in the Old Testament involved sacrifice. Dirty, baying animals. Spilt blood. Burnt offerings. It wasn’t clean and polished, sanitized for all to behold. This morning I sat in All Nations Indian Church, and the sage was burned before me, the smoke rising into my nostrils, and up into the sky, to the very throne room of God. Could the burning of this sage somehow be related to the burnt offerings of the Israelites? What connection is there? The blood of the slain lamb stained their hands. The smoke from the burnt sacrifice clung to their clothes. They were marked with worship. Paul sat in front of me this morning. His thrift-store clothes and unshaven face set him apart. The grocery bag at his feet and unkempt hair furthered the thought that a homeless man had come in off the street for church. But toss my judgements aside, for they are not valid. He took copious notes during the service, sitting long after the Lord’s prayer to finish.

—

And if the answers aren’t plentiful or a glitch comes along, what do you do? Stare at the floor? His last day at the church became a tearful goodbye for all. Perhaps for varying reasons. She came through the line, near to the end of the long chain of people, to wish the pastor and his wife well. The woman hugged the wife and kind words were exchanged. But what did he do? What could he do? Perhaps he knew the whole truth, perhaps he was grossly misinformed. Perhaps an unanswered letter still sits on his desk, chewing at his heart. Perhaps he knew where he had failed, and couldn’t fess up to the truth. But no matter what the reason, he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He refused eye contact. Stare at the floor and everything will be okay. Let another hurting human being slip by, maybe next time. In another church, in another city, in another life you can atone for your broken lies. No use trying–not here, not now. How is it that you gained the title ‘pastor’? And all I can do is cry.

—

You have the gall to ask of me. How’s he doing? Is everything fine? An unanswered letter sits somewhere in your possession. Yet you ignore it, like yesterday’s news. Never mind my concern, ignore my pleas. Everything’s fine now, it’s all behind us. We’re still friends right? Seventy times seven, and I can’t understand. Does forgiveness still stand at a seven hundred mile pace? And all I can do is cry.