Psalm 151

A Psalm of Dewey
When everything seemed to be imploding

Yahweh makes all things good!
And if I keep saying it
I may start to feel it
Yahweh makes all things good!
And if I keep saying it
I may start to see it

I am surrounded by naysayers
Monday morning quarterbacks
who don't even wait for Monday
And the worst thing is that they're probably right
I have been conciliatory
when I should have been challenging
Timid
when I should have been bold

And yet

I have been vocal
when I should have been silent
Reacting
when I should have been listening

You have been gracious to me in the past, Lord Yahweh
There have been times when I saw no way for good to rise from the ashes that covered me
and you were faithfully working all things together
for the good

Do it again, Father God!
Make it so!
Cause all your people to rise in awe and wonder
at how you bring beauty from ashes
Hope from despair
Life from death

Take my tears and cleanse me
Cleanse me and the naysayers
Cleanse me and the ill-timed quarterbacks

Yahweh makes all things good!
And if I keep saying it
I may start to feel it
Yahweh makes all things good!
And if I keep saying it
I may start to see it

Take the "Im" Out of Your Impossible

 

IMPOSSIBLE

by Harry Baker

I'm finding it too easy to tell myself things are too hard,
When facing the end that it's too late to even make a start.
But if we take impossible to mean that we don't have a chance,
We have lost sight of how unlikely it was we would get this far.

The way the single fish outwits the shark by sticking with its school.
The way the crescent moon outspins its dark to once again be full.
Even winter, given long enough, begins to lose its cool.

That which was once exceptional now barely registers at all.
To think the earth exists at this specific distance from the sun
Down to the angle of the axis on which everything is spun
The fact that trees happen to breathe that which we need inside our lungs
It would all seem impossible if it had not already been done

We are impossible to everyone who's ever come before
And everyone who's yet to come will push impossible some more
Just as, indeed, the do's we did outdo the don'ts we didn't.
So everything's impossible until it isn't.

The thought of rivers changing course before somebody gave a dam,
Or that the tide might turn from shore before a line's drawn in the sand.
We cannot know how far our actions go, the impact they might have.
Sometimes, the only thing that we can do is to do what we can.

And I am tired of that doom and gloom and self-fulfilling prophecy.
I am trying to find room to bloom and self-fulfill the opposite
When it's an act of revolution to try to stay remotely positive
There's nothing wishy-washy about opting to be optimists

Whether a brighter future's possible we may not truly know
But the first step toward that future is imagining it so
So as, indeed, the do's we did outdo the don'ts we didn't.
So it remains impossible until it isn't.

And when it's over, and we're no more than old bones within the ground.
Still the soil knows to sow its seed from what is broken down,
What is lost, is always lost, until the moment it is found.
And these things only ever go one way, unless we turn them round.

We are so constantly surrounded that it's easy to forget.
This world was built upon impossible. That has not stopped us yet.
So yes, indeed, the do's we did outdo the don'ts we didn't.
It only stays impossible until it isn't.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Truth is...Every once in a while, I come across something that just needs to be shared with as wide an audience as possible. So pass this along, won't you?

Muhammad Ali Poem Packs a Punch

 

Yes, I know World Heavyweight Boxing Champion Muhammad Ali was a Muslim, but that doesn't preclude his poem about truth from being worth considering. Put this in the same category as Paul quoting Greek philosophers in his sermon on Mars Hill.

The face of truth is open

The eyes of truth are bright

The lips of truth are ever closed

The head of truth is upright

The breast of truth stands forward

The gaze of truth is straight

Truth has neither fear nor doubt

Truth has patience to wait

The words of truth are touching

The voice of truth is deep

The law of truth is simple:

All you sow you reap

The soul of truth is flaming

The heart of truth is warm

The mind of truth is clear

And firm through rain and storm

Facts are but its shadows

Truth stands above all sin

Great be the battle of life

Truth in the end shall win

The image of truth is the cross

Wisdom's message is its rod

The sign of truth is Christ

The soul of truth is God

Life of truth is eternal

Immortal is its past

The power of truth will endure

Truth shall hold to the last

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Truth is...If I were given the task of editing this, I would change the third line to "The lips of truth are NEVER closed," but it still is a fitting personification. Almost as good as fixing our eyes on Jesus: the way, the truth, and the life.

The Ins and Outs of It

 

John Fischer was a pioneer of what is now called Contemporary Christian Music, having written a lot of songs that a lot of teenage Christians sang around a lot of campfires.

He not only wrote songs, but for many years wrote a "last page of the magazine" monthly article for CCM. Several of those articles found their way into book form in 1988's Real Christians Don't Dance!.

One of the most memorable pieces in the book is a poem titled "The Ins and Outs of It":

"In it, not of it," the statement was made
As Christian One faced the world, much afraid
"In it, not of it," the call was made clear,
But Christian One got something stuck in his ear.
"Not in it, or of it" was the thing that he heard.
And knowing the world was painfully absurd,
He welcomed the safety of pious retreat,
And went to the potluck for something to eat.

Now Christian Two, he knew what to do,
He'd show those fundies a thing or two!
How will the world ever give Christ a try
If we don't get in there and identify?
So "In it, and of it," he said in his car,
As he pulled in and stopped at a popular bar.
"I'll tell them the truth as soon as I'm able
To get myself out from under this table."

Now along comes Christian Three jogging for Jesus
In witnessing sweats made of four matching pieces.
His earphones are playing a hot Christian tune
About how the Lord is coming back soon.
"Not in it, but of it," he turns down the hill
And stops for a bite at the Agape Grill.
Like the gold on the chain of his "God Loves You" bracelet,
He can have the world without having to face it.

While way up in heaven they lament these conditions
That come from changing a few prepositions.
"Not in it, or of it," Christian One thought.
But who in the world will know that he's not?
"In it, and of it," thought Christian Two.
But who in the world will know that he knew?
"Not in it, but of it," thought Christian Three.
But who in the world watches Christian TV?

And Jesus turns to Gabriel, shaking His head.
"'In it, not of it,' wasn't that what I said?"

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Truth is...This is all based on John 17, when Jesus was praying about his disciples and said, "My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one. They are not of the world, even as I am not of it."

For us to be the answer to the prayer of Jesus, we need to be present as a contributing part of our earthly reality, engaged and engaging, but not fall in love with the foul and shallow trappings of a fallen worldview.

Like John said in First John 2: "Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, love for the Father is not in them. For everything in the world  —  the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life  —  comes not from the Father but from the world."

Hammer Time, or, Dear God, Make Me What You Want Me to Be

 

At this point in history, Carl Sandburg is probably most well-known for calling Chicago the City of the Big Shoulders; "Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler."

But I recently learned about another poem of his titled "Prayers of Steel." It's as if steel is lifting its voice to Yahweh, and it resonates with my decidedly non-metallic soul.

Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar.
Let me pry loose old walls.
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.  

Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together.
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders.
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars.

This seems to echo Adelaide Potter in the hymn, "Have Thine Own Way, Lord":

Have thine own way, Lord! Have thine own way!

Thou art the potter, I am the clay.

Mold me and make me after thy will,

while I am waiting, yielded and still.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Truth is...Sandburg's words are grittier and a more realistic image of what it can be like to be fashioned into an effective disciple of Jesus. God's refining work on my life won't always be easy or painless, but the results will be a life of strength and usefulness.

A Partial Poem for Pastors

 

On Monday, February 12, 1990, I began writing a poem that was a whining sigh into the dark night sky. It was a start at pouring out my fatigue and lack of inspiration with the youth ministry I was involved with at the time.

And now, in the midst of Pastor Appreciation Month 2023, may it serve to tell all the pastors in our lives that they are not alone, there are people who understand, and it's okay to step back and rest every once in a while.

Can anyone keep just pouring it on?

Creating magic and doing no wrong?

Moving the masses, inspiring men

Surprising, impressing, again and again?

What works for awhile won't work all the time

The clock loses meter, the poet, his rhyme

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Truth is...This poem needs to be completed with some couplets of compassion and encouragement, just as your pastor needs your words and gestures of affirmation and love.

Prayer Posture Poem

 

In response to the 8-part series on prayer that finished last week, a co-worker of mine passed along the following humorous-but-accurate poem about the non-importance of what posture we assume when talking with God.

THE PRAYER OF CYRUS BROWN

By Sam Walter Foss

"The proper way for a man to pray,"

Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes,

"And the only proper attitude

Is down upon his knees."

"No, I should say the way to pray,"

Said Rev. Doctor Wise,

"Is standing straight with outstretched arms

And rapt and upturned eyes."

"Oh, no; no, no," said Elder Slow,

"Such posture is too proud:

A man should pray with eyes fast closed

And head contritely bowed."

"It seems to me his hands should be

Austerely clasped in front.

With both thumbs pointing toward the ground,"

Said Rev. Doctor Blunt.

"Last year I fell in Hodgkin's well

Head first," said Cyrus Brown,

"With both my heels a-stickin' up,

My head a-pinting down;

"An' I made a prayer right then an' there -

Best prayer I ever said,

The prayingest prayer I ever prayed,

A-standing on my head."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Truth is...The attitude of the heart seems to be the place to start  -  more than standing, bowing, or what to say  -  whenever we set out to pray.

I Never Got What I Wanted

I find it very difficult to believe that the following poem was written by a 14-year-old boy, but that is apparently the case, according to where it is excerpted from: the book Calm My Anxious Heart by Linda Dillow, originally from Who Gets the Glory? by Dr. Charles R. Swindoll. (Thanks to blogger Kara @ Just1Step for giving proper credit.)

It was spring but it was summer I wanted;

the warm days and great outdoors.

It was summer but it was fall I wanted;

the colorful leaves and the cool dry air.

It was fall but it was winter I wanted;

the beautiful snow and the joy of the holiday season.

It was winter but it was spring I wanted;

the warmth and the blossoming of nature.

I was a child but it was adulthood I wanted;

the freedom and the respect.

I was twenty but it was thirty I wanted;

to be mature and sophisticated.

I was middle-aged but it was twenty I wanted;

the youth and the free spirit.

I was retired but it was middle-aged I wanted;

the presence of a mind without limitations.

My life was over but I never got what I wanted.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Truth is...This gives added weight to the almost-flippant phrase, "Wherever you go in life, be there."

The Evening News

During the second evening of my recent Silence & Solitude retreat, there was a particularly boisterous bird outside my cabin. (Don't believe me? Listen to this.)

That bird's enthusiasm inspired this poem:

THE EVENING NEWS

From the tops of the trees
The news is being tweeted:
"The sun is setting!
God is good!
I'm here! I'm here!
Life goes on!"

     What joy that bird finds
     Just in being a bird
     The breeze through its wingtips
     The promise of Spring to come
     On this still-snowy April evening

Like a flash, the herald flies
The next tree needs its news:
"So crisp! So clean!
Oh look at the sun!"

     What a lofty pulpit
     What an urgent gospel
     Would that I could preach so clearly

The benediction from one twig higher:
"Until tomorrow, farewell!"

     God is good

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Truth is..."Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds!" (Luke 12:24)

Perfect Moment

My Beloved and I recently enjoyed a concert by Art Garfunkel, the taller half of the folk-rock duo, Simon & Garfunkel, famous for songs like "The Boxer", "Mrs. Robinson", and "Bridge Over Troubled Water".

There's a minuscule connection between S&G and this blog. Partly because part of the lyric to "Sound of Silence" is mentioned in the description of our Facebook page, but mostly because I've written about a couple of Simon-penned songs before (found here and here).

The playlist for Mr. G's solo concert was mostly Simon & Garfunkel songs, which were mostly Simon compositions, but there was one song he introduced as coming completely from him..."Perfect Moment".

I met you once before the first time,
Cinema 1 or 2, I noticed you
Standing in line, your eyes met mine
And I could not look away

There we were,
In a perfect moment
A perfect moment in time
For a moment you were mine

So later on I knew the first time
That it would be alright for us that night
Trust in our eyes,
We made a bridge of sighs
When we crossed over it was day

There we were,
In a perfect moment
A perfect moment in time
For a moment you were mine

I wasn't ready for the last time,
But wasn't I supposed to let you go?
Into the blue
But still I'm holding you
For you're a million miles away

There we are,
In a perfect moment
A perfect moment in time
For a moment you were mine

In a perfect moment
A perfect moment in time

Just for a moment you were mine

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ri0oh4QwXfE

Truth is...some love songs contain both joy and sadness, and in the grand scheme of things, even a whole lifetime spent with someone you love is just a moment.

Yes I Can!

When you get to thinking the challenges you're facing are too much to overcome...

When the thought of taking a step overwhelms you; let alone needing to run...

When predictions of failure pile up in your head and "You Can't" is stamped on your plan...

Just watch this video one more time and scream out, "YES I CAN!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IocLkk3aYlk

Truth is...The real kicker of this video for me is in the closing seconds. Inserted into the midst of a soaring, jaw-dropping, daredevil ski jump of a stunt is the simple image of brushing one's teeth. The realization hits hard that even the mundane is a huge challenge to some of us on Planet Earth.

Found This On My iPad - Who WROTE This Excellence?!?

I just ran across this sonnet that's been hanging out in my iPad's Notes app since June 5, 2013. I looked at it and read it and pondered it and had NO IDEA where it came from.

But I did know that it needs to be shared with more than just me.

PHILIPPIANS 1:6

Cannot the clay be crushed while on the wheel,
Canvas be slashed before the paint is dry?
Can't faulty stitch be ripped by knitter's zeal,
Phrase erased which fails to satisfy?
The carver, wise and skilled, has perfect right
To scrap the flawed and twisted piece of wood.
The poet stops his fledgling work mid-flight
Because it isn't singing as it should.
But we, the Potter's marred, unlovely jars,
No masterpieces...He elects to wet
His hands and work us new. God, who names stars
And knows each sparrow, hasn't finished yet...

Till we are fit for our unveiling day,
Our Maker  -  loving, faithful  -  shapes our clay.

Truth is...A search for the first line took me to the blog-post source and I was reminded that this was penned by a dear friend, Lauren Nichols. To see the original and some words about its origin, click here.

To Beloved

The sun was strong
Matched only by the emotions
The small-town church had no AC
And the place was packed to the rafters

No, really
The balcony was full
And so were the steps leading up to it

The heat was
Well
Hot
That wasn't a tear trickling down my nose
But our friends still thought it sweet
When you reached up to brush away the sweat

We would have worn the dress
And the tux
To the same building on the next day
But they were sweat-soaked
And decidedly not nose-pleasing

Your smile
As you walked up the aisle
Reflected more joy and hope
Than one heart could hold

So we joined our hearts
To see if we could do it together

Thirty-six years

We've done it together
For thirty-six years
Not all of them happy
Or sunny
Or sweat-soaked

But none of them alone
None of them hopeless
None of them lacking joy

The Son was strong
Unmatched
And that has been enough

Truth is...the fairy-tale expectations of any wedding day will all surely fade away, but something much stronger, deeper, and truer remains.

In Evil Long I Took Delight

Having prosified (turned poetry into prose) John Newton's Amazing Grace in an earlier post, it's only right that I should pass along a less-well-known work from his pen in all its original splendor.

In evil long I took delight,
Unawed by shame or fear,
Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopped my wild career.

I saw One hanging on a tree,
In agony and blood,
Who fixed His languid eyes on me,
As near His cross I stood.

Sure, never to my latest breath,
Can I forget that look;
It seemed to charge me with His death,
Though not a word He spoke.

My conscience felt and owned the guilt,
And plunged me in despair,
I saw my sins His blood had spilt,
And helped to nail Him there.

Alas! I knew not what I did,
But now my tears are vain;
Where shall my trembling soul be hid?
For I the Lord have slain.

A second look He gave, which said,
I freely all forgive;
This blood is for thy ransom paid;
I die that thou mayst live.

Thus, while His death my sin displays
In all its blackest hue,
Such is the mystery of grace,
It seals my pardon too.

With pleasing grief and mournful joy,
My spirit now is filled;
That I should such a life destroy,
Yet live by Him I killed.

Truth is...I could never earn, nor hope to repay, the love poured out on me that day.
 

SOME Kind of Prints in the Sand

Unless you've been living under a rock for the last thirty years or so, you're probably familiar with the piece, "Footprints in the Sand," written by a then-teenaged Mary Stevenson in the 1930s.

I have one observation and one confession to make...both of which relate to "Footprints...."

OBSERVATION:
Every time I read it, I want it to say "The times when you have seen only one set of footprints is when YOU left ME. That's why those were the most trying periods of your life."

CONFESSION:
If it had been written about my life, it probably would have gone more like this:

Truth is...I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in this, right?

A Visit From Emmanuel

'Twas the night before Jesus, and all through the town,
a couple was searching for a place to lie down.
“No Vacancy” signs were hung within view,

and soon there would be three searchers, not two.
For a child was nestled inside of the lass;
the time of his birth would soon come to pass.
One kindly innkeeper spoke up that day
to offer his stable, with newly-strewn hay.

Outside of town, where flocks of sheep huddled,
all thoughts of deep sleep were suddenly scuttled.
Away to the hillsides the shepherds all flew;
why were the lambs all in such a stew?
They bleated and baaed and ran around so,
that it felt like mid-day to shepherds below.
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear
but an angel of God, who said, “Do not fear.
I bring you good news of great joy, so be glad.
This is the best news that you’ve ever had!
Choose you this day to wipe off your frown.
Messiah is born in Bethlehem-town!”
More rapid than eagles, a choir then came;
a huge group of angels all praising God’s name:
"Now there is good will to all earthly men!
Glory to God in the highest! Amen!”
At the top of their lungs the choir sang out:
“Now praise Him! Now praise Him without a doubt!
And here’s how you’ll know what we’re saying is true:
a babe in a manger; a sign unto you.”
So off to the village the shepherds then ran,
to prove all the words from the heavenly band.

And then, in a twinkling, they heard in a stable,
the cry of a baby, both healthy and able.
The shepherds drew close to the source of the sound
and realized the newborn Messiah was found!
He was wrapped in a cloth, from his head to his toe.
His mother was so proud, she practically glowed.
Surrounded by hay as he lay on his back,
he looked like a hungry young lamb’s midnight snack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples—how merry!
His cheeks were like olives; his nose like a berry!
His dear little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
then he quieted down and to sleep he did go.

Thirty years later, on a hill far away,
surrounded by mockers instead of fresh hay,
This innocent baby, now an innocent man,
completed God’s purpose since time first began.
Nails in a tree held his hands and his feet,
and thorns encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a bruised face; they bloodied God’s Son.
He shook when he cried out, “It’s finished! It’s done!”

On the third day since they sealed off his tomb,
his men were hiding out in a locked room
When Jesus showed up and offered them peace:
“You’re no longer sin’s slaves; I’ve arranged your release!”
He was breathing and talking, although he had died!
The disciples could hardly believe what they’d spied.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave them to know they had nothing to dread.
He spoke many words, and sent them to work,
“Go into the world, but don’t be a jerk.
Teach all the Good News through poem and prose,”
and giving a nod, to the sky he then rose!

The disciples all stared up into the sky;
some wanted to yell; some wanted to cry.
Two angels exclaimed, as Christ flew out of sight,
“Fear not! He’ll return like a thief in the night!”

©2013 Dewey Roth