Dreamlessness

What promises did men make to us?
And what was kept?
Can a man make a promise in truth?
Are the affairs of God that predictable?

The American Dream carefully placed in our childhood ears
creaks under adult understanding
as we hear rumors of wars without battles
and the horn of plenty grows straw-bare.

We say that pure motives bring blessing,
but what of Job's plight?
Does not a family entire and a chunk of life
amount to a loss even if replaced?

What pain have I suffered to claim that I'm heaven broken?
What price do we pay to stay television entertained?
What part of life changes while we watch and listen,
each heroic act we only imagine is our own?

The price is high and deep,
the loss great,
and the American Dream becomes a kind of depression,
remote, as we imagine is our likeness to God.

When will the poet tell the truth?
When will God send the words of revival,
not necessarily of joy and praise
but of repentance in sackcloth and ash.

It is a stain that we carry,
bundled up in our comfortable sermons
our Disney vacation packages
our moments alone on the Internet.

And Jesus is the spot remover.
Praise His name, but with a whimper,
because we do not yet see clearly in the mirror,
not the stains on our cheeks and forehead.

How do we rise in the church,
when we have not risen in our hearts?
When we reach for a hand 'fore we go down,
is it God's hand or that of one of many Popes?

Do we find our hands on the plow
or do our hands gesture in the air?
We are all just children in the market
lacking spiritual currency for a purchase.

We call on others to dance our dirge
but the music is our own,
and God's still small song is drown out
in a cacophony of self-will.

My opinion is this,
My vision is that,
My promise to you is the other thing.
This way we ramble and are rambled upon.

The promises of men fail and fall again,
but we hold on to them as they fall
because we have not yet grabbed hold
of the single promise of old:

That our present life is a blip in the
encephalograph of eternity,
expendable to our soul
worth loosing upside down on a cross, bleeding.

Worth suffering dismemberment at the hand of Nero.
Worth being bound to a post
as flames from our own printings of the word of God
singe our leg hairs.

Where is the Christianity that led Paul
into broken down paddleboats
across deadly seas without any itinerary
but the word "go" from the Holy Spirit?

Is it hidden in the couch?
Behind the television set?
In padded pews?
In a pretty song?

No, its in the mirror,
behind the face we see as we shave
or put on our face.
It is the face under that face.

The image of God still burns strong,
or we could not still be moved.
Our depression is life trying to bubble
out past our passionlessness.

His word is committed to us
whether or not we are committed to Him.
His breath still binds together the
dust and water of our temples.

Stand and count yourself blessed
to be counted standing.
Love with daring.
Live God faring.

Make believe the Emperor seeks your life,
if need be,
so you sweat a little in your walk
and your children learn the depth of your walk.