A Song of Ascent

    Look at me. I’m not so much.
    Not haughty, not proud.
    Not setting my sights above my stars.

    Except when I do.

    Then it’s all the small vandalism vanities
    hidden from the greater public
    behind the mask of an absurd person
    and my outsized ego banging
    on the walls of my little life.

    Let me be quiet and go away.
    He must increase.

Psalm 131

Echoes of a Trusted Psalm

    Here is a trusted psalm, held up to the light of bare bulbs hanging from the untiled ceiling. The words of the song echo from the cold, rough stones of the room.

    Do not love the world.
    Or what is in the world – cursed confusion, secret fraud and corruption in every generation. Car accidents and other roadblocks. Angled and wrong.

    If anyone loves the world – the familiar noise of a shattering empire under one imperial flag -
    the love of the Father finds no home there.

    Because what there is in the world – lying, stealing, cheating, mistreatment of others, murder, dismembered bodily desire, the lust of disordered eyes, and the pride of parties in possession
    is not from the Father.

    The bottles on the wall rattle. Electricity hums and the lights flicker.

    It is the world
    and the world of disordered desires, accumulative abominations, acquisitions again and again
    is passing away in a burst of fire.

    But the echoes of the psalm ring forever and ever.

1 John 2:15-17

History Passes into Lies

    Then I beheld all the fruitless work of man. Armed conflict between thirty nations. Millions threatened. Mounting pressure from international leaders. And Pope John XXI dies when the ceiling of his study collapses. He’d been Pope for eight months. Affliction comes to make us sad or make us wise.

    Freedom is a heavy load, a choice through scorching days and restless cold nights. South American strip mines and deserts are rocked by earthquakes, meanwhile Pope Adrian IV chokes to death on a fly in his wine. This is the curse that feeds on life.

    History is recorded by impatient observers. Pomp and circumstance in the land of hope and glory. Fading ancient fame. Pope Celestine V, overwhelmed by the pressure and demands of the papacy, renounces the throne and returns to the hermitage. He is later imprisoned by his successor and all men shall fear.

    How wretched I am,
    too long living among a people for war.

    Lies pass into history. Critical food shortages on three continents in a season of bitterness. Supply lines strained by militants. Pope Sylvester II makes a compact with the devil for redoubtable scientific and mathematical knowledge. History passes into lies.

    Therefore, behold, Pope Boniface VIII is belligerent. He kicks political envoys in the head. He throws ashes in the eyes of kneeling bishops. He is captured during the violence of the Outrage of Anagni and imprisoned for three days. He is beaten. He is starved. He dies, chewing off his own hand. A marvelous work among the people, and a wonder to the world.

    Work while it is day; the night comes when no one will work. Regional salt wars are fought by child-soldiers and immigrants. Pope Joan’s horse is startled during a procession and she goes into spontaneous labor. The child is born. Her secret is revealed but she dies. And there is none that can deliver me.

    Lord, save me from lying lips
    war-arrows over red-hot coals.

    Yea, before the day, Pope Formosus is exhumed by his successor nine months after his death and put on trial for perjury, for having taken the papacy illegally. His corpse is dragged to the courtroom and found guilty before being reinterred. His papacy is annulled. May the truth protect me always.

All I Know Is Darkness – a Psalm for Palestine

    A song of sickness and native-born suffering.

    Look, it is night, it is dark, but look, shuttered windows and boarded doors on the street, unfriendly faces leering from suspicious shadows, and the message you receive, loud and incessant, insistent, if you’re listening, is: help, oh, God, help me!

    I’ve been filled for so long now, time, times, and half a time at least, with misery, living on the shores of Sheol, numb and numbered with the ones hanging upside down over oblivion, stalked and hunted and left for dead, all strength is stripped from these arms, like one of the slaughtered tossed into a ditch with no protection, unremembered, even by you, no flowers, no grass, only stones beneath the grave, not a place for anyone, only depth, only darkness.

    Drift

    Like a man from the black, friendless, defiled, grotesque, wheeling, spinning, thrashing but no escape, trembling hands a prayer for return, but the dead see no miracle, no sign, no wonder, only shadows rising with no praise.

    Drift further

    With the door closed behind, the room is black and dark and silent, do they sing here? Love songs? Hymns? Do the spirits sing spiritual songs? Do they know your wonders in the void? And still I’m here, weeping in the dust on the floor, every morning, every evening, though those words mean nothing when you won’t even look at me, I was born too close to death, wounded in birth, I bleed to death, shifted weight and slipping foot, I carry unfinished terrors in my wretched body, and all I know is darkness.

The Righteous Forsaken – Another Troll Conversation

    I came home from work, worn and tired, but feeling pretty good. At least physically. I parked my car in the driveway and, as I do every day upon returning home from work, checked the mailbox. Once inside I took care of the necessary things. I gave the cats their expected treats, washed my face and hands, and changed my clothes. Then I sat down at the kitchen table to examine the mail.

    Bills and bank statements. It’s not a crisis, but the margins are thinner than I’d like. I sighed and offered up a wordless prayer.

    That’s when I heard the front door open. My first thought was that it was my wife coming home from her doctor’s appointment. But a voice called out that wasn’t hers.

    “Hello? Carter? Are you home?” I recognized the voice immediately. Gunner. My prayers summoned, not God’s glorious angels, but an imp to test and torment me.

    “Let yourself in, I guess,” I said from the table. “I’m in the kitchen.”

    “Hey, Carter,” he said finding me at the table. “What’s up?”

    “I’m just engaged in that all-American pastime, worrying about finances.”

    He nodded and grinned. “You’ve got your Bible there handy. Why don’t you check out Psalm 37:25?”

    I knew it without having to open the book. “I’ve been young and now I’m old and I’ve never seen the righteous forsaken or his children begging for bread.”

    “That’s the one,” Gunner grinned.

    “That verse makes me more than a little nervous,” I admitted. “Would you like to sit down?” I gestured to an empty chair. He was making me nervous.

    He sat. “Well, maybe that’s because you’re not as righteous as you let on.”

    I raised an eyebrow and glared at him. “No. I’m just not sure the psalmist looked very closely at the world.”

    Gunner laughed. He stood up and went to the fridge. “You got any of that crappy IPA beer?” I was on the verge of inviting him to help himself, but he’d already found and withdrawn a bottle.

    “The Bible is always right, you know,” he said. “And errorists like you have no rights.” He took a large swig of the beer. “Man, this stuff is terrible.”

    “Why are you here, Gunner?” I finally asked.

    “Carter, I like you. God help me, but I like you. You’re a…” he foundered for words. “Well, I don’t know what you are exactly, but I like you. And God’s laid it upon my heart to make you a personal project. My own mission field. God’s assured me that even a filthy socialist like you can be saved.”

    “Gunner,” I said after a moment, “you are a cold glass of salt water on a hot summer day, aren’t you? How did I come to be so blessed?” He just laughed and chugged more of my beer.

    “What you need to do, Carter…” he began to say but I interrupted him.

    “Gunner, I swear to God, if you say I just need to pull myself up by my bootstraps, or some other Republican cliché…” I stopped. I didn’t really know what I would do.

    “I was just going to say that idleness is your only barrier to financial security.” He said the beer down on the counter.

    “Get out,” I said. “I’m tired and I need to start dinner. So leave.”

    “Depart from evil, Carter,” he said as he made his way towards the door. “Depart from evil and do good. That’s the way to keep your home forever. That’s the psalmist again.”

    “Get out,” I said once more and closed the door behind him.

The Previous Conversations:

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series) 
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)
Truth with Untruth (the ninth conversation)
Bulls, Dogs, and Villains (the tenth conversation)

Bulls, Dogs, and Villains – A Tenth Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll

    There are slightly different lights on different days. All that we see within is not the same. One day it is sunlight on cornfields. The next is candlelight in the house when the power goes out. This shuckling soul dance, this pietist gyration, like the flickering flame of a candle. Silent persistent prayers.

    “You bleeding heart liberals are all the same…”

    He’s at my door again and I wonder if my wife is right. Why do I keep letting him do this? The front door is open to let in the pleasant afternoon breeze. I’m home from work. My laptop open. My notebook open – the place where I write all my little notes, dribs and drabs of doggerel, punning names to file away for later use, obscure words to look up, stray bits of dialogue in search of a story.

    I look up from the writing that isn’t happening and see him there – with his slightly hyperthyroid eyes, the left one drooping somewhat. And he’s just standing there grinning. And waving.

    I don’t bother to get up from the couch.

    “Listen, Gunner, you can insult me all you like. You’ve been doing that for some time now. So call me a bleeding-heart liberal, if that helps you feel better. But tell the truth and get it right – it’s more than my bleeding heart. It’s the bleeding heart of Christ, and my calloused hands, my burning eyes, my strong but tired back, and my iron will, combined with all the blood of the prophets. Mock me; that’s fine. But it won’t stop the fight. It won’t stop the work. It won’t stop the words.”

    “You say so, Carter. I don’t think you’ve got any of that. But how much weight do you think your words will hold? Does anyone actually read your stuff?”

    My writing program is open. A new, untitled document is open. The cursor is blinking expectantly. I sigh and close the laptop. I stand from the couch and take the three steps to the front door to speak with Gunner.

    “Here is the patience and the faith of the saints. He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.” I say this quietly. Nearly a whisper but he hears me just fine.

    He recoils in mock terror outside the door and laughs. “Are you threatening me, Carter? I thought you were one of those pacifist types. Didn’t think you had any real fight in you.”

    I fling open the door. “Well, don’t just stand there like a dog at the door. Come on in if that’s what you’re going to do. A dog, or bull, or just a villain – come to hack off my hands and feet. Come on in so you can look at me and gloat.”

    He stands there stupefied. I am shocked as well.

    “I’m sorry, Gunner. I’m a bit out of sorts today. And who can ever really detect his own failings and hidden faults. Come on in if you want. I’ve got a couple of beers in the fridge if you wanna share one with me.”

    “Is it that IPA crap you like?"

    I shrug, “It’s what I’ve got.”

    He shakes his head no. “No thanks. I’ll just see you later.”

    And that’s it. He is gone.

Let God Arise (Psalm 68 Roughly)

(1-6) What Are We Going To Do?

    What are we going to do? That’s what everyone wants to know. Your talking head propagandists, your nationalist social scientists don’t know. These scholars and lobbyists claim to see the invisible hand but cannot see the kingdom of God in history. What are we going to do? We cannot claim the banks and loans and deals and assets on your books. What are we going to? That’s what the managers of decline are asking. That’s what everyone wants to know.

    Have ye not read?

    Do not consider riches as private property but as common good. Your economic philosophy is in practice, godless. Insatiable greed. Domineering avarice. They demand the spirit of men and destroy the breath of women. They deny. They defend. They depose. But they cannot explain the irruption of the spiritual in the physical realm. Fools of one flesh.

    Like the smoke of a fire, drifting gone.
    Like melting wax in a fire.

    Let God arise -Father and defender of orphans and widows. Sheltering the homeless lonely in a holy place. And prisoners too. Freemarket rebels can find their own place in the wilderness. Let them have the bootstrap deserts they have made.

    What are we going to do? Ride through the deserts – let them see.
    What are we going to do? Build a road through the desert for the Rider on the Clouds.

    Sing and play music. Dance and be glad. But – and I love this part – What does the Rider on the Clouds need with a road?

(8) A Sweaty Sky

    Too much, too much. We are overwhelmed. Even nature by fear is beset in the presence and glory of the one who strides across the desert. The wind stops its bluster and blow. The great expanse of heaven gets nervous. The sky breaks out in sweat and rains shower down upon the earth.

(12-14) A Long Sequence of Non-Sequiturs

    Chieftains and kings of armies, having failed in highly confidential negotiations and transactions, having failed to deregulate, or discourage the enemy, are in flight, in flight. Their ambitions in flight. Their strategies are not working. Gathered militias and blockading forces have failed to secure the straights despite the outlandish destruction of material property and the slaughter of civilians. They are loose-tongued commanders with no charge.

    The nuclear maneuvers of fighter jets and submarines turned back and routed. Rerouted.

    Meanwhile the women – fair and beautiful – at home divide the spoil and booty of war -sorting through the pots and saddlebags for free blessings as they sit in the sheep pens. Sheep pens!

    They are singing the good news.
    They are singing and at ease.

    Then there’s something about metallic doves with wings of silver and pinions of green-gold. Victory doves. This is not an assault. Peace doves. This is not an attack.

    Now the snow is falling on Mount Zalmon – which might be something clever about white snow on the Dark One. No more bluster. No more bloviating boast or bluff. Disordered, self-glorifying kings are scattered as the purity of snow falls on the mountain.

(20-23,30) The Contradiction of Blood

    This God of ours, this God we know
    This is the God who saves.

    Take comfort in the Violence
    and the Vindication
    though it seems like contradiction.

    He smashes the heads and long-haired skulls of his enemies, the hairy crowns of psychopathic gunmen. Bullies and bulldogs. Abductors. Exploiters. Captors. Slavers. Smash them dead! Liars. Thieves and Liars. Murderers from the lowest and highest estates. Smash them dead! Dictators. Authoritarian tyrants and Fascist fools. Smash them dead!

    He drags them back from the hills, drags them back from the sea to do it all over again so you may bathe your feet in blood.

    But! A word of caution. A word of restraint. Take warning here: Our enemies may not be his and he will fling far and scatter wide all who take orgasmic delight, all who take profit and material gain, from the horrors of war. You have been warned.

(24-26) A Musical Interlude

    The noble procession proceeds:
    Singers ahead (sing good news and at ease)
    musicians behind
    and in between are
    are row upon row
    of beautiful girls
    beating their drums.

(28-35) Let God Arise

    Take command – it befits your power. This is the way. One way. Take command; it is yours. Reclaim what is yours, most powerful, most respected, inspiring awe and admiration of the entire world. Stop the wars that we have unleashed. Bring unity to the world we have divided. Bring prosperity to the world we have plundered.

    Rebuke the crocodiles in the reeds who lie in wait to devour. Rebuke the bulls who rage and trample over us and our children. Rebuke the silver idolaters trading in secrets and exploiting the mammon-market.

    Sing this song, Play and perform it for the Rider of the Heavens. High heavens. Ancient, primeval skies. Singers ahead (sing good news and at ease), a crescendo of instruments and the climactic pounding of drums. The crash of symphonic cannons and solemn bells and chimes and gongs.

    Then let the reverberations of silence ring long into eternity.

    The Kingdoms of the earth with outstretched hands. Europe. Russia. China with outstretched hands. Latin, South, and North America with outstretched hands. India, Australia, Palestine, Cuba, Indonesia with outstretched hands. Syria, Venezuela, Kenya with outstretched hands. All the tribes and nations of Africa with outstretched hands. All islands with outstretched hands.

    Speak with a voice of power.
    Splendor in the clouds of power.
    Awesome strength and power.
    Blessed be God.
    Amen.

See Also: 
Let God Arise (a sermon)
and
Sweaty Sky (a limerick)

A Remembrance

    Long ago and far away it happened this way. Arrows pierced me. Liver deep. My indigestion, your indignation. No part of me unscathed, unscarred. Bleeding, bloody on the rocks. Pierced and pecked. Eaten. Devoured

    But there is no long ago, is there? Rewind and playback the video, scratched with static. This is now with my sins stacked higher than my head and pressed by weights. Play it again. More weight. This is now. More.

    Stinking, sinking, festering wounds. I cannot feel the sun, the warmth and the light. I cannot remember how love felt. Where there was perfume, there is rot. Where there was warm touch there is cold withdrawal.

    I am twisted double in gloom and in fire. No secret sighs. The light is gone out. The dance is done.

    Cautious friends with folded hands shun my disease, unease at a distance. There are procedures to be followed. Decorum to maintain. Betrayed by hands I thought knew. The door closes quietly. The car is gone. The house is empty. Who am I speaking to?

    While enemies with traps and snares speak violence. They throw their heads back in laughter. “You have committed blasphemy!” they shout and at once there is an ambush of archers from the surrounding forest. I am arrow-pieced and murdered in my step.

    But I am deaf and cannot hear their threats. I am dumb and dry of throat and cannot plead. There is no water here.

    I have hope, but it is elsewhere. I have hope. I force a smile through the burden. There is something there. I lean back and close my eyes. I know. I can feel the beating of my heart behind my eyes. I have hope. They will not gloat, not for long, even if I slip.

Psalm 38

Light Rises in Darkness

    How can anyone prove/disprove the cold increasing threats without dismantling the government? Nuclear code phrase arms race. The volatility of secret tests and difficult decisions. The moral restraint of even moderate elements is disregarded. We need a new anthropology – one guided by smokeless gunpowder and heavy water. We need more guns for the flowering American manhood. A new crusader ethos. Do not tamper or destroy. Do not screw with us.

    The descendants, the generation of the upright will be blessed. Light rises in darkness when justice rules our lives.

    Couriers of peace are still agonizing – as they should be. Let them suffer. Let them bleed in this new, never-ending war. Let peace, we say, flow like blood from their veins. We will take action ourselves. God knows the weaponry available to us to drain away the spirit.

    But the righteous shall never be moved. They will be remembered forever. Light rises, justice rules.

    Kill someone! Someone who matters. Someone who presents a real threat. A credible threat. Today. Right now. Our allies? Greedy children with grasping, grabbing hands. Hollow out their abdomens and refill them with incendiary devices. Fire drills and evacuations. Some of them will believe eventually. What other choice is left to them? Can this wait till tomorrow? The audience laughs and applauds. Shall they blaspheme forever? Who’s to stop them?

    The righteous, their hearts are steady. They will not be afraid. Light rises… Light rises!

    We are prone to wander. Prone to fever. A wash of vertigo. Driving by memory and guesswork. Warnings ignored. Abrupt summons and secret enrichments. Alarming midnight rhetoric. Death and destruction far surpassing previous success. Explicit surveillance videocassettes. Can love be purchased outside the blast zone? Any survivors? Do we care? The profit or loss depends upon the audience. All is justified in the economic reports. We can leave your body in a valley of dry bones…

    Gnash their teeth and melt away! Can these bones be remembered? The desires of the wicked come to nothing. But light… Light rises! Light rises in darkness when justice rules.

Now For War

    Now an apocalypse of our own making.
    Now an apocalypse we can use.

    We are bombing schools for the cause of Christ
    And the Christ, Inc. shareholders approve
            (but deeply regret the inevitable, but very necessary, tragedy)
    of bombing hospitals.

    Appointed, anointed
    and the self-aggrandizement
            of worms who are not men
    to light the signal fires in Iran
    to cause Armageddon
            explosive encounters
    to mark the return of Jesus
            false face actor of a
            grotesque eschatology,

    crude bones unsubstantiated
    and the groping swagger
            of insatiable egos
    flaunting the marks of its colors

    burn gold, silver, and precious oil
    your greater condemnation
            revealed in fire

    the Earth groans murder
    under the villainies of your theology
    the fires of signal men shriek faster
    and strip flames from the doors of hell.

    Now for war.

In the Cloud of a Living God

    Begin in the valley and the street
    among advertising agents and
    slick political pietists
    Liars. All of them.

    Songs of peace are
    shouted down by calls to war -
    war arrows over red hot coals.

    That’s where I live
    in the ephemeral world.
    Cursed. Wretched.

    I am a tourist here

    In the cloud of a living God
    on a mountain of fire
    where certainty flees
    into the silence of light.

    Where are we
    and what is this?
    Vivid here and
    trembling there.

    Part pilgrim,
    part stammering
    stumbling disciple

    Who am I?
    And what am I
    becoming?

Psalm 52 (Why Do You Boast?)

 

Why do you proudly boast
oh, mighty one,
of all the mischief
that you have done?
Your tongue’s a razor,
cutting cruel.
Why do you proudly boast
oh, mighty one?

That is why God will snatch
and strike you down.
And when he does
the faithful will say,
“He would not trust in God,
only wealth and crime.”
That is why God will snatch
and strike you down.

So, like an olive tree
in the house of God,
I will put my trust
in faithful love.
Praise you forever,
for what you’ve done,
like an olive tree
in the house of God.

Psalm 42 in 2025

 

If faith is a thirst I am a deer in the desert, desperate and dying
If faith is a thirst I am sunk into weight of heaviness
dreaming of their divorce as if it were mine all over again
crying for a rapidly spreading cancer
call it one year – maybe. Could be less.
When will I feel the face of God?
Deep calls to deep and waters rise
so sing the old songs and pray the old prayers
oh my soul, I’ve got nothing else.

Everything that remains is silence.

Selah (Psalms Unnumbered)

 This is a quick, lofi recording of a song I wrote on my way home from church this morning. 

Selah (Psalms Unnumbered)

Now the chaos and the clutter
too much noise, too little me
overwhelmed and underfunded
haunted by anxiety

Selah. Selah.

Sleeping in a bed of fire
laying on the spinning floor
I am weary with my groaning
my spine is cracked, my feet are sore

Selah. Selah

Speaking words without meaning
live a life of uncertainty
I will pray with psalms unnumbered
let the Lord deliver me

"Selah" is a liturgical direction used in the Hebrew psalms of uncertain meaning - perhaps "pause" or "reflection" 

We Wave Our Branches and We Shout Hosanna

This is a hymn I wrote for Palm Sunday several years ago. It’s sung to the tune Sine Nomine, and is based on Psalm 47 and John 12: 12-16. 

Psalm 24 in 2025

The Earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof - all the godless scientists and funky professors can say nothing against it - the world and they that dwell within - the atheist and agnostic notwithstanding. 

The trouble has only just begun and the malcontents are already laughing - it is the natural display of their patriotism. Ha! F your feelings; we’re not guilty. Obviously. All the dead Arabs. All the deaf Jews. Call it history and forget it. Forget them all. Founder it in the sea. Drown it in the flood. 

Raise a glass and raise a song. Somebody had to die. Somebody always has to die. It’s punishment without crime, extradition without cause. Show us the money - cash or coin - and the offense is yours. 

Who shall ascend? Who shall stand? The one with clean hands. The one with a pure heart. The one without swearing his soul unto vanity. There is no vision. No health. No knowledge. No salvation. 

A nation led by talk show hosts is a generation inciting fires for ratings. Stochastic terrorists. Lift up your head - it was just a joke. Lift up your head -  but yeah, the vermin should be exterminated. 

Who is the king of glory? We’re already dead but the malcontents are laughing at the show. Who is this king of glory? 

The Annual Palm Sunday Parade

It is the annual Palm Sunday Parade, and we have come to see the sights. We’ve come early to secure the best spot, in the grass, in the shade. We’ve brought our collapsible chairs, our umbrellas, opera glasses, and a cooler of beverages. It’s a great day for a parade.  The sun is up. The wind is down. It’s not too cold – winter has only recently lost its grip on the land, and it’s not too warm, the sun has not yet reached its summer intensity. It is a great day for the annual Palm Sunday Parade.

And here they come – the rope-bearers, the knotters who lead the procession with ropes. Their brothers will follow, as we know, at the end of the parade as well, to tie the whole thing together. And yes, it’s official.We can hear the blowing of the horns of the altar.  The parade has begun!

There’s Herold, the herald, ringing a bell, followed by the Daughters of Zion throwing candy.

Now come the Freemasons, wearing caps with two-headed eagles, and splendid aprons with golden embroidery. They are throwing, not candy, but small stones. These are unwanted, rejected stones. Don’t confuse them with the bonbons thrown by the Daughters of Zion. You’ll break your teeth.

Next in line is the All Star Bethany High School Marching Band, playing a selection of songs by Andrew Lloyd Webber. The Bethany High School Marching Band is a crowd favorite. What they lack in precision and skill, they make up in volume.

And here is a strange entry: four creatures walking, or flying as it were, side by side. There is a golden, shimmering Man dressed all in white, and beside him a Lion as large as a truck. Next to the Lion is great Ox with six-foot long horns. Flying next to the Ox, is an Eagle. It shrieks. We are forced to cover our ears. Its cry drowns out even the marching band.

Here comes my favorite. The Laborer’s Local Union 353. They’re holding a banner that reads “MONEY CHANGERS and BANKERS BEWARE!” 

Behind them are the bagpipers.  There are always bagpipers in a parade. Always.

Now come the Lord’s Prayers. They step in time reciting the prayer that our Lord taught us.

Here are the infants and nursing babes – with their prepared praise. It’s difficult to understand what they are saying, what with their mothers’ breasts still in their mouths, and all.  But we cheer for them, nonetheless.

We’re almost at the end now. The little children come next, shouting “Hosanna!” But they’re confused. They are mixed up. Why are they wearing last year’s Christmas pageant costumes?  They’re wearing angel robes and gold tinsel halos. “Hosanna in the Highest!”  Have we got our holiday’s confused? And what is this? What is this next strange sight? A group of men holding palm branches and lemons. Lemons?  The palm branches I understand, but … Lemons?

After the citrons have passed, there is a solitary figure. He’s wearing a tattered sweater and bow tie. He’s holding a pen. I don’t know what he’s doing here.

And now, of course, the man himself riding on a colt and on the foal of a colt, a bareback trick rider extraordinaire.

Our neighbors here on the parade grounds are starting to grumble about all of this. The candy and the chaos in the streets.  But before their complaints can get too loud, they are drowned out by a strange shouting coming from those scattered, discarded stones that the Freemasons tossed.

And that seems to be it. The parade has passed by. The final Knotters have bound the whole thing up. The parade is over and the crowd turns to leave. They pack up their chairs and round up their screaming children with bags of candy.  It’s time to go.  But wait. Wait.  Like a Marvel movie post-credit sequence, here comes one more entry in the parade. Blind beggars and lurching cripples, who look like they’ve crawled up out of dank ditches, struggle on in the wake of the great parade.  They may be late, but they know they will catch up with the Parade Marshal at the end.

The Valle Lacrimum

No one lives in the Valle Lacrimum, 
though many settle there.
No one lives in in the Valley of Weeping, 
yet many die therein.

That vale of tears is dry;

it is lonesome and cold, 
a valley of jagged, unweathered, 
sharp grief stones. 

But there are some,
a blessed few,
who have found the hidden paths,
a  few who know in their hearts
of the highway through,
the long road home. 

They make that desert valley
a fresh water spring,
and go on from strength to strength, 
hand in hand, foot over foot, 
until everyone has found relief. 

(Psalm 84: 5-7)

Even the Sparrow

The little country church of Alula, Iowa (population 543) looked like any other country church in Iowa, and, indeed, like those scattered across the heartland of America.  Pastor Chad stood on the concrete steps, hand on the black iron railing, noting its familiar rectangular shape, its neat spire rising from the roof above the front door, and the tidy graveyard adjacent with headstones dating back to the early 1800s. The chapel exterior, like all other chapels of its type, was painted white with black shutters for the windows.  'And the paint's not flaking away', he noticed; the congregation of this chapel in Alula, Iowa had not let the building fall into disrepair. Which is why Pastor Chad was so shocked when he opened the front door and stepped into the building.

Pastor Chad admired chapels such as this, and he liked to stop and visit them when he travelled. He carried his camera with him and photographed their pews and pulpits, their simple stained glass windows and solid wooden doors. He photographed them both for nostalgia and delight, for historical documentation and aesthetic appreciation. On this trip, Pastor Chad had arranged to be met by one of the local deacons, who would tell him something of the history and charm of this unique, but wholly familiar country church.

The clean and unremarkable exterior of the building however held a surprise. Inside, along the ceiling and tucked into the corners, in the windows and joists were bird nests – wattled walls with twigs and branches and bits of string and straw.  Sparrows and swallows and other birds he could not immediately identify – finches, perhaps, and was that a raven cawing above the altar? – flittered and flew about the room. It was more rookery than sanctuary.

Clutching his chest, Pastor Chad turned to retreat. 

Back outside again, with the fluttering of wings contained discretely behind the doors, Pastor Chad was greeted by the local deacon, dressed in jeans and blue work shirt. He wore a tattered John Deere cap on his head. “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “We had some difficulties with one of our cows this morning, but all’s right now. You’ve seen the chapel, I take it?”

“Yes. It’s… It’s…” Pastor Chad stammered.

“It’s really something,” the deacon beamed.

“It’s full of birds!” Pastor Chad exclaimed.

“Just like the good book says.” The deacon’s grin widened.

“Just like the good book…? Whatever do you mean?”

The deacon’s grin faltered a bit; his eyes narrowed. “Like the psalmist says…”

“The psalmist!?” Pastor Chad interrupted.

“Psalm 84,” the deacon explained. “O God, living God, even the sparrow finds her home in your house, and the  swallow a nest for herself where she may put her young, O LORD of hosts, my God and my King.”

How Blessed, How Fortunate, How Happy…(Psalm 1)

There is a story told of the Reformer, Martin Luther – that when asked what he would do if he knew the world would end tomorrow, he responded that he would plant a tree. The story is apocryphal, a liturgical legend – and doesn’t go back any further than the middle of the 20^th century. But still, there is something interesting in that story. Faced with the prospect of calamity and destruction, with ruin and despair, Martin Luther (or at least, this pious story version of Martin Luther) chose to plant a tree. That is, he took the long view, even when the future might seem bleak; he planned and planted something enduring, something that would grow.

A few years ago a friend of mine living in Michigan called me one afternoon with bad news. His life, his career, his hope, all of it was collapsing. His wife was leaving him. He was soon to lose his job. And there was little that he could do about it. And there was even less that I could do about it for him. I had no influence over anything. I couldn’t fix the broken things. I couldn’t restore the dying things. And he lived too far away for me to hop in the car and go over for a visit – and even if I had made the drive across the country to see him, the best that I could have done would have been to sit in stupid silence with and for him.

My schedule for that dark day included helping another friend of mine, one who lived here in town. He needed help transplanting a small magnolia tree. The tree was going to be cut down by developers who were clearing a lot in order to put up a new building, and my friend wanted to try to save the tree. I changed out of my Salvation Army uniform, and drove over to his place to meet him. Together we dug up the tree with its roots, loaded the tree, along with our shovels and gallons and gallons of water into the back of the pickup truck, and moved the tree to its new spot, right near his garden.

We dug a new hole for it, put it in place, poured water over the roots, replaced the dirt, poured more water into the soil around the tree, tamped down the dirt, and poured more water over it all. At the time we weren’t sure if the tree would survive. Neither of us had any experience in digging up and transplanting trees. But, we reasoned, if it didn’t survive, well at least we tried. And if it did survive, then we’d have done something good. Faced with destruction and ruination, despair and helplessness, I planted a tree.

That was a few years ago – and the magnolia tree has survived. I went to check on it yesterday, and it has been growing; it’s taller now than it was. It was in bloom yesterday, with purple, pink blossoms reaching up towards the falling rain. And my friend from Michigan has survived too, though like the tree, he has been transplanted to a new home; he now lives in another state and has a new job. His marriage did fall apart, and his wife did leave taking their children with her. My friend misses his boys tremendously, but he has survived, and grown. Bloomed even.

Is he happy? Blessed, Fortunate? I don't know. These are difficult words to pin down, especially when the world around us is cluttered with chaos, when our lives are bombarded from without and inflamed from within by stress and anxiety and agitation. How can we be (even if we don’t feel) blessed, fortunate, and happy?

So this week we turn to the Psalmist for a bit of an Old Testament Beatitude for a little about what it might mean to be blessed, or fortunate, or lucky, or even happy.

How Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked or stand in the way that sinners take or sit in the company of mockers (Psalm 1:1 NIV)

How blessed – that is, fortunate, lucky, happy – How blessed, how happy is the one who does not walk with the wicked, or stood in the assembly of sinners, or sat down in the session of scoffers.

There is an interesting bit of entropy in this verse, a steady decline in power and vigor. The psalmist's negative example decelerates from walking to standing and then from standing to sitting. Little by little he loses energy and vitality, he loses his strength. She associates with those who bring her down.

But blessed is the one who keeps moving. Blessed is the one who keeps on keeping on. Blessed is he or she who makes some progress every day, even just a little. Even just one step. Blessed, Fortunate, Happy is the one who never lets the counsel of the wicked slow them down. If we allow the world to encourage us to be angry, to hate our enemies, to turn our passion into resentment, to turn our fear into loathing, our energies will be sapped. We will lose our power, our motion. We will get bogged down by the ensnaring concerns, drained by fear and anger and we will give up. We will sit down with the scoffers, slowly dying.  

But blessed, fortunate, happy is the one who keeps moving. Blessed is the one who is not paralyzed by fear and doubt, or immobilized by resentment. Instead, the law of the LORD is her delight. The teaching and instruction of the LORD is his delight. And they meditate on it day and night. They recite it. They ponder it.

Now we should note that the Hebrew word translated “law” here is the word torah which is something more than a legal list of rules and obligations. The psalmist’s beatitude is not saying that happiness can be reduced to a mechanical process of following a set of rules and regulations. Instead it is a dynamic process that requires a constant meditation on the instruction of God in order to determine the will of God in every situation.  (McCann) It is the continual transformation and renewal of our minds so that we can discern what is the will of God, what is good, and acceptable, and perfect (Romans 12:2 NRSV).

Such a one is like a tree planted near streams;
it bears fruit in season
and its leaves never wither,
and every project succeeds. (Psalm 1:2 – New Jerusalem Bible)

Actually the verb here is more than “planted.” More accurately it would be “transplanted” (Dahood, 3). They have been dug up from the soil, pulled up from the roots and moved to a new location, put into new soil, near streams of water where they can grow anew – like my friend’s magnolia tree transplanted, but still blooming, and like my friend whose world came to an end but he kept on going. They bear fruit in season. Maybe not right away. Maybe not a lot at first. But they bear fruit. How blessed, how fortunate, how happy.

There’s also an interesting temporal dimension to these verses that’s not always picked up by the various translations of the bible. In Mitchel Dahood’s translation we read:

How blest is the man who has not entered
                the council of the wicked
nor in the assembly of sinners stood,
                nor in the session of scoffers sat.
But from the Law of Yahweh is his delight,
                and from his law he recites day and night.
So shall he be like a tree
                transplanted near streams of water;
which yields its fruit in its season,
                and whose leaves never wither.
Whatever it produces is good.

We in these verses we have the past (blessed is the one who has not entered, stood, sat…), we have the present (the law of the LORD is his delight, he recites day and night), and we have the future (so shall he be like a tree).  (Dahood, 3)

Yes, the past may have been difficult; we may have found ourselves surrounded by hostile forces, lured by temptations, excited by passions. We may have been tempted to give in, and give up. But we keep the law of the Lord in our minds, and on our tongues, reciting it day and night, constantly refreshing ourselves with it and renewing our minds by it, and we will be like a blossoming tree, bearing the fruit of success.  How blessed, how fortunate, how happy.

And now our psalmist changes tack: Not so, he says, the wicked. How different are the wicked, how very different. They are like chaff blown around by the wind” (Psalm 1: 4 New Jerusalem Bible). They are impermanent, ephemeral, without roots, useless, drifting, always changing their story, telling new lies. They are blown by the inconstant winds here and there, never amounting to anything. They are all desperation and no dreams. All vanity and vainglory. All dust in the wind.

The path of the wicked is doomed; it is a dead end. It is death and nothing more. The wicked are dust and detritus caught in a current of wind. They cannot stand in the face of judgment. They have no root, no depth. They will not endure. They will not prevail.

But the blessed one, the fortunate and happy one, is intimately known by God, is looked over and protected by God. The assembly of the just is kept safe by the LORD. Our lives, cluttered as they are with chaos, bombarded from without and inflamed within by anxiety and fear are known by God, and are protected. We are fortunate, and blessed, even happy. Thanks be to God.

Dahood, Mitchell, Psalms 1 – 50: Introduction, Translation, and Notes. Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc. 1966. Text.

McCann, J. Clinton. Commentary on Psalm 1. https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2452