Good Friday reflections;
The Fellowship of Feet

The Red Sea (Revisited)
Good Friday reflections

It was called “the exodus.”
An exit ramp leading from a dead-end street
to a freeway of sorts.

A nation of indentured brick makers,
bricklayers and pyramid polishers
(finally freed by a pharaoh guilty of infanticide)
packed up and headed east.

The Red Sea parted and the dust flew
as six million sandaled feet forward-marched.
A dry ocean floor became an interstate
to a promised land for which God’s chosen
had waited for four hundred years.

“The exodus” is a timeless story of redemption.
But the events surrounding the Red Sea crossing
of an enclave of Hebrew slaves
does not comprise the whole story.

Yes, the Red Sea was a highway to Sinai.
It was a dry way to freedom.
But it isn’t the only Red Sea
in which we see God at work.

Where is Paul Harvey when you need him?
The rest of the story is dying to be told.
It’s a novel ending begging to be read.
And today is the day to do just that.

As Christ clung to life and stared at death
(hanging from two crossbeams
and between two thieves),
His blood trickled like tributaries
from ruptured arteries and veins.

The leaking red elixir of life
became a river of death
flowing downward from His writhing body
to the foot of His cross.

Because the crimson-stained ground
was soon saturated by the constant stream
(from a spotless sacrificial Lamb
Moses never imagined),
the blood pooled into a sea of red.

In that crimson tide of blood
we find a second Red Sea.
It stands between us
and God’s promised redemption,
forgiveness, freedom, abundant life
and inner peace.

Until we cross this sea of red,
we are slaves to sin and selfish motives.
Until we get across it, 
we are in bondage to self-destructive
behaviors and attitudes.
Yet this bloody barrier
gives us cause for pause.

Just as the people of God
contemplated their options
as they encountered the first sea of red,
so we must determine our course of action.

Will we step forward?
Or will we just stand there?
Will we advance? Or will we retreat?

In all honesty,
there are reasons to resist taking the plunge.
Doubt, pride, disbelief, feelings of unworthiness
and rationalized feelings of contentment
with the old life.

Unlike the original Red Sea crossing,
those who step into the crimson waves
will not find a dry sea bed on which to travel.
No mighty wind and miracle divide this time.

The decision to move forward will mean
total immersion and a process of dyeing.
Those who emerge on the other side of the sea
are red-stained but clothed
in the righteousness of Christ

As such they are certified as citizens
in the land of God’s promise.
A land the Bible calls the Kingdom of God.
 
The Fellowship of Feet
Timeless principles passed down from the Upper RoomBefore the traitor had taken off,
Jesus humbled Himself
before twelve pair of familiar feet.
Feet that had run with delight in His direction
when He had first nodded in theirs.
 Feet that had walked with Himfor the better part of three years
on ‘a long obedience in the same direction.’
 Feet that had remained on a narrow path
far removed from a broader (more popular) road.
 Feet that had stumbled on stonesthrown by critics who questioned
their determined allegiance to a carpenter-turned-rabbi.
 Feet calloused by the number of times
they had squashed their doubts and trudged on in faith.
 Feet that (ironically) still longed
to climb the rungs of self-importance
in hopes of landing on a pedestal of glory.
 Feet smudged by the mud of daily compromise,
smelling of imperfect devotion.
 Feet that would soon flee in fear
when the feet (and hands)
of their Righteous Friend
were nailed to a Roman cross.
 Beautiful feet that (with the exception of one pair)
would in time climb the mountains of the earth,
finding their ultimate worth,
declaring the incredible good news that our God reigns!
 It was these feet the Savior cradled with compassion
as He rinsed and toweled them dry.
 It was this amazing act of undeserved humility
and unforgettable grace
that Jesus commanded His friends to emulate.
 And to that end we lace up our shoes
and follow in His footsteps
in the shadow of His cross.

Heartsick about ER’s last episode;
The Motorcade and The Parade

Call It a Terminal Illness
Heartsick about ER’s last episode

I’m just sick. I’m feeling awful.
Gone’s my Thursday night routine.
I cannot digest the changes.
I need Dr. Ross or Greene.

County General in Chicago
has been home for fifteen years.
Guess it felt like I belonged there
like that Boston bar called Cheers.

ER dealt with more than illness.
There was love and war, you see.
It was true-to-life and gory.
It was shocking, yet PC.

Every race was represented.
There were gays, some handicapped.
Single-parents and the homeless
Those quite wealthy. Those who’d snapped.

ER’s doctors and its nurses
had a story and a name.
Like the world in which I pastor,
they were marked by dreams and pain.

Every Thursday I made popcorn,
lit a fire, brewed some tea
and then settled back with Wendy
to catch up with family.

But that family now has vanished
and I grieving like they’re dead.
There’s a lump inside my stomach.
There’s a pain inside my head.

It’s a terminal-ish illness.
What I loved is dead and gone.
And it’s left me cold and clammy.
Come next Thursday, nothing’s on.

The Motorcade and The Parade
Obama’s reception in London is no Palm Sunday parade

The way our President was hailed
in Londonderry Town,
you’d almost think the Queen should offer
him a throne and crown.

The tabloids heralded Barack
as almost like a God.
But such a claim is poppycock,
ridiculous and odd.

The chants and cheers that greeted
the Obama’s motorcade
cannot compare to praise and palms
that marked a grand parade.

Messiah’s glory can’t be shared
by kings or presidents.
The Kingdom of our coming Christ
will dwarf all governments.

In celebration of the road less traveled;
Lessons from the Love Birds

Recovery: A Lifelong Journey
In celebration of the road less traveled

A road to freedom
(in spite of the inevitable potholes and flat tires).

A path of forgiveness
(both of others and yourself).

A street of dreams
(bypassing those all-too-familiar nightmarish dead ends).

A freeway of new beginnings
(devoid of those dreaded tollbooths that marked the old way).

An on-ramp to Transformation Turnpike
(that allows immediate access no matter where you are).

A parkway of beauty
(where you rediscover the indescribable wonder of nature).

A route of peace
(that leads beyond external happiness to inner contentment).

A highway of hope
(where the rear-view mirror gives way to the windshield).

A lifelong journey
(where the trip is as meaningful as the destination).

* The above poem is dedicated to countless friends who have made the courageous decision to acknowledge addictions and self-destructive patterns of behavior in order to begin the lifelong journey on the road called “recovery.”

Lessons from the Love Birds
What Les and Leslie Parrott teach about commitment

When it comes to love and marriage,
you should really know my friends.
They are classy, cute and funny.
Real life Barbie. Real life Ken.

Les and Leslie, like two parrots
guard the cage of love that lasts
From their perch, they glimpse the future
by reflecting on the past.

Yes, my feathered friends are love-birds
who have learned that feelings lie;
that warm fuzzies fueled by courtship
will in time sprout wings and fly.

They have also learned the secret
to what helps a marriage thrive.
Understanding and commitment.
will keep fading love alive.

More or less, both Les and Leslie
are convinced relationships
are like sailboats weighing anchor
as they leave where they’ve been slipped.

Where they travel is determined
by the way the breezes blow.
How you guide the sail and rudder,
how you act on what you know.

Ken and Barbie are but plastic.
Les and Leslie are quite real.
And their website’s more than birdseed.
It’s a fifty-five course meal.

* Les and Leslie Parrott’s popularity as psychologists and authors is attested to by the enthusiastic response that marks their marriage enrichment workshops. They are the founders of the Institute for Relationship Development at Seattle Pacific University. Their interactive website can be accessed at http://www.realrelationships.com

Why I’m crazy about March Madness;
The Worm of the Big Apple and The Death of a Newspaper

Full-Court TV
Why I’m crazy about March Madness

While on Wall Street they march madly
in their own Doomsday parade,
there’s another kind of crazy
for which I would rather trade.

It’s a lunacy I bank on
in this grim economy.
It’s a March that’s been coined madness.
Also called full-Court TV.

It’s collegiate Deal or No-Deal
played with balls like Howie’s head.
It’s a mental health diversion,
an emotional retread.

Somehow workspace walls with brackets
serve as windows for the soul.
Office pools are so refreshing
Winter blahs can take a toll.

It’s TV that’s worth the effort
(unlike 24 or Lost).
When I watch I know what’s happ’ning
from the op’ning midcourt toss.

So let’s hear it for March Madness.
Go ahead. Call me insane.
Sneakers squeaking on the hardwoods?
Love that sound. I love this game.

The Worm of the Big Apple
Lessons from Bernie Madoff’s lust for more

He made off with a ton of bucks
and now his future really sucks.
Old Bernie’s hoping prison fare
is better than he’s heard.

From Penthouse rich to big house poor,
this scoundrel’s rotten to the core.
The great big apple found its worm
and Bernie was his name.

And now that greedy slimy worm
won’t do much more than crawl and squirm.
Who duped the trusting now will pay,
but not the ones he owes.

So, what’s to learn from one like him?
Primarily that greed is sin.
A lust for more results in less
than that for which we long.

The Death of a Newspaper *
Is the P-I’s Demise a Sign of the Times?

Yes it’s true. The P-I’s folded.
It’s a sign too of the Times.
As that giant globe stops spinning,
we’d best read between the lines.

Journalism as we’ve known it
(home delivery and newsstands)
can’t survive the online revol.
Ink on newsprint has few fans.

Hearst is hurting. So’s the Tribune.
What was king is now a page.
Soon that page will be a jester.
That’s the bad news of our age.

P-I paper? Morning coffee?
Sad to say the first has died.
Once a marriage made in heaven.
Now it’s over. Have you cried?

• Having grown up in the Seattle area, I was exposed to both the morning Seattle Post-Intelligencer and the afternoon Seattle Times. The shut down of the P – I is like the death of a family member. From the time I was in elementary school, I remember paperboys on street corners and at sporting events shouting out “P – I paper!” But, alas, after more than 140 years of publishing a morning newspaper, the Post-Intelligencer is no more.