A new look at Sunday worship

Every Sunday football’s faithful
robed in sacred color schemes
chant their praises to the pigskin god on high.
In cathedrals (domed and open)
these devoted fans converge
raising arms (as if in worship) to the sky.

On the field a reenactment
of some ancient sacrifice
calls to mind the gladiator’s brute and gore.
With vicarious allegiance
those who look-on feel the pain
as they pray the pigskin god will fix the score.

It’s religion pure and simple.
There’s a liturgy observed
by the priests with whistles clad in black-and-white.
And the banners they’re unfurling
call to mind transgressions made
making clear the cost of penance in plain sight.

The conversion rate is stunning.
New believers fill the seats
as they flock each week to find community.
It’s a fellowship like family
where nobody feels alone.
That is why it is their faith’s identity.

What was once a fun amusement
has become idolatry.
Even pastors cancel church for play-off games.
Yes, the Lord’s Day has been tackled
and then sidelined (left for dead)
and the worst part is it’s happened without shame.

What we can learn from Mike McCarthy and Bill Belichick;
From Wall Lake to Moon River

A Tale of Two Coaches
What we can learn from Mike McCarthy and Bill Belichick

Two head coaches. Two reactions
to what seemed two dreadful calls
as replacement refs disgraced the game we love.
Mike McCarthy of the Packers
swallowed hard but didn’t swear
while Bill Belichick began to push and shove.

So in life we, too, have options
as we choose how we’ll respond
when what’s right or fair is fumbled, sacked or botched.
Will we leave the field in silence
knowing justice was denied
or throw tantrums or some punches due to pride.

Bad things happen to good people.
Have you read the Book of Job?
What’s deserved is often hijacked randomly.
Losers win and winners suffer
and what’s right is left to rot.
That’s the way it is and has been endlessly.

Self-control is what most matters
as we both appeal and pray
that injustice be addressed and overturned.
Our reactions are a window
to our faith and trust in God
when we don’t get paid for what we feel we’ve earned.

From Wall Lake to Moon River
A poetic tribute to Andy Williams

First Andy Griffith closed his eyes
asleep in Jesus’ arms.
Now Andy Williams left us
for that place devoid of harms.

The boy from rural Iowa
who learned to sing in church
began to dream of brighter lights
than just a choir perch.

The Wall Lake kid with faith in God
would be “Moon River” bound.
Though not that tall, he dwarfed his peers
with his most-mellow sound.

And on that “River” Andy cruised
for more than fifty years
until he docked in Branson Town
when age slowed down his gears.

He serenaded countless fans
with melodies they knew
The light still twinkled in those eyes
as he strolled into view.

His “days of wine and roses” have
at last come to an end.
And more than just his moonlit friend
was waiting ’round the bend.

Peace to his memory!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LK4pmJQ6zgM

Anticipating a closing ceremony to come

For God so loved the world
He refused to remain in the starting blocks of Heaven.
With a shot of inspiration,
He entered the human race
hurdling over the barrier of sin
in order to run alongside us.

Leaving His divine prerogatives behind,
He dove into the pool of culture
making a controversial splash in human history.
His form was impressive and His timing amazing.
No wonder He received a perfect score.
All the same His credentials were criticized
and His nationality called into question.

Crowned with a victor’s wreath,
He was paraded before an apathetic crowd
before He ascended the awards podium.
High and lifted up on an old rugged cross,
He bowed to His Father’s will.
No national anthem was heard that day.
Just a chorus of hisses and boos
and a dreadful dirge of death.

Collapsing from more than exhaustion,
His Olympic trial was over.
The marathon of obedience
had taken a greater toll than anyone had anticipated.

He had tasted of the thrill of victory
and the agony of defeat
as well as the indescribable satisfaction
of knowing His performance
would bring the grandstands to their feet
at the closing ceremony of time.

For every knee will bow (in Heaven and on earth)
and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.

A tribute to major league baseball’s oldest stadium;
A Needle in the Clouds

A Tip of the Cap to Fenway Park
A tribute to major league baseball’s oldest stadium

The very week a ship’s doomed voyage
would break a nation’s heart,*
a Boston landmark came to be.
They called it Fenway Park.

That field of dreams became the home
of Bean Town’s summer boys.
A storied place where fans would cheer
and make a lot of noise.

When Honey Fitz tossed out the ball**
on that historic day,
he had no clue his grandson Jack
would lead the USA.

The Triangle and Monster Green
would soon become old friends
to comfort those within the stands
when losses outweighed wins.

A hundred years have come and gone
since Fenway Park began.
And so we celebrate this place
beloved by Red Sox fans.

* Five days after the RMS Titanic sunk in 1912, the historic home of the Boston Red Sox opened.
** John Francis (Honey Fitz) Fitzgerald was the maternal grandfather of John F. Kennedy who (was born in 1917).

A Needle in the Clouds
Celebrating Seattle’s iconic landmark

A needle in a haystack? No!
A needle in the clouds.
A World’s Fair symbol that still draws
Seattle’s airborne crowds.

A half a century has passed
since that orange saucer lay
atop a steel beige pedestal
in rainy skies of gray.

The kid who watched the needle built
was but a boy of ten
who dined within the restaurant
while it would slowly spin.

I’m still amazed (and oh so proud)
to see the Needle stand
now that the wide-eyed little boy’s
a sixty-year-old man.

Recalling a comeback of cosmic proportions;
The Reason for the Season

The Master’s Weekend
Recalling a comeback of cosmic proportions

It appeared as though
there would be no green jacket for the Master this time.
No green palm fronds either (for that matter).
By now they were brittle and brown,
crumpled on Jerusalem’s cobblestone streets.
Had the previous Sunday parade been merely a charade?
One couldn’t help but wonder.

The customary fairway had given way to rough
treatment that was totally out of character
and totally out of bounds.
The Master’s scratch handicap
had been replaced by scars and stripes
inflicted by those whose sinful nature
he willingly embraced.

As the gallery watched,
the Master stumbled through his round.
His stance betrayed his discomfort.
Noticeably off balance, he swung
the shaft of the cross.
Awkwardly grazing the ground,
it fell (as did he).

A bystander was pressed into service quite unexpectedly.
The inexperienced caddy carried the Master’s wood
while he limped in a forward direction
wedged between a twosome of condemned players
who had not survived the cut.

The Master, in obvious pain,
found a smile for his few followers
while grimacing at the leaders.
Ignoring the marshals’ calls to be quiet,
the large disappointed crowd desecrated the silence
with rude remarks.

The Master bent low
trying to read the break he’d been denied.
What had been a “gimmie” before
had become a “why me?”
Feeling forsaken,
the Master scanned the sky (eagle eyed)
hoping (in vain) for divine intervention.
But none was forthcoming.

Having given it his best shot,
he’d reached the end of his round (fully spent).
He finished his course
and he’d kept the faith.

In the process, however, 
he’d humbled himself.
The Master (humiliated)
hung his head motionlessly.

Removed from the viewing area by his handlers,
he was written off as a failure.
His reputation was immediately buried
by analysts and pundits who attested to his demise.

But, those who claimed to know it all
didn’t seem to know the Master’s weekend
was far from over. After all,
Sunday’s final round was yet to be played.

The last day of the event began without fanfare.
By the dawn’s early light
the arrogant leaders enjoyed a leisurely breakfast,
grateful the Master was no longer a contender.
With premature pride
they proceeded to retrieve their sticks (and stones)
with which they had humbled the crowd favorite
earlier in the weekend.

But as the mist evaporated and the fog lifted,
something was amiss.
The course was significantly different
from what the leaders had anticipated.

The Master
(given up for dead the day before)
was back. Furthermore,
he was unstoppable.
His recognizable form left little doubt
why he would not be beaten.

With obvious wounds in his ungloved hand,
the Master waved to those who surrounded the hole
from which the flag (and the stone)
had been removed.

Yes, it was a comeback of cosmic proportions.
The Master reclaimed his green jacket after all.

In a blaze of glory,
wearing his coveted blazer of righteousness,
Jesus inscribed his name in the history book,
defeating death once and for all.
The score had been settled.
His signed card had been verified.

Christ is risen!
He is risen, indeed!

* The Master’s Weekend is dedicated to Pastor Glen D. Cole who died unexpectedly on February 14, 2012 in Sacramento. Glen was my friend and mentor. He loved golf almost as much as he loved his Savior and his family.

The Reason for the Season
How could we ever forget?

The reason for the season
isn’t Peeps and chocolate eggs.
It’s not the Easter bunny’s holiday.
It’s the death-defying miracle
when Jesus (doorknob dead)
left his grave clothes in a heap and walked away.

The reason for the season
finds the cosmos on its toes
in anticipation of what lies ahead.
There’s a whole new world awaiting.
The Creator’s in control
and the proof is that His Son’s no longer dead.

Yes, the reason for the season
calls for more than Sunday church
or a champagne brunch (complete with lemon pie).
It’s the confidence we’re given
(since the stone’s been rolled away)
that our caskets cannot keep us when we die.