The Singer and the Pastor

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

An video interview between Bono and Eugene Peterson

In a lakeside setting
the singer and the pastor
drink in the beauty of God’s creation
while sipping coffee
and feasting on the Psalmist’s nourishing
(tho sometimes salty) words.

It’s a candid conversation
about The Psalms
to which I was privy
(thanks to YouTube).

It’s a conversation
between Bono and his brother in Christ…
a bearded preacher
whose hoarse voice betrays a lifetime
of countless sermons
and encouraging words
to those he’s mentored.

It’s a conversation
convincing the casual Christian
and doubting skeptic
of the life-giving lyrics
of Israel’s ancient hymnal.

It’s an honest exchange.
No pretense or sense of celebrity.
An old man and a middle aged one
drinking coffee, eating cookies
and digesting “The Message”
while inviting musicians, artists,
poets and preachers
to savor the authenticity of God’s truth
with the taste buds of their soul
and praying that each will respond
with creative expression.

I’m so grateful this video visit
is going viral.
If you haven’t seen it,
I hope you will watch it.

My Mother’s Hands

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

A lasting symbol of a faithful life

My mother’s hands are gnarled and quite wrinkled.
The kiss of time has left its beauty marks.
Those slender fingers clutch for more than mem’ries.
They reach in love to comfort hurting hearts.
My mother’s hands upraised in praise to Jesus
call me to worship and to seek His face.

My mother’s hands still fold to ask God’s blessing.
They grasp His hand and hold on for dear life.
Much like a toddler takes her daddy’s fingers,
my mother clings to God with knuckles white.
My mother’s hands recall her deep devotion
inviting me to serve the Lord she loves.

My mother’s hands are strangers to an iPad.
But they make music when she’s asked to play.
An old upright or baby grand piano
provide the keys on which her fingers pray.
My mother’s hands can entertain her neighbors
while worshiping the One who owns her heart.

My mother’s hands will one day cease their motion.
Deprived of life, they’ll lay unclenched and still.
They will remind me of her faithful service
responding to a call that she fulfilled.
My mother’s hands will on that day direct me
to fix my gaze on our eternal home.

*the above poem can be sung to the tune “Finlandia”

Good Night, Sweet Prince

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Remembering a musical giant

Purple Rainman Prodigy.
Prince, you were a mystery.
Your private life it seems to me
has left us in the dark.

Doves are crying. People, too.
Paisley Park now grieves for you.
Too soon it seems your life was through.
And you died all alone.

An elevator was your tomb.
A claustrophobic sterile room
where fate would choose to seal your doom
became your final stage.

But were you going up or down?
Sweet Prince, could you see Jesus’ crown
from where you stood as you were bound
for that unearthly place?

You were a giant, though quite short.
And when you have your day in court,
when God the Judge gives His report,
I’m praying He’ll show grace.

Good night, Sweet Prince may angels sing
a melody that dulls the sting
that follows death when sorrows bring
a pain that haunts the heart.

Our Father in Heaven

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

A poetic paraphrase of the Lord’s Prayer

Our Father in Heaven we pause now to pray
enveloped by pressures on earth.
We struggle to trust You when life hems us in
or when critics question our worth.

We honor Your name Elohim, Adonai,
El Shaddai, Tzevaot, Yahweh, too.
Most Holy, Almighty, Compassionate One,
You are just, ever faithful and true.

We welcome Your Kingdom, Your Highness, we’re Yours
surrendered to what You allow.
Your will is what matters for You know what’s best.
So we (in humility) bow.

May You reign supremely in Heaven and here
accomplishing what You deem best.
A Kingdom of kindness, forgiveness and love,
of order, rich beauty and rest.

We pray that this day we’ll be nourished with food,
by our friendships, the arts and Your Word.
Our bodies and spirits rely on Your grace
lest our focus on Truth becomes blurred.

Forgive us our failures, O Father, we pray.
We stumble so often it seems.
Our willful desires breed actions that wound
while exposing our self-centered schemes.

But only forgive us, dear Father, we pray
as we are inclined to forgive
the ones who have wronged us. May we offer grace
even though it’s so hard to give.

Temptations that threaten our lives loom ahead.
Like landmines they can’t be perceived.
Please, Father, protect us and guard us from harm
and the evil that seeks to deceive.

Deliver us daily from sin’s unseen traps
that trip up those blind to their pride.
Admitting our weakness, we ask for Your help,
God of mercy in You we confide.

For Yours is the Kingdom to which we belong.
It’s glory, dominion and might
defy understanding and can’t be explained
by the smartest (no matter how bright).

By faith we submit to Your unending reign.
As Your children we live quite assured
that what You intend, loving Father, is good.
And that what we’ve just prayed has been heard.

Amen!

My Favorite Uncle’s Annual Appeal

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

Why I hate Tax Day

Hey, did you see my Uncle Sam?
He’s holding out his empty hand
demanding that for which I’ve worked
to pay for what he needs.

Like those who beg with cardboard signs,
my Uncle claims he’s in a bind.
And what is bad, I can’t say no.
He’s good at guilting me.

I hate this taxing time of year
when Sam makes his intentions clear.
He wants a handout from us all
and doesn’t bat an eye.

You’d think by now he’d find a way
to change his tune and start to pay
for what it takes for him to live
from his own cash reserves.