Sabbatawhat?

Recently I’ve been reading Eugene Peterson’s memoir, The Pastor, and have been down-right shocked by how encouraging it is. There are so many alternative voices and pressures out there; so many odd and competing ideas about what a pastor should be. But here is a guy who gets it. So I was especially glad to find and finally steal a brief article by him on the mysterious little thing we call ‘sabbatical.’ Once again, he gets it.

SABBATICAL IS NOT STUDY LEAVE

Eugene H. Peterson

The sabbatical is an entrenched tradition in academia. University professors, committed to the life of the mind, get them regularly every seventh year. And well they should. This life of the mind, teaching and thinking, is strenuous. The mind tires, grows stagnant, begins to repeat itself. The annual invasion of students, their curious and questioning minds strangely mingled with ignorance and sloth, constitutes a formidable challenge to a professor.

Academia exists to protect and develop knowledge, but knowledge is not a dead thing in a book. It's a living dialectic; it requires fully alive professors to maintain it. If knowledge disintegrates into cliché‚ or soddens into data, intelligence is betrayed and the mind dulled. And so the schools provide for regular renewal of the professorial brain cells by providing sabbaticals.

But pastors, committed to the life of the spirit, a life at least as strenuous, if not more so, than the life of the mind, rarely get sabbaticals. I wonder why, for the spirit also tires, grows stagnant, begins to repeat itself. The weekly assembly of Christians, their hungry-and-thirsty-after-righteousness lives strangely mingled with sin and sloth, constitutes a formidable challenge to the pastor. The sanctuary exists to protect and develop holiness, but holiness is not a packaged attitude that can be sold to Sunday god-shoppers. It is life at risk before God, dangerously and awesomely at risk, and it needs fully alive pastors to represent it. If the life of faith is reduced to a church program or into jargon, the gospel is betrayed and the spirit dulled. Yet churches make little provision for renewal of spirit in those they set as overseers for the renewal of their spirits.

The omission impoverishes the church's spiritual vitality. Pastors enter their ordained work centered in prayer and alive to grace; after ten, twelve, thirteen years they find they simply don't have the energy for a life of prayer, of spirit. One after another and year after year, they abandon the terms of their ordination and settle for running churches.

A curious irony has occurred in the midst of this. Churches have, of late, been giving pastors study leave. In my denomination it is required-two weeks each year. But why "study"? That, surely, is not my central work. I stand before a congregation each week not as a lecturer in dogmatics but to lead them in prayer, bring them the sacraments, and guide them in listening to God. Intelligence, and the cultivation of intelligence by study, is not to be slighted in this work, but it is the life of spirit that is my forte. It is the prayer, contemplation, and proclamation to which I am guardian. The sanctuary, not the classroom, is my demesne. 

I think I know what happened. Several centuries ago, the university took the practice of the sabbatical from the church and then altered it to suit its purposes. Recently, the church glanced over at the university and noticed this wonderful practice and thought a sabbatical might be a good idea for pastors, too. And so we started taking it back. But instead of taking back what they took from us, a time for renewal of spirit, we are taking back what they turned it into – a renewal of mind. The all-but-universal practice is for pastors to go to universities and seminaries for these bastard sabbaticals and take academic courses. They return to their congregations with starched and in-fashion ideas, but their spirits as baggy as ever. 

If we are going to take sabbaticals, let them be real sabbaticals: a willed passivity in order to be restored to alert receptivity to spirit – prayer, silence, solitude, worship. It is outrageous that we acquiesce to the world's definition of our word and let our unique, biblical sabbatical be put to the use of career advancement, psychological adjustment, and intellectual polish – with all the prayer and contemplation laundered out. The original intent of sabbath is a time to be silent and listen to God, not attend lectures; a time to be in solitude and be with God, not "interact" with fatigued peers. If help is to be given to the pastor in midcourse, it is not going to come by infusion of intellect but by renewal of spirit.

Leadership Journal  Winter 1988 pp.74-5.

http://www.christianitytoday.com/le/1988/winter/88l1074.html?start=1

Unsolicited advice from somewhere in the middle

Last week I read about Jesus and the woman caught in adultery (John 8.1-11). And as the Bible often does, it surprised me again with something new.

Jesus knew his Hebrew Bible, he knew it said the situation warranted a death penalty. He also knew his religious opponents wanted to catch him fudging it so they could prosecute him accordingly.

The irony is scalding. Here’s a bunch of zealous Bible-readers in a white-knuckle frenzy against the very one their Bibles are about. How does this happen? How does something meant to lead people to Jesus become the very thing used to thwart him?

“Okay, stone her,” Jesus said. “But let the ones who’ve never sinned throw first.”

Sheer brilliance. On my good days I can honestly say I love Jesus but even on the less than good ones I can always say I admire him. That was a tight spot. And I imagine it might’ve felt like a bit of a gamble, given the company he was in. Who could be sure there wasn’t at least one within that self-righteous group who imagined himself sinless?

The phrase that caught me last week was this: the older ones first. The gamble worked, thank God, the mob dispersed. And it was the older ones who left first.

I’m not old yet. The stats tell me I’m likely somewhere in the middle. It’s a strange place to be, this midway. It means I can easily remember what it was like to be young, and I can almost hear what it will be like to be old. From this place I know that unsolicited advice is very unlikely to find its mark. But I’m not crusty yet. There’s still enough youth in my veins to give this a shot.

So here goes: Allow yourself space to be uncomfortable because there is more freedom in questions than answers. Truth is slippery when we try to grip it, like water through the fingers, but it comes free and undeserved when we’re tired and thirsty, like beer from a friend. In the church we call this ‘grace,’ but it’s true everywhere: Life gets smaller when we hold on tight and bigger when we lift our heads and listen.

As far as I can tell, faith is like that. It’s more like listening than gripping, more like accepting a gift than crunching data.

The temptation for you and I at this point is to think we already know this. We nod at quaint thoughts about a relationship with God as if we’ve already checked that item on our list. “Next, please.” But the checklist is fooling us. The most important truths neither fit in boxes nor line up beside them waiting for checkmarks. The big truths take a whole life to learn, over and over again.

The one on my mind at the moment is this: We don’t have faith in Jesus because the Bible has informed us about the mysteries of God, of which he is one. We have faith in Jesus because God enables us to trust him like a man trusts his wife or a close friend.

That sounds a bit weird. Or it should anyway. After all, we’ve never met Jesus in the flesh. But this is where the Bible comes in. With God’s help we can know Jesus through this book and through others who’ve believed it. And that’s the spot we’re in. Like a mob of religious Bible-believers surrounding the one it’s all about.

I used to think that faith in God meant knowing a lot of things about him, that my faith would grow by keeping hold of what I already knew and carefully adding more and more knowledge until one day I had all the answers. As a young man I would’ve been one of the last to finally drop his stone.

So here’s a request from a guy somewhere in the middle: Please don’t make the same mistake. It’s better to be dirt-level and sobbing at the feet of Jesus than disappointed by his grace and walking away.

Ears like a fish. Talking about Jesus without saying anything.

             Whatever else ‘Evangelical’ means today it is at least an effort to keep things simple, to share the gospel with Jesus front and centre. And although the Anabaptist movement seems at times to enjoy a self-sustained identity crisis, we are nonetheless consistently fond of the fact that we ‘do our theology on the run.’ There are of course great strengths to both of these characteristics. But combined they tend to mean our gospel proclamation can lack a basic self-awareness. When it comes to talking about Jesus - to use a phrase common in my neck of the woods – we like to jus get ‘er done. This is a perfectly appropriate mode of action for gathering hay before a storm or firewood in late Fall. But for communicating the gospel across cultural differences, it has not served us well.

            In order for me to speak responsibly to a person from a different culture I need to know three things thoroughly: My culture, the other culture and the message I want to convey. Evangelicals typically put the order the other way round and run out of zeal halfway through. We are keen on knowing our message, keen to appear keen on knowing other cultures, and mostly oblivious to whatever value might come from knowing our own. The result is that we have much to say, very little idea how it sounds and no idea when to stop speaking. In other words, we are terrible listeners.

I live in traditional Stl’atl’imx territory and there is a diagnosis here for this kind of problem: Wa7 ícwa7 st’éna7, t’síla tsóqwaoz – “You have no ears, like a fish.” The body of Christ has made its way across cultural lines in my home and native land with ears more or less resembling the empty spaces on the sides of a trout’s head.

The first step toward better attentiveness is a simple confession: Everything you and I say is tangled-up with our culture. There is a constantly spinning loop between our view of the world and the impression that world is having back on us as we view it. And we can no sooner extract ourselves from this loop than inspect the backs of our own eyeballs. Our culture is where we are, how we’re there, what we make of it and what it makes of us. Sounds a bit creepy, putting it that way. But it needn’t be. All creatures are made who and what they are by their particular time and place – and humans have simply given this aspect of our createdness a name, we call it our ‘culture.’

 Whether it was a thick-skinned Viking beached on the shores of Newfoundland or a lost Italian looking for India, our first impressions on this land established a posture and pace we have not significantly adjusted. Frantic self-preservation and gold-struck busyness have characterized the so-called ‘dominant’ culture here ever since.

In political terms our movement across this continent has been one of the most haphazard and self-absorbed examples of colonialism in the history of human expansion. In social terms we have isolated individuals from and against one another as if Darwin were a prophet. Economically, we have institutionalized greed and treated this land like an impossibly infinite resource at our disposal. And epistemologically we have applied our consumerist lust to certainty, as if knowledge itself were a frontier-land available for immediate possession.

Is this our culture? Is this the loop in and from which we view others and the world around us? We could put a more positive spin on it: The freedom within an open-market economy, the respect and order of a liberal democracy, the technologies of modern science, all have many good things to offer. But is this the Christian calling? Should we be spinning our loops for the sake of attracting people to Christ? Can’t we just let Jesus stand, front and centre, without all our cultural baggage?

As it turns out, Jesus only complicates things further. Once he’s part of the picture there’s not just the loop between me and my culture, there’s also the one between the Father, Son and Holy Spirit somehow woven in there too.

Yes, I am for better or worse a product of my culture. But with Jesus I am also, for better, a product of God’s grace. And it’s sharing that latter bit – the invading love of God in our lives – that is our primal objective. But here’s the problem: The two loops are inseparable. I am a creature so I can no sooner remove myself from my time and place than I can usurp the throne of the Creator himself. But I am also a new creation, I am ‘already and not yet’ caught up into something we might call a redeemed culture: The Spirit-filled life of Christ. 

At this point we could get so twisted in our overlapping loops that far from jus gettin’ ‘er done, we might never even get started. But Jesus doesn’t just complicate things and leave us to it. He is also the way through the tangle and into some new possibilities for how to tell the story about him.

Jesus is both a first-century Palestinian Jew and also the One in whom all cultures hold together. He is, like the rest of us, a creature of his place in history. But unlike anyone else, he is also the Creator of history itself. There is a paradox in that, but that’s what it takes to describe the mystery that is the life of Christ. It is a fertile paradox, and it corresponds to our challenge about speaking the gospel across cultures.

As followers of Jesus we are stewards of a message that is irremediably twisted by our own stories – but it is a message that is also the very plotline of creation. There are two poles to this, and as with most of the tensions within our faith, there will always be pressures toward resolution in favour of one over the other. On the one hand are those who would leave Jesus in his original culture and thereby have little to offer anyone else’s. On the other are those who would idealize Jesus, cut him loose from his creaturely loop, and the result is the smothering both of his humanity and ours. What we need is a way of holding the two together; both the fact that Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever and the fact that we, to the glory of God, are not.

My home church is small, plain and willing to admit that we don’t have big, fancy answers to the problems we face. But we’ve also done a thing or two right. One was inviting ourselves onto the local Indian Reserve to listen to our neighbours’ stories. No gospel presentation, no alter-call, no soft-sell literature available at the back. Just plain ol’ listening. We’ve done this several times now but the best so far was a couple of years ago.

At the end of the day a large Aboriginal Elder – broad shoulders, deep face, long gray-flecked ponytail; not a Christian – motioned to speak, and the room gave him the respect he was due. “You people, what you’ve done today,” he began, “you’ve given me courage.” Then he paused and collected himself, “Now I don’t have to think that all Christians are assholes anymore.”

Now, I’d like to spare readers the mistake made by many who first ‘listened’ to that comment. Yes, there is a colloquial potty-word there, but let’s not allow the profanity to distract us from the significance of the statement. (If we recoil at the way most normal people speak then we have more to learn about listening than this short article can offer.) This man was naming a former obstacle between himself and his Creator, “all Christians,” and that obstacle had just become a passable boundary. Listening is what prompted the change. Why? Why did seeing Christians listen to his people give him courage? How did a simple gesture inspire such a massive shift?

Listening does something radical, paradoxical even. Listening conveys an attitude in keeping with the mystery at the crux of our faith. Jesus is from the very centre of triune life but he did not cling to his divine culture as if it were superior to ours. He emptied himself. Although we cannot repeat that miracle exactly – we can’t completely ‘empty’ ourselves of our own cultural ties – we can open ourselves to the others for whom Christ came. We can listen to them.

We do, of course, still have a message to speak. Jesus didn’t command us to go into all the world and listen to other cultures. But too much mouth-first fervour eventually contradicts our message. Yes, eventually, the message does have an offensive edge. But as stewards of the story about Jesus it is our responsibility to make sure we don’t offend people before they get to the offensive part. Jesus is supposed to be the Stumbling Block, not us. Many people in our world today are just beginning to stand after tripping over Christian messengers and the last thing they want to do is swallow another culturally suffocating religious sales pitch.

It was our own cultural-religious impulse to speak first and ask questions later that got this backwards in the first place – and so no amount of yet more talk will turn things around. At this point if we want to make a difference we need to start making our way differently. We need to start listening.

And when the conversation does finally come round to Jesus? I for one am not going to tie myself in knots trying see the backs of my eyeballs. Sure I’ll do my best to keep my own cultural tangles out of the message. But I’ll also rest assured that Jesus is not restricted by the terms of his introduction. He is after all the one who created my eyes in the first place. And yes, thank God, my ears too.

A shorter version of this first appeared in the MB Herald, November 2011. See www.mbconf.ca

The lesser of two.

One of my personal favourites is the image of a cigarette in arced profile, flaccid and droopy, with the tip shriveled in ash. The caption is hardly necessary: “Tobacco use can make you impotent.”

Thank-you, Health Canada. The ol’ “Smoking Kills” was simple and to-the-point but strangely less effective.

Readers of this blog hardly need such a crass warning. We’re intelligent adults. We think with our heads. We know. Inhaling the airborne effluent of smouldering tobacco is unhealthy. We shouldn’t do it. Enough said.

But what about television? Hardly anything is said anymore about the healthiness of T.V.

Kurt Vonnegut is one exception: “Future generations will look back on TV as the lead in the water pipes that slowly drove the Romans mad.”

Did ancient Romans solder their plumbing with lead? I don’t know. I missed that episode on the History Channel. But it would be a pretty dumb thing to do. Lead is very unhealthy.

Kurt figures television is like lead-laced drinking water. It make us ‘mad,’ foggy-thinking political pushovers. Is he right? Does a steady diet of passive entertainment tapped and swallowed in the comfort of our own homes somehow reduce the strength and character of our culture?

In the past week, Christopher Hitchens and Vaclav Havel have both died from decades of tobacco use.  Here a morbid question presents itself: What if instead of smoking they had watched T.V.? A straight trade, time spent sucking on a tube of tobacco for time spent staring at a tube of boob. For one, they would almost certainly still be alive. But how alive? And alive as whom?

Kim Jong Il also died a few days ago. Notoriously little is known about the secretive dictator. But we do know that he once kidnapped and held hostage a movie Director for the purpose of creating one of the few gifts that he gave to his masses.

Whatever else can be said of Havel and Hitch, neither was a pushover or a passive thinker. And it’s no secret that the deceased Supreme Leader was a manipulative despot.

Just a quick skim of recent obituaries, and of the two evils, television is looking the worse from where I sit.

We all know that tobacco is unhealthy. We know it so well that we have sent smokers hovelling to the margins of our vocational and social lives. The only thing our culture knows with equal measure about T.V. is that it is mysteriously integral to our fragile economy and unimpeachable in our most intimate spaces.

We approvingly endure the mini infomercials before our videos because they assure us it’s the tobacco companies that are trying to make a life-sucking habit look acceptable. The tacit message: The Entertainment industry (good guys) will helpfully identify the bad guys (peddlers of harmful addictive stimulants).

It’s an apples-to-oranges comparison, true, since T.V. can’t “kill” us in the simple sense. But a refrain from an Adbusters culture-jam comes to mind: “Do you spend more time watching sex on T.V. than actually making love?”

Maybe Health Canada should expand its campaign.

Television may not make life shorter, but there’s a good chance it’ll make it smaller.

Creepy

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

- Gerard Manley Hopkins, “God’s Grandeur”

Sometimes people admire me even though they don’t know anything about me. This always creeps me out. The person they admire is of course someone entirely different from me and in fact someone entirely different from anyone who actually exists. On days when I’m in a gracious mood I can chalk this up as a vocational hazard. On the days when I’m feeling especially unlike the imaginary spiritual action figure in question, patience comes less easily. The latter kind of days have been more common recently so I've been finding myself eager to drop an F-bomb or pick up a cigar or lay down some smack, just to etch an exclamation mark behind what I’d really like to say: Foo. Dat. Idol.

Several Greek Church Fathers, a few scholastic monks and a handful of retro-hip modern theologians all say that you and I are like the Trinity in at least one very important way: We have our ‘being in relation.’ By that I think they mean that we don’t first exist all cozy and complete and then go around making incidental relationships. No, they say, that would be backward. Instead, our lives are meant to be something closer to the other way round: We find, discover and receive our identities from others in the throes of our relationships with them. Identity is not the nugget inside, the island, the ‘substance’ beneath it all. Identity is the gift our friends and family inject into our spiritual bloodstream by acknowledging us as the person we are becoming. This is  true of whatever weekly jousts we might have with the gas-station attendant and of however we might know the Father through the Son by the Spirit.

In other words, I’m not me unless everyone who knows me keeps knowing me as the person we are collectively creating.

But let’s bring this back from brink of deep-thought gibberish: We are whoever the people we love allow us to be.

And yah, that’s loaded. What if we’re lousy at love? I’ve heard that’s common. Or what if the people we manage to love are occasionally grabby, selfish dinks? Also common, I’ve heard. Or, now back to the point, what if some of the people in our lives ‘know’ us as someone we really aren’t?

I’ve been a dad for twelve years now. And each of those twelve years is filled with twelve months of four weeks where most days I respect my own parents more. They were the first to acknowledge me as the person I am becoming today, and somewhere in those early years I was given a sense that I don’t need to pretend to be anyone else. I have no idea how that worked except that it likely had something to do with courage and trust and their uncanny ability to allow me to make my own mistakes.

It would be a mistake to accept my identity from people who don’t really know me.

And it’s no mistake that ‘know’ can be a euphemism for love.

Those who do know/love me know that although I might have a weakness for cigars, I don’t ‘lay down smack,’ can’t cuss without sounding dumb and am nowhere near as impressive as the idealized mirage of a spiritual hero that some people want me to be. On my good days I’m okay disappointing the confused caravan of some people. They’ll have to get over it. It would be good for them to get over it. On the more common days, the days when there are more mirage seekers than grace givers, I can almost hear my soul crack in the baking sun of false admiration. Ack. Blech. Gasp.

On those days it’s up to the frazzled shards of my childhood faith to creep and crawl back from the pounding hooves. Let the caravan pass. 

And let me find again the soothing shade of God’s Grandeur.

Big Tent. Big Kicks. Big Mess.

I live in a town where most people are plainly not interested in Jesus. There are many possible reasons for this disinterest but one in particular comes to mind today: Christians. My hunch – and ‘hunch’ is putting it mildly – my hunch is that people don’t bother with Christ because they are already bothered by Christians.

The immanent second coming of the ‘Jesus Christ is Lord Gospel Tent Rally’ is a case in point. If the nature of their last visit is any indication, the purpose of this event will be to ‘share’ Jesus by blaring religious clichés at excruciating decibels from a pop-up tent on the lawn at the Community Centre.

A week ago signs appeared in Pemberton advertising something variously described as a “Tent Rally,” a “Revival,” a “Gospel Meeting,” or in one ominously vague, less-is-more case, simply as "Jesus." 

No-doubt in a calculated effort to be relevant within the current economic context, the signage imbibed a distinctly frugal tone. Clearly intended for re-use, the plastic-board signs all followed a simple pattern: Stenciled in large, bright letters across the top were the various titles about Jesus etc. while the bottom halves were reserved for pasted sheets of paper with event-specific details. Within a day or two the weather had wrinkled the paper and made the ink bleed, but a determined observer could still discern info about location, dates and times.

Within a week the signs had been significantly modified. It was curious at first. Had the organizers suddenly adjusted their plans? Was this some kind of newfangled marketing stunt? The careful but rushed style of the emendations matched the original design, but the content was considerably different, and strange.

Eventually we got it: This had been a rogue re-branding campaign and Chuck Norris was the aptly chosen figurehead. Well-played Pemberton. And leaving the original papers unedited was a nice touch too. The scene comes easily to mind: Swarms of aggression addicts amped for big kicks and fast punches arrive to a very different kind of show, filled instead with guilt trips and judgment jabs.

I have only one qualm with the signs, in either form. Slight variations aside, there is a consistent and conspicuous omission on every one. Standard event advertising includes basic contact information. But on these, there was none. No phone number, no website or email address, not even an organization name to Google.

Maybe they were in a hurry and this was just a clerical oversight.

Or maybe this was an unintentional way of providing one more very relevant piece of information: We will do the talking. You will do the listening.

But here’s the thing: Unilateral communication is kind of like a Chuck Norris punch in the face, its not really “co-mmunication,” it’s a contradiction in terms.

If I were a vegetarian [this is a hypothetical scenario for rhetorical purposes only] and you graciously wanted to ‘share’ your bacon-wrapped tenderloin with me, I would need an opportunity to explain my culinary convictions to you. But if as I opened my mouth to do so, you mistake my gaping jaws for an invitation to jam a juicy morsel down the hatch, we have a problem.

In Pemberton, we have this problem. Enter Chuck Norris.

When we presume someone wants what we are willing to give – even if we genuinely feel really, really generous about it – it’s not ‘sharing,’ it’s just presuming. And when presumption like that takes action, people get ticked-off, things get screwed-up and, as in this case, big nasty stereotypes rise again.

Maybe I’m overreacting here. So what if the last time this revival preacher arrived in Pemberton it marked the seventh all-time-history appearance of a three-piece suit in this town? Honest mistake. We all overdress from time to time. Some of us just happen to overdress especially flamboyantly, that’s all. And, let me assure you, it is far beneath me to judge a man by his clothes. Or by his gold jewelry. Or his Mercedes.

I might be able to appreciate that in some churches a preacher should appear, sound and behave in ways different than mine. I might be able to appreciate that.

Not sure.

What I am sure about is that most people in this town see the bling and hear the racket and immediately take several giant steps backward. The less inhibited and more jovial might pick up some paint and a Sharpie to conjure the help of a fast-fisted hero, but the majority will give the spectacle a passing glance then chalk it up as yet another entry on their own personal list of reasons for dismissing Christianity. And - this ought not need be said - when people dismiss Christianity, they usually dismiss Jesus right along with it.

The people of Pemberton are, presently or potentially, my friends. So if you come here and yell at them for a couple days, I am likely to get miffed. But if you come here and yell at them for a couple days in Jesus’ name, ‘miffed’ no longer captures it. 

Here’s a surprise: Even fully miffed, I’m no Chuck Norris. But let me put this in a way that doesn’t pull any punches: ‘Jesus Christ is Lord’ – Amen! I believe it! And I also believe that a ‘Gospel Tent Rally’ of the sort we saw in Pemberton last Fall is just about the worst possible way to make that statement in this town.

To Whoever-You-Are: Would you please contact me to discuss your plans for Christian outreach in Pemberton?

Also: If you haven’t disposed of it yet, I’d sure like that one about the grilled cheese as a souvenir.

Cordially,

Paul Cumin

paul@crux.ca

604.905.9404

Prolepsis

Within one 24-hour stretch

last week, I sat in the dark

with a young man

who thought death looked pretty good,

and stood in the lights

of an Emergency Room

with a middle-aged one

who desperately wanted to live.

The day after, I had arrived

late into a large, carpeted church-room

stuffed with well-tucked presentation

and half-embraced deep thought.

Then yesterday, walking

with the big hand of my young son

happily inside mine,

I stepped past a polite homeless man.

At that moment driving by

another stranger,

Plain for those with eyes to see

that his metallic-beige SUV

was not financed

but paid in full,

It was perfectly temperate

yesterday, but his gold-tinted

windows tightly sealed,

And his clean, buttoned collar

reaching up his neck to match

the empty grip

on his face.

That moment passed,

But it has also not passed.

Nor have the others,

The dark, the lights, the room,

the hand and the strangers,

All of them linger heavy

and wait for reconciliation.

So am I, Waiting,

Expectant and leaning

forward with these

and other such thoughts

for longer than I care to recall.

Usually, I don’t

Care or recall

Usually I forget to anticipate,

stranded on the moment

beneath my feet.

Maybe forgetfulness is a mercy?

Otherwise life gets too full,

The bulk tumbles out into the darkness

or bleeds-out under the lights,

When the cup runneth over

it stains the carpet

and slips through the fingers.

Or maybe it should pile up

The cumbersome abundance

from time to time,

Lest all of life’s moments succumb

to the unconstrained present

without a stop

for the remembering that becomes anticipation.

Then, deadpan,

we glide right past it.