"Treed," a Sermon/Poem on Zaccheus

Here's a morning prayer sermon I preached at the Chapel of the Apostles in Sewanee, TN on November 28, 2012.  Click here for the video.

Luke 19: 1-10

Treed

Orange-leafed trees are blown wholly free, 

their trunks exposed. All gnarls can be seen. 

Nakedness is our cold call in this season ahead 

as we wait for Christ’s coming—king and baby.

Why did Zaccheus climb the tree?
His curiosity proved costly:
Giving money to the poor was just the half
of what a dinner with the Son of Man would mean.

Did Zaccheus know that his gift could
never be enough? His holiness fell short.
And yet salvation, impossibly, came:
though he was no young and rich ruler,
who, striving for perfection, left (un)spent. 

Christ’s loving storm removes the leaves from 

even our most secreted branches.

The wind picks up. A hum of voices nears. 

Do we know who is coming? Really?
And still we hide above the hushed crowd 

hoping that our status quo will hold.

But we cannot evade his recognition 

or his terrible warm call to serve. 

There is nothing to say but yes
to set a table and feast on forgiveness.

The Lord’s presence clothes our bare weakness 

with His reckless generosity. We
respond only to learn a holy lesson:
that the giving of half our store to the poor 

must always fail some crucial test.

And yet we commit to giving more.
Sated, Zaccheus too would serve more still.

Changed, we resist Jesus’ departure
for a final ascent up the mount before
his descent into waiting Jerusalem.
Quiet, full, and with Advent’s space ahead 

we climb that sycamore again for a new view 

not to hide, but now to see need waiting 

as the generous invitation that it always is.
We need a graceful tree so we may see.

Sandy Cove

At ten I faced its rolling waves
mesmerized by the promise of
days spent bodyboarding, eating
cheez whiz on crackers, tracking sand
into the trailer, simple meals at night.

The sand shifted mightily from year to
year: the steps to the beach at times
dangled precariously above ground.
Other trips it seemed the whole shore
swelled wave-like through the back door.
Many similar waters did that.

My friend’s beach trailer sold, but by then
high school had swirled us away.

More time still: my wife and I
overnighting in a beach cottage. Walking
the slick shore we happen upon
—as if I’d walked into my past—
that same cliff, those curls, lonesome now
with the trailers gone. The sand is down,
I can tell, even without the stair marker.

I remain fixed there
uncomprehending the loss
unsettled by the sand swells.

That hidden cove haunts:
cleaving pitifully to its sandy trove
protected by a gnarled cliff that spun off
days’ worth of tight left-breaking curls, the
morning waves fish-filled aquariums,
so quickly drained.

Given to Water

the pebbled beach stretches before us 

yawns, still waking up

insistent waves rake against rock

baptizing shore incessantly

with Robin in my arms I jog imbalanced

a 25-pound toddler clinging to my left while 

the ground slopes seriously to the right

given to water

so is she: wiggling loose from grip, I let her down

and watch her waddle-sprint across the wind-whipped beach

last spent waves greet little shoes

bell-like laughs ring from her belly

I scoop her up and stride farther still

until, passing a dilapidated dock

we spook a heron into flight:

startled, speechless, we witness

primal escape to safety

now loping more easily, the sand sturdier here

I turn in circles as I run with Robin

“moh,” “moh” she cries and signs

we dance, we two, to a song of creation

divinely designed in Eden to harmonize 

the two of us to each other, to all people

the kingdom of heaven a concert of 

insistent waves and herons wings

belly laughs and serious sand

given to water

Sunday Prayer and Poem: Tread and Wait

O very real God, who knows our pain as fellow sufferer and sojourner along life's way, grant that we may comprehend the fullness of your risen life so that our hope may be sustained in the face of the brokenness that surrounds us; through Christ our Lord, who makes all things whole and all matters new.  Amen.

Tread, and Wait

Our Father plows furrows
ever deeper into our hearts, so that He who is in heaven
may be glorified by weary feet
trudging alongside that coming kingdom, bearing a
portion of its willed freight
the footsteps joined in happy pilgrimage wear down
this godly trail till the earth brings forth
its luminous fruit.
And so we tread on holy ground, and wait.

Sea Trees

Waves crashing into coved tide pools

stir confused water back upon itself, sideways

all around

leaves follow this wild watery course when

wind blows their slender trees in every direction

cauldrons of chlorophyll

could anything be as complicated

or as simple?

Reference

I used to number the pages of
my journal for easy reference
but life presents itself more and more
as mystery, not index
memories slide in part across pages

I am left with present perspectives
a tree of roughed, mossed bark
I am given more than I am at
the Lord's table
itself sufficient guide of leaves not ordered
but fallen.

Smells like Rain

When there's more air than rain

when it's just started to fall

its soiled smell opens up

memories 

the afternoon Salvadoran shower:

mango leaves rustling, road dust mingling

reminder that rain cleanses, stirs up

and puts to rest.

Destination: Mailbox

A Lenten series on naming grace:


Forty five degrees, clear, orange sun setting behind leafless trees:
we're off to the mailbox, walking
she and I in different directions.

Robin's found the gentle grassed slope back up to our house and I
turn and watch her
bell-shaped by a coat, bow-legged trudging away from me

This is parenting
and gratitude.