Breaking

This poem emerged as I thought about news stories and headlines I encountered last week (April 3-9, 2016).  Many other things also happened, but those referenced in the poem capture some of my ambivalence and worry about how we imagine and talk about life today. The poem also celebrates the ways people “walk on” through and in spite and in the face of life-denying headlines. Note: Doris Day’s dog is named “Squirrely.”

They gave up the ghost this week.
No more walking dead

for now

except the comatose American economy or is it “finally waking up”?
My neighbor with the zombie car battery
who can’t get her to her minimum wage, 25 hours a week job
four miles away
doesn’t think so.

And Apple? showing its age “maturing”

while Doris Day
“turns 92, shows adorable pic with her puppy”
Squirrely

Meanwhile
Alabama governor’s future “looks bleaker”
Cruz and Sanders celebrate in Wisconsin
Mississippi protects “sincerely held religious beliefs”
Pay Pal decides not to login to North Carolina
Tennessee designates the “Holy Bible
as the official state book.”

Newsfeeds are push-back-from-the table full
while “Conflict in Eastern Ukraine leaves 1.5. million people hungry.”
Perhaps Tennessee will feed them now?
“If you offer your food to the hungry. . .”

Breaking news
Breaking into homes
Breaking onto shores
Breaking out
Just breaking
hearts
spirits
dreams
lives

But mere clicks away from Flipboard and the front page
a mama puts a Hello Kitty band aid on a skinned knee
a large hand holds a small hand as first steps are taken
a young man breaks bread with a grieving grandma
Bailey learns to ride a bike
and Chris says no to the bathroom bully.

Season finale: walking dead
It’s time, don’t you think?
to walk
away from the headlines
for a little while anyway
one foot in front of the other
alive. Finally.

Walls

A poem based on the lectionary reading for Sunday, April 3, 2016–John 20:19-31

They had locked the door,
heard the latch click
shut.

But there Jesus was anyway.
With them.

Walls were of no matter to him.

Seems odd, don’t you think,
after all the stuff Jesus made matter
in strange and wondrous ways:

Sandals with dust shaken off.
Bread broken and blessed and eaten.
Dinner tables and hillside picnics.
Nard dripping from a woman’s hair onto bare feet.
A well and a drink of water and a bucket left behind.
Lives and bodies
of a man born blind
a bleeding woman
a daughter dead
tax collectors and bread makers
and farmers sowing seeds in rain-wet fields.

Jesus made everyday stuff matter.
People’s lives mattered.

Maybe Thomas got it
when he demanded to put his hand in the wounded side
of the one for whom walls were of no matter.
Peering into that laceration–
Matter mattered.
All of it–more than we know.
More real. More mysterious.
Whole worlds
in a lesion
a loaf
a cup of water
a human life.

Maybe that’s how it all comes to matter
to us
and change us.
When we see.
Walls were of no matter to Jesus
and they should be of no matter to us.

Jesus stretches to the limits
human senses.
Immaterial materiality in a broken human body
and a resurrected truth:
We live and work and play everyday in the shoals of infinity
and here and there, now and then
walls are of no matter.
We see.
We believe.