Midrash

I wrote a poem this summer for a Regent class. I got it back a couple of weeks ago with an excitable "Yes!" written in its margin by the brilliant poet Scott Cairns.

It has been graded; I am now offering it to you. It grew from an experience I had riding the "8 DOWNTOWN" bus on my way to do some gardening with Jacob's Well on a Wednesday afternoon in July.

THIS, THEN, IS HOW YOU SHOULD PRAY
Matthew 6:11

And there it is, sandwiched right in between
the kingdom, God’s will on earth
and the confusion of forgivenesses.
I pray, “Give us this day our daily bread.”
Jammed in between a student
and a steel worker on this city bus.
It snakes from the south suburban slope
into the downtown.

Riders on their way to office towers,
holding tight to hand bags and brief cases.
Riders on their way to their next fix,
money stuffed into their dirty socks.
We all sit side-by-side
or we stand
shoulder-to-shoulder, almost.
Try not to touch each other.

Caught up in keeping my well pressed pants
clean, the dirt and crumbs
have found their way into the aisle
where I stand, a shiny gadget in the palm of my hand.
A woman got on the bus just two stops after
mine. Distracted from my virtual business,
to see her. Her buzz draws my stare, then
locks it.

She digs deep into her stuffed purse.
Rhinestone charm clashes with
grimy sweat shirt. She is wasted,
skin cracked with addiction. Finding make-up,
she kneads it into her cheeks,
never really looking up.
Her chatter finds it’s way to the bus driver.
He doesn’t seem to mind. He just
listens to her. She’s been here before.

She is churning out stories of bad friends and a man with
(can you believe it?) ten thousand dollars in his pocket!
She chases a dime under the seat,
finds a sweater left behind, tries it on, she likes it.
She is ragged. I am well tailored, put together
with red accessories and rings.
Prayers somersault in my mind.
Remembering the words of my priest, “The duty of every Christian
is to share.”

Maybe if I could super-power see beyond this time
this place: Would I find a banquet?
Help set the table? Invite her to take a seat (near me)?
Here, I don’t even have lunch to share.
Arriving downtown, I leave out the back door of the bus.
Her need is daily bread, now!
Passed around a table. I pause
mid prayer. It is a wonder I even pray at all.

Camp Rant

I don't rant a lot. I'm quite amiable and the things that piss me off pass pretty fast. But this weekend my morality was compromised: I had to eat camp food.

I want to know what in God's name so many Christian camps are doing serving children, as they retreat out of the city into beautiful alcoves of God's good creation, such shit.

This weekend I watched a camp serve eager kids and loving leaders fake eggs, apple crisp made of close-to-fake apples, fake whip cream, processed meats, Eggocrapo waffles, toxic juice, etc.

My hopeful heart had a vision of year-round staff tending the land, raising the chickens, getting their hands dirty and lovingly preparing food to set before their guests. I pray for a camp food revival. I pray that camp leaders will start reading godly books like The 100 Mile Diet and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I pray that they will engage in the rich monastic tradition of our faith and embrace their gifted place in creation: to be places of worship, teaching, hospitality, retreat, and good food passed around a banqueting table.