Imagine
You and I,
we are
a Mystery
we keep trying to solve
with holy books and
taking vows to claim
our holy titles
so we can paint them on
our holy clubhouses and
print membership cards.
But Mystery
isn’t holy or
in need of clubs
or bibles.
Sometimes it’s quite
profane and
laughs and scoffs at
titles.
Imagine
how free to
finally see
You and I,
we are
a Mystery.
Sorry, Word Dude
According to my man
Webster,
Guardian of Words,
(see what happens
if you break one of his
artitrary and capricious
rules),
according to him
The Supreme Being
alone
owns the word
Divine.
Sorry, Word Dude,
but when it comes to
Divine,
I am herewith
drawing a line.
Now watch me
step over it.
You belong
over here
too.
It’s Not Too Late
I sat with my Self
this morning,
sharing a cup of
strong coffee.
We had a little talk,
actually
it was big:
I confessed my sins.
All the times I
turned my back
on him and
trusted another to
tell me who he is
and how he should be,
when he was
right there in front of me
the whole time.
He embraced me
and we
had a good laugh.
Then he reassured me
it’s not too late.
I think I could learn
to love that guy.
Photo by Sue Christenson Gillard
Rise Up!
I’ve been but once,
but once is enough
to know that for the next
Year of our Lord
I want to rise up
and celebrate
all the Sacraments of Easter
in New Orleans,
where Churches bust out
into Royal Street parades,
with white linen dresses
and seersucker suits,
ancient convertibles
and carriages drawn
by mules kin to the donkey
Jesus rode into Jerusalem
to get the dancing started.
Papal Bull
In the year 1582,
by way of papal
bull(sh-nicker),
New Year’s Day
was moved to
the Dead of Winter,
after being celebrated
on April 1
for practically ever;
on or about the
Springtime Equinox.
Makes perfect sense:
new beginnings and
all that.
One rumor has it
that those who
played the rebel
and flew the vernal bird
under the Pope’s
should-have-minded-
his-own-damn-business
needlenose
were called
April Fools.
Clowning and trickery
ensued, to rattle
the righteous order.
Which is why I declare that
clowns and tricksters
everywhere
should seize the day
from the Popery
and start our year,
um,
yesterday.
Apologetics
I apologize in advance
for my errant theology,
but I must come clean.
I must confess
that when
Easter morning dawns,
I will not be lit up
with what I now
believe to be
misplaced gratitude
that God
was somehow placated
and decided not to
execute me for my
unoriginal sins,
because his firstborn
was executed instead.
No! God forbid
that unwitting
twisted tale, or
so it seems to me.
Instead,
I will be awash
in joy, laughing at
the ungodly notion
that death’s sting
could survive an
avalanche of love
that buried an empty,
useless tomb in
endless victory.
My Epiphany
I realize
I have my holy days
mixed up,
but I’m going with
my “Epiphany” today
anyway.
I realize
the “born with
sinful nature”
appended to my
birth certificate
was a type o’
graphic error.
It was supposed to read
“is in full nature
a creature formed
by adoring love, just
like every creature.”
I realize
the error of
my ways
and want to
spend my days remaining
laughing about
that typo
and doing a complete
rewrite
that will make
the Creator
open Her mouth
and say
“Now we’re talkin’!”
Con Man
Smacking my Self
on the forehead,
but with the grin
of a prisoner
just released from
a life sentence,
while I still have a life.
Whatever possessed me
(Whoever possessed me?)
to believe that
Whoever is going about
stamping “HOLY”
on only a certain few
of the Creator’s
infinite collection of
objets d’art
is anyone other than
a con man
armed with
a counterfeit stamp
hoping to turn
some sort of
illicit profit.
Sanctum
If you sit
and wait,
the Door to
The Mystery
will open to you.
It’s your private entrance, so
The Doorkeeper
will have lit
a Path
meant only
for you.
If I were you,
I wouldn’t be
cranking up the presses
to print maps
to your doorway,
or offering
guided tours of
your path,
from an auditorium
in some
Mystery Visitor & Conference Center.
But Doorkeepers
love it
when you are moved to
come out of
your Sanctum,
especially you introverts,
to get close enough to
people, even
the annoying ones,
to whisper,
just in passing:
“Find a place to
sit for awhile.
There’s a Doorkeeper
who would love
to show you
the Door.”
I’m Working On It
There is a parallel universe
you can enter
where your
Protestant Work Ethic
is treated
by a team of
skilled caregivers:
Children,
perhaps your own,
or your grandchildren.
The same ones Jesus said
would show you how to
get into the Kingdom.
Unless you’re
too busy.
Or easily offended
when they laugh
about your disbelief
in imaginary friends,
or your ignorance
of Magic,
or your failure
to work on
a play ethic.