The Road to Emmaus

This road is old,

the surface cracked,

the grass that sprouts

there briefly green

before it withers

to gold. A caravan

of ants harvests

the seeds that have

fallen into the cracks.

They don’t see the

guided bomb that falls

upon the power plant.

Dust and ash tints

their backs from black

to sooty gray.

The thud of the

explosion knocks

the grains of wild rye

and barley from their jaws

and collapses the tunnels

and corridors of their

carefully constructed

sand palace underneath

the cobbles of the road.

They just resume

their tasks of moving

grains of sand and seeds.

By sundown, the passages

and storerooms have been

repaired, their cargo stowed.

Two people walk along

the road discussing what

has happened, what

they have seen and heard,

fearful of the noise and heat

and the promised peace

that hasn’t closed the breach

between prophesy and what the

powerful call “facts on the ground.”

A stranger joins them and

points out the ants, the facts

that persist underground.

The lowly ones don’t ask,

they shake off the dust,

continue their tasks. 

It might have been Easter

 I had not trod

this road before.

It was still fresh

from the moist

months that were

just ending.

As I crested the ridge

and gazed at

the sloping swale,

there was a large

oak, the spring time

leaves emerging

bright and somehow

fluttering without

a breeze.

And they were singing!

Because they weren't

actual leaves; it was

a thousand fold wonder

a multitude of gold finches.

A chorus of angels

celebrating a world reborn.

I can summon that sight

and that glorious song

whenever I need it,

and I have countless times

over the many springs

and winters since then.

Sometimes they even

sing within my dreams

and take wing above

that road I had never

trod before.

 

Tell them to meet me in Galilee

Oh Sea of Galilee

sparse and spare,

are your waters cold,

are you salty?

I only knew you

from the thick Bible

that lived on the shelf

of our family room

rarely opened except

to look at the pictures.

I did not expect to see

the banana plantations

on your shores. Or the

marina with ski boats.

The restaurants that

feature fried or grilled

Saint Peter’s Fish.

We drove along the shore

through Capernaum without

visiting that holy place,

the Mount of Beatitudes.

I would have preferred

to walk around the site

of the Sermon on the Mount

than the heights on the other

side of the desert sea where

rusted heavy machine guns

still hover over the ruins

of the Syrian battlements

high above your waters.

Cactus thrives and looms

on the rocky slopes below.

Mary Magdalene and

the other Mary waited

outside the tomb that was

sealed with a large stone

in front of the door and guarded

by hired Roman soldiers

to prevent the disciples

from stealing His body.

They waited patiently

for his promise to be fulfilled,

that he would return to life

on the third day.

I waited a few days

after this trip to the Sea

to make different excursion,

alone on a bus ride

that bypassed the road

to Armageddon and led

to the city of Nazareth.

I’m not waiting for Him to return,

there is no way to know when

that will be and perhaps

I will never return to that land

where he lived and died

and was resurrected.

But I have seen where he walked

and where he lived and he died.

his words live in my heart and

whenever I remember them,

He lives again.

Amen.

Red Morning

 The dark egg shell

of night cracked red

over the eastern walls

of the city and Peter wept

when the cock crowed.

No roosters here,

the gobblers, hawks

and sparrows rouse

from their roosts

and the first crows

take flight from pine

to oak to power pole.

The prisoner in the 

courtyard of the priest

keeps his silence.

Anything he says

will be used against

him in a court of law.

Lets the accusers put their

own words in his mouth.

It is as you say.

And he has made

his peace with what

he knows will come.

He has not slept.

I see the silhouette

of my head on the red

wall that faces my desk.

The sun has just arisen.

Like it has seven hundred

and twenty seven thousand

five hundred and twenty eight

times since that morning when

it broke over that house,

that earthly prison,

where thin justification

replaced justice with sin.

He knew it would come

to pass as surely as

it had been written.

On this day he would

be flogged and crowned

with thorns and nailed

to the man-made tree.

Now our thorny vines

are made from shining

coils of steel. And they

guard the city where

I once kissed the slab

on which his tormented

body was laid to rest.

And a shock ran through

my body from the crown

of my head down the crest

of my spine and my tears

joined the warm ocean 

of all those that fell here

before me.