In October 2020, I was commissioned to write a liturgical piece to accompany our pastor’s sermon series through the book of Amos.

---

Behold, the Word of God upon the vine
Along its trellis grows, but is without
The fruit of righteousness, though it is time.

The summer fruit for us shall be a sign:
The season’s end portends a coming drought.
Behold, the Word of God upon the vine–

The vine of love and peace–has yet to climb,
To flower in joy and patience. Without doubt,
The fruit of righteousness, though it is time

To ripen into hopeful light to shine
Amongst the poor has wilted. Hear the shout:
“Behold, the Word of God upon the vine

Accuses each and every wicked crime.”
Our vine has yet to flower or to sprout;
The fruit of righteousness, though it is time

Is dead. So hear the Holy Lord assign
A famine of His Word. We, though devout,
Neglect the Word of God upon the vine.
Our fruitless righteousness shall rot with time.

(October 25, 2020)

I wrote this poem in September of 2020, just after I heard the news about the grand jury decision in the case of the shooting of Breonna Taylor.

---

They say it is risky to sit with the dying
When living amidst a pandemic.
When the air itself is heavy
With death and rumors of death.
If I die before finishing these lines,
Please fill them out as I intended,
Dear reader. Please fill in my
Apology.
You died before you finished,
Before any of us could read your
Words.
What kind of poet were you?

Once, I was interrogated in my car
For my proximity to a crime scene.
I was told “You are free to go; you are not
Black.” I still seem to walk in that freedom.
It is not hard for me to be a citizen
Here but for the days when I am made
Aware of the ease of my citizenship.
Your middle name was Shaquille.
A wall was broken, and a man was punished
For its destruction. You, too, were broken.
And we mourn, for they, too,
Walk in freedom. But this is not
The freedom I was promised.
Give me the freedom you were Promised.
I have no right to say these things
Except for my right to say anything
I choose. I choose to sit here. I choose
To sit with the dying. I choose to stand.
Lord,
Have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

(September 23, 2020)

---

“Take up your sword” I heard a prophet say,
“The justice of the Lord we shall defend.”
I take up arms and ready for the day
When, by my word or deed, I may portend
The coming wrath of God upon my foe;
The righteous indignation for the sin
Of those who sing of praise in empty show
And suffer not the suffering to come in.
And yet, am I not daily so to blame?
I take the task of God alone: to judge.
And so do slander His most holy name;
Forgiveness showing, never to begrudge.
This sword shall be a plowshare or as dross.
My savior says to me, “Take up my cross.”

(August 27, 2020)

---

Like smoke rises,
Dissipating, permeating
The rest of the air–
Rich, meant for our breath–
So fades this day,
Like the last.
Into weeks. Into years.
Yet the smoke, as much
As it pollutes, is a part
Now indistinct.

This day passes;
Whatever its quality, it passes not
As something toxic,
But as something essential.

(May 6, 2016)

---

When Judas met the great teacher, 
Jesus of Nazareth, did he know 
how this story would go?

When did Judas’ mind turn to profit? 
Was his devotion ever true?

Surely their journey was one of genuine
Companionship. I think Judas loved
Jesus, though by the end
His loves were many.

What would it take for my love 
to fade into betrayal?

What seed of pride, when planted, 
might grow into darkness within
me?

I need grace. I need a Christ who 
has already loved me despite my 
betrayals, 
who welcomes me, shaping me anew 
in His love.

[June 10, 2018]

---

When Jesus first met that man 
Named Judas, did He know exactly 
How this story would end?

Did Jesus know that his dear friend 
Would hand him over?

If I had known, I would have 
Turned away, 
Betrayed Judas;

So many shared tables later,
Bread taken together again and again.
To know that I would be broken in the end.

Which is why, I think, Jesus 
Must have been certain. 
Surely he knew his fate and the fragile,
Fractured heart of this dear friend.

For His love had never known a limit,
And his grace is greater for His 
Knowledge of our deviation. 

But I am still a work in progress.

[June 10, 2018]

---

On the couch, reclining
The dog warms my feet
In rest. I sit, writing,
In a place I am calling ‘home’.

Across the street,
Children wrestle sleep,
Filled with dreams–
The kind that
Call us to run fast,
Faster.

Parents laugh, tired
From work. “Work” that
Calling, as the wise put it,
Striving labor which
Makes all else possible,
The rest of us say. 

In another city, a
Woman awakes to
Face a new day, whose
Potential is yet to
Be decided
For a myriad of fears and dispositions.

Around the globe,
Another family
Prepares a meal–
In all shared
Food there is a kind
Of inexplicable Communion.

This is the world:
All these and less,
We expect.
All stories are
One, but for all
Stories writ and
Told,
We know not
What story
It is.

---

In townships, where life seems slower,
Tides roll in, out as small families,
Farmers, all folk gather or disperse.

Life seems to call out, “Hurry along”
For there are many places to be,
Many worlds to see, 
And many things to become.

This is the original tale told, from Eden.
In truth, the world is here, in its fullness,
Though we look for signs of its coming
Along the distant, foggy horizon.
It is waiting just here.
We have only to become
One with this very, this present place.

(March 7, 2018)

---

“So frail am I,” I oft have thought
When wind or storm descend upon
Or while upon this road whereon
I find myself with worry fraught.
For I do love, though I am not,
To be a martyr; and thereon
My deepest pride is prone to spawn.

And sharply yet does Christ forgive,
Gives grace as he propitiates.
His challenge there I find: For He
Has died that I should walk and live
And in this life to expiate
My death; no martyr shall I be.

(October 8, 2019)

---

There are moments in life which,
Without fail,
Occur according to a precise schedule.
It is easy to point out
The things which are wild, unpredictable,
Disappointing.
The things which operate like
Clockwork,
The mundane things,
Are Ordinary,
Boring, even.
Or at least not the things
For which a person takes up pen and page.
Then, some things split the difference;
They go wrong in the very same way again
And again.
We cannot seem to change them
Neither by prayer nor
Force of will-
As a self-inflicted vice,
Or a donut which is never the variety ordered,
Yet is still eaten.

(November 22, 2019)