a second time

a second time
innocence robbed by my lies
the garden will not cannot hold me for the gross

and insidiously
deceptive lying He will not allow it
i cannot become that which is and was and is to

come i cannot
be who He wants i cannot stay in the sanctuary
in the asylum for there is no refuge for refuse and no harborage

for rejectamenta
i cannot find rest i cannot find
solace in/within my twisted self i want the garden

i want a sacred moment
where the excreta worthless and fit only for throwing away
is reclaimed by the ground absorbed into the goodness of the soil

i seek only harborage
in this storm i seek the womb of that garden
out of which i was thrust screaming and panting for breath what do i

have to do i can
only draw on one side of the page today
without letting the pencil rub through to mar the bright polished surface

of that unsullied plain
in work He allowed me to grow the grapes
and the wheat the conduit that will bring me back to that garden

i grew them in a garden i
want respite i have said that prayer i have
done that penance what do i have to do what more do i have to be

before i too leap

onto the table in joy
with the completion of that job finished
on that table i find the garden i find the ease i find the stuff

that the wasted soul
requires and it is freely given freely
drawn from a well of no end and for a second time i dwell within innocence.


I wrote this the day after two separate events: I watched Luke Timothy Johnson literally leap onto a table from the floor flat-footed -- a joyful man, a compassionate man, a man who challenges me to be better that I am alone, a man whose beautiful spirit will fill a room. He didn't give me an "A" but the grade I deserved -- this was justice, but through his lectures, I also learned of mercy and grace.

He leapt onto the table from joy and perhaps a lack of hubris, then I went to a Chapel service and remembered Christ -- we re-membered the body of Christ, and I received Grace a second time that day. I had baked the bread and we used homemade wine from the grapes that a fellow student had grown. We created, from God's good gifts, our communion elements. We were allowed to help shape and form the conduit by which we received His grace. I cannot use pre-packaged communion elements anymore -- or I have in nursing homes/hospital rooms, but I haven't done it in worship since that experience. There was Grace to be found in baking the bread in prayer, then partaking of that bread in community.

I miss the Table in services that consist only of Word. It feels as if we are only drawing on one side of the paper. The garden is the place where we were in perfect communion with God, before the fall -- and it is from the fruit of a garden that we can still rejoice in communion. We were thrust from that garden and our innocence was lost -- through Grace we will regain our place in that garden and for a second time our innocence will be given to us. In communion and thanks we can dwell for a while in the Kingdom -- which is, and was and is to be. The Kingdom is already -- and not yet. When I re-member the Body in community, the Kingdom exists for a moment full of Grace and I can imagine what it will be like to dwell in that Grace forever.