Jesus for adults

Jesus for adults                                                                                 

“Suffer the children to come unto Me.”

I was a child when I first heard those words.

‘Suffer’, it was explained to me, means ‘allow’.

Jesus for adults in our church

was the Lamb of God, but to the children

He was the Shepherd and we were His flock.

Later, from Meher, I learned Jesus was not here

to save me from the cross

but to show me the Way to hang,

shouldering that weight for me

as far up the hill as He could get.

Suffering real, unavoidable, bitter as gall,

heavy as those rough-hewn timbers;

sharp as spikes and thorns.

Jesus loved the adults from high on a cross

but He took the children into His arms, heart to heart,

teaching that our love for Him

is as important as His love for us.

O child of God, surrender is the way of liberation.

To suffer means to allow.

Private stock

Private stock                                                                                        

We’re not the kind of drunks who
engage in arguments and fisticuffs;
 
who climb upon tables and loudly hold forth.
We drift to the edges;
 
sink deeply into intoxication;
wonderment holds our tongue.
 
We know when we’ve had enough –
the wall we’re leaning against becomes the floor.
 
We might be coaxed into singing,
cheek to cheek with other drunks,
 
the timbre of some clear
with purity of intent,
 
others raspy from longing
and a lifetime of sorrow.
 
We’re the ones with sodden hearts;
sour breaths; befuddled brains. 
 
If we have a clear thought at all,
it’s how extraordinarily fortunate we are
 
to have found our way to the Tavern and been served
from the Winekeeper’s private stock.
 
O child of God, how rare is this gift of wine?
Few in all the world have ever known its taste. 

Hemlock wine

Hemlock wine                                                                                      

Beware of love, o pilgrim.   It’s a barbed hook;
a ball and chain; hemlock wine.  
 
It’s a cliffhanger, a pyramid scheme;
a title loan with ballooning payments.
 
Love is a lake of fire – I say that
having never entered the flames.
 
I’m still leaping about on the griddle.
They call You Lord of Love,
 
Father of Mercy, yet, at times,
I’ve found Your love to be quite merciless.
 
Forgive my incapacity to understand.
Daily my faith grows without evidence . . .
 
and love . . . love is an apparition floating by
the window of a haunted mansion.
 
O child of God, let not the word love escape your lips
until your heart knows enough to speak wisely.

Imampur

Imampur                                                                                               

The neglected mosque at Imampur –
I last saw it in a cornfield –
 
built where Arangazeb’s soldiers camped
centuries before, carrying a part of his body
 
to a far corner of the kingdom.
Eruch, Pendu, Baidul and Gustadji,
 
encircled their Lord, loved and obeyed,
struck and spat upon Him,
 
as He endured and directed –
the Pure and Innocent One;
 
His servants balancing shame with duty,
helpless in the workings of the Unfathomable. 
 
O Meher, a part of me is buried in that field,
the part of me that died hearing that story
 
from Eruch’s lips – another nail in the coffin. 
O Beloved, build Your mosque in the grave-dust
          of my heart.
 
O child of God, every command of the Beloved
is pure, holy and of benefit to all mankind.

Small stones

Small stones

Glance my way – if it pleases You.

You know how faint of heart I am –
 
sensitive to Your every mood and whim.
This intimacy is wonderful until You roar like a lion.
 
Then, the space we share becomes
          much too small.
One advantage of ignorance
 
is that it matters little what I say –
whether I get something right or wrong,
 
I’m oblivious to what it means.
These poems are small stones
 
thrown against Your house
to lure You to the window.
 
I’m standing in Your garden, pouch heavy at my side.
Glance my way, O Beloved, if it pleases You.
 
O child of God, you look for answers when
what the Beloved requires is total dependency.

Knowledge of the heart

Knowledge of the heart                                                                       

There are deeper truths, I gather,
than the grace of Your hands,
 
the light in Your eyes; more to grasp
than Your gown’s hem;
 
actions to be taken, vows to uphold 
beyond mere devotion and remembrance . . .
         
but, whenever the conversation at the table
gets too heavy, You give a wink
 
and we leave the others,
taking our wine cups into the garden
 
to view the stars, enjoy the night air,
perhaps, share a poem or two.
 
There’s work to be done but, Lord,
let’s save it for another lifetime.
 
While I have You here, (if it be Your pleasure),
let me hold You and hold You and hold You,
 
until this weary world and my form within it
fades into dust and nothingness.
 
O child of God, you’ve grown dangerously fond of His wine
and that delicious prasad called knowledge of the heart.

 

Lukewarm water

Lukewarm water                                                                             

I once owned a tea set

of great delicacy and beauty.

Over the years, it became chipped,

stained, cracked and broken . . .

and there were episodes of destructive rage,

so that when You turned up at my door,

asking if You might trouble me

for a spot of tea,

all I had to offer,

in my extreme poverty,

was lukewarm water served in the cup of my palm.

You accepted my gift and I became Your slave.

O child of God, lament not your recklessness and ignorance.

Had you been prepared, His lips might never

          have touched your fingertips.

Window of time

Window of time                                                                                 

O Beloved, You were silent.

Remind us of that

as the intellectuals chase Your words

through the mazes

of God Speaks and Lord Meher,

capturing them like butterflies –

pinned behind glass,

only their bright shells left;

silent as if the man Himself was behind glass

gesturing Truth through that small window of time.

In our dark dreaming, let us not expect words

to awaken us but the Word of His Love,

the Real Word

we have been forever longing to hear.

O child of God, listen with the heart’s ear –

where words and silence both strike to the core.

Nettle tea

Nettle tea

The road to hell is paved with good intentions?
I’m hoping it’s the road to Paradise.
 
Ofttimes, I miss the mark but, more and more,
my intentions are to serve You.
 
My love-arrows fall short
and stab someone in the foot.
 
I spread my cape on the ground –
an elegant lady sinks up to her bloomers in mud.
 
My cup of kindness . . . often filled with nettle tea.
I’m like a man on a crowded bus –
 
reaching to help this one, I knock that one’s hat off
and poke my umbrella into someone’s ribs.
 
Turning to apologize, I wallop the entire third row,
distract the driver and cause a rear-end collision.
 
O child of God, fondly recall your Beloved’s promise
that God hears only the language of the heart.