Spirit in my life, in my relationships, in my own healing journey, in my healing ministry, and in my writing. I can truly say, “Thanks be to God!”
Panic
Through rolling Time’s interstices,
Which I thought neat and tightly sewn,
Sheer Panic pops—or is it Void?—
And rips a ragged hole so large
That Panic’s all there is.
Breath won’t come, I cannot breathe!
Except for short sharp anxious gasps.
Past and future are no more
The Now is nothing either,
Is death the only out? Please end!
But wait, I live!
I’m not in charge, I need not be,
Of breath and body rhythm.
Unsteady, though.
I search for sense
To make of where I’ve been.
My life is not my own, I see.
My breath’s a gift to me.
It’s not for me to make Time flow.
I’m not secure in any Now,
And Void is always nigh.
What Peace I have
Is when I rest
In Source beyond my “I,”
And seek to live in harmony
With Source who lives through me.
The Panic is a wake-up call
To see if I’m on track,
Remembering that I’m not in charge
Of getting born nor back.
I live in Time a little while;
It need not be intact.
I’m held by grace, unending Love;
E’en midst my fears, I can relax.
A man named Enoch “walked with God”
Until, we read, “he was no more
Because God took him.”1 Void’s redefined!
As Life with God forevermore.
As Time ticks on now, day by day,
The Void I feared now reminds me
That when I walk and talk with God
I do and do not cease to be.
1. The Holy Bible (NRSV), Genesis 5:24.
Pastoral Formation in the Congregation
The Elders are gathered in their Meeting Room,
Eight of the twelve of them.
Sunday worship is due to start soon.
At five minutes till, the Pastor comes in.
As he enters the room, they all rise
In a decades-old greeting tradition.
This Pastor is new here, still ill at ease,
Made more so by this old-fashioned custom.
“Is it me you guys are standing for?” asks he.
“You men don’t need to stand up for me.”
He graduated in the Eighties from Seminary,
And is more comfortable relating casually.
But he gives off an air of superiority,
A self-centeredness of which he’s not aware;
Unable to acknowledge his insecurity,
He compensates with a casual flair.
But almost all of these Elders are farmers,
They’re quite used to smelling manure.
A certain amount of it is harmless,
But a big pile of it is hard to ignore.
After weeks of these same protestations,
The discomfort increased on both sides.
The Elders respected his education;
His disrespect of their wisdom was not wise.
They sensed that he was caught up in himself,
That his modesty was actually a disguise
For inner doubts about his spiritual health,
And a willfulness he wouldn’t recognize.
Unresolved tension continued to increase;
And everyone began to fear an outburst.
Then one Sunday they heard a still small voice,
Verifying the trope that the last shall be first.2
“It’s not you that we’re rising for, Pastor;
It’s for the role that you’re sent here to fill.”
The Spirit was speaking through Arie Lanser:
The whole room became profoundly still.
The tension immediately disappeared,
But Arie continued to speak;
The Spirit was empowering each word,
Through Arie’s voice, which was otherwise weak.
“You’re the one who leads us in worship,
You preach the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ,
You’re set apart and ordained
