Mystery Without Rhyme or Reason. Michael Coffey

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СКАЧАТЬ his Bible,

      Scotch tape, and notes from phone calls never returned.

      He Tweeted and emailed until his fingers floated off the home keys,

      his hair beginning to lift with static electricity,

      his feet rising from the blue carpet, his whole body feeling

      as if it would soon press against the ceiling fan and hot lights,

      his whole life a series of sneaked Wonka Fizzy Lifting Drinks

      leaving him too light, lacking substance,

      eventually he would float off to the cirrostratus clouds and disappear

      beyond the exosphere and Neptune and unnamed constellations

      and the event horizon, he would evaporate from memory

      not even his dog would miss him.

      And then the phone rings and the girl with the unexpected pregnancy

      and the ninety-eight year old woman dying alone

      and the light bulbs need replacing

      before the hungry come to shop the pantry shelves

      and the assembling again in the sanctuary where life

      once more becomes humble, heavy enough with the holiness

      required for there to be visible glory, the thick abiding presence

      that holds us beloved on the sun-lit earth.

      Chef

      Lectionary 5 A

      Matthew 5:13–20

      You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot. (Matt 5:13)

      There is white onion chopping to be done and crying with it

      and juliennes of jicama to slice and a slip and a cut and

      the vinaigrette must be whisked and emulsified and tested,

      balancing of sweet and vinegar to please the palate,

      the steak is seared in the black iron pan and peppered

      the potatoes roasted in rosemary and garlic browned.

      Then the chef does his effortless enchanted toss with salt

      delights the tongue and the soul,

      taking us back when salt is what we swam in and breathed and sang

      so much us that we did not know or taste until we left it.

      So it is with God and each other and the love we walked away from.

      Now with generous offering we are salted and relished,

      offered a taste of love in a bland and hungry world

      needing a mere amuse-bouche of the holy we are swimming in.

      Outside Inside Out

      Lectionary 6 A

      Matthew 5:21–37

      You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder’; and ‘whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.’ But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, ‘You fool,’ you will be liable to the hell of fire. (Matt 5:21–22)

      Outside even God he would entreat

      with his shirt pressed and untucked

      dark jeans carefully faded on the thigh

      vanity glasses rightly matching his square face

      cheerful humor at the right social moment

      generous to friends and strangers with and without

      breaking only the smallest of commandments

      and rules of engagement on the street and at work.

      Inside he knew the heft of carrying like sacked concrete

      his own lonesome soul, wretched and loathsome,

      a prisoner yoked to his rage and anger,

      the deep cavernous drip, drip of fear on stalagmites of terror

      now outside God entreating him with compassion untucked,

      inside peace rightly matching his wounded heart.

      Edges

      Lectionary 7 A

      Leviticus 19:1–2, 9–18

      When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap to the very edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest. You shall not strip your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen grapes of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the alien: I am the LORD your God. (Lev 19:9–10)

      He farmed the borrowed land like an artisan

      caring for nematodes and seedlings and

      the soil itself, the nurse of all life.

      He harvested with a jeweler’s eye each gem of food

      feeding family and strangers in village mud cottages

      except at the edges he left a row or two along the fence

      by the road where wayfarers and immigrants

      could pluck and eat and praise

      just as he and all do to glorify the soil’s maker.

      One night he dreamed of the future:

      mechanized efficiency, vast acres of

      monocultured crops and infertile soil

      and he woke with a night terror when he saw

      the edges were culled clean and nothing left,

      no rough meal for anyone walking by needful.

      Sweat and scream filled the bed at the thought,

      a godless day and place where no one remembered

      edges СКАЧАТЬ