Echoes and Moments

The Pilgrim: Part I Howling wind gives way to gentle rustle: Pine needles and old bark sing to the coming night And the Great Silence greets my evening light, a  Single candle gleaming bright amidst the black without While these sinews twist into the posture of peace, I hear A knock, and wincing, I wait.  The heavy breaths shatter whatever prayer was mine Before this night: one of thousands upon this mountain Closed in by stone, by wood, by skin, flesh, and bone, A temple to perennial truth, each breath a new liturgy As wind drawn in swallows the dying world outside and Returns an exhale full of Light, simple, furious Love.  A second knock, and remembering Benedict, I  Turn the rusted iron and the heavy wood gives way A weary man staring with flint-grey eyes, hollow And streaked red with pain, there is perhaps a look of  Shock, as if he never knew the world could be so cruel and  Full of hate.  Commentary on Stanzas 1-3: ...

The Last Cup We recline, The last bits of meat, figs, and dates roll around The bronze, the wood plates and cups - a testimony to Enemies made friends through the long journeys now Complete in this room, this upper place prepared By a Stranger. Take comfort in the smiles, the Laughter that will soon be forgotten, soon fleeing fast As you scatter into the night, frightened by Swords and clubs, the chains, the Whips and chords wrapping tight around My Bleeding arms and legs as I walk, Never to see My Face like this before you again. Conversation quiets, the chuckles hush, and Attention clings to me again like so many Afternoons before the crowds in my Galilee, these boys and men still fresh From lives lived among them who now Remain Outside it all. "Why is this Night distinct among all others?" They stare, and I lift this wheat, simple flour without yeast Fired in clay and baked for sustenance As it was in generations past. "Remember the Ni...

I Am Tired (A Lament) I am tired; my eyes trace another stone Hurled from hateful hands, flying unhindered To crush my bones to powder, my blood to rivers Again the death I fear reminds me there Is a fool's hope for escape. I am tired; my nose fills with smoke As fingers fling matches burning Pillars of flame sear my hair to cinder And their snarling laughter purges This heretical body of its unholy love. I am tired; I stare into the rifle's barrel yet again, My eyes obscured from my neighbor's face Hidden behind a black helmet and plexiglass shield, The land their people stole filled with black smoke Trailer traffic, and a long, steel dragon swallowing Oceans of black poison sucked dry from Earth. I am tired; my shoulders ache under the weight Of this beam thrust upon my shoulders, the Jeers of the crowd now hurled at me, though I Was minutes ago just another pilgrim here for worship, Now staring into the face of a bleeding man who can Barely ...

My mind is busy when you enter, the first one who comes today The space where I work full of books and writings, all Testaments to my people, their pictures covering my desk. Your question is innocent, yet opens wounds again You did not know, and so I answer in truth: "When you ask 'What part Indian are you?' it reminds Me of the way this question was used to separate my people From yours, defining lands and breaking treaties." Yet you persist, and still you ask; the wound becomes A chasm of blood, driven into me like a knife Ten thousands generations deep. You say you know my city, but you do not. All you want is for me to endorse your cause, but No cause will ever heal the war between us, one That wages on because of questions like this, when Our people become numbers instead of flesh And these answers never satisfy your need to Go home justified before your Maker. The violence is done, you shake my hand and leave As I return to the space an...

I remember vividly the first time I spoke in the capacity of a preacher, unmediated by the role of worship leader, MC, or other function that was separated from the platform of public engagement from the "pulpit." In this case, it was a flimsy black music stand, standing near the aisle between unnecessary rows of black chairs set up in a room at Allan Hancock College, where I spent the first two years of my career as a campus minister. It was a warm night in April, free of the fog that normally cloaks coastal Santa Maria like a blanket, or the persistent winds that funnel from the sea into the inland valleys festooned with grapevines and fruit orchards. That year was one of radical reorientation to a new life out of college. I lost the dependable rhythm and purpose of a regimen of courses, for I had recently graduated from Cal Poly a few months before. I also lost the emotional support of a long romantic relationship, and was just feeling the stabbing pain and gut-twistin...

I wrote in a previous post on the abundance of high quality, richly textured music that we've been able to consume, to digest, to chew on, to sit with, to allow to mess with us over the last year. I still believe now, as I did at the end of last year, that we are in a new age of music, one where artists have the potential to go beyond the constraints of the medium of their chosen tools: sound and voice, to arbitrate culture and influence the conversations that shape our society. To reach the standards set by Kendrick Lamar, Beyoncé, and even (as divisive as he is) Kanye West, is to dialogue with the biggest questions of our existence: what is important? Why are we here? What makes us human? This last question concerns me as I survey the variety of music available for us to choose. As a form of art, music is inherently a description, sketch, and reflection of the humanity that creates it. You can see the ideas that my favorite band, Radiohead, wrestles with when they mov...

on Formation tour, 2016. I have a mildly embarrassing custom of talking in-depth with a friend about various cultural, socio-political, and theological topics over the worst food that our society has to offer: greasy fast food. This past week was more defendable than most, considering our chosen location for conversation, WingStop, prides itself on cooking everything fresh. But the amount of salt, fat, and grease that I consumed that night (and that found its way quickly through my defenseless digestive tract) was more than enough to make me think twice about my life choices. During this conversation, as I munched on a deep-fried chicken wing coated in lemon-juice glaze and pepper, my friend paused, looked intently into my eyes, and offered me a question with great severity: "Karl, I know you have thoughts on this. I just wanna know...why the hell should I care about Beyoncé and her twin babies?...because I just don't care!" I slid the last strip of meat from t...