In Remembrance of Me

The minister pronounces the invitation: to all who have given their lives to Jesus, come, celebrate His atonement through the elements here. Row by row, cracking pews and shuffling feet crescendos as people rise and slowly edge forward. Standing almost as animated statues, the servers preside up front, one with a plate of thin cracker crisps, the other with a round silver chalice. The people step forward, one at a time, reach into the pile of crisps, then next to the chalice. They hear the encouraging spoken lines "His body, broken for you" and "His blood, shed for you" as they quickly go by so as not to delay the line behind them. Do they ponder the physical elements they've just placed into their mouths? Does the touch of broken, crispy bread remind them of the broken, mangled body? Does the taste of cheap, sweet wine remind them of the streams of blood flowing down his arms, torso and legs? And what does that remembrance bring? Sorrow? Guilt? Relief? Indifference because it's too incomprehensible? As the music and the choir weave their lines throughout the sanctuary, they each enter their row and find their seats again, sitting down on the oak pews to ponder these things.

At the Beach

White noise washing the brain clean like a shower of crystalline silvery water. The blue-grey infinite sea curls until it cascades into flat bubbles exhausting itself on the lap of the beach. The sky spreads out and to the left and right until it takes over the horizon. Along the shoreline, the audience of condos watch but stay back behind the dunes where they are somehow safer and more respectful of the uncontainable power that's putting on a quiet show for them now. A runner or two prance themselves into shape on the hard, damp part of the beach basking in clean salty air that bathes their skin and lungs with life-giving purity. Collapsing into the leather sofa, I gaze into this stage ready for a long drama that should never end

An alley in NYC

Just three hours earlier, congregants shopping the boutiques in SoHo

crammed the streets like an ice flow.

Now, at 8 p.m., the darkness of January blankets the empty streets and alleys.

The stores still glow, but vacant. A cab rolls by here and there, thumping tires on the rough street. No lurking villains, but does that mean anything?

Through the slippery frozen streets of cobble, stepping on sloped steel basement doors, drawing too much attention to ourselves as our shoes rattle the metal.

We want to become invisible in this vacant, cold blackness.

So on one can find us.

We move along quickly, avoiding a slip that would send us sprawling on the hard sidewalk.

Still floating from the excitement of the day, the night in this neighborhood drains it out.

Our hotel is still five blocks away.

New CD

Looking forward to the recording sessions tomorrow in NYC. Redeemer is recording a new CD and is including Jesus Savior of the World on it!

Chain Smoker

His hand shakes just a bit like the maple leaf nervously fluttering in the November breeze as it hangs on barely. Plunging into his jacket pocket, he finds the beginning of relief by grasping the plastic covered box with the angled lid that hinges open so nicely. He manipulates his fingers in and feels the round squishy filter end of the sticks. He gently grasps one and pulls it out. Relief gets even closer as his dry lips embrace the brown paper and the fragrance of pure tobacco fills his nose. But his body won't settle for that even though he wishes he could. He can hardly breathe and his voice sounds like a growling toad when he talks. Snap goes the match head as he pulls it out of the striker strip. The sulfur flare hisses with a blue flash as he tries to steady his hand to the open end of the cigarette. Flaming up, he sucks in with his parched lips until he feels the smoke flowing. Then, he takes a strong pull and breathes it in, filling his lungs with the comfort they wanted, and filling his brain with just enough of a buzz to calm down his shaking hands.