19/365 Spiritual Malpractice

The doctor is running late
by 45 minutes
A kind-eyed elderly man
in the waiting room
lets a paper slip from his hand
to the floor
He makes a feeble attempt to bend down
clearly unable to retrieve it comfortably
I rise to help him
hand him the page
He thanks me, appreciative
"Bad hips," he explains
Tells me I look familiar
He's wearing an I©Jesus lanyard
I make an assumption
tell him where I go to church
"Never been there," he informs me
"Only once for a wedding."
He tells me the entire story of the wedding
The telling takes longer than the wedding itself
Each of us knows
we've got a long time to wait.
He says he goes to a different church,
7th Day Adventist
Where he likes the sabbath school a lot
but the service, it depends who's running it
and he doesn't care much for "the colored people."
My face registers a response
to which he replies,
"I don't hate them or anything. 
It's just that they're always so miserable to deal with."
He assures me he's "not prejudice"
I try to interrupt, in vain
An he tells talkes of the neighber
who moved away
and rented his trailer to "some of them"
How he'd warned the guy ahead of time
How they'd trashed the place
Fists through walls
And didn't pay.
I assure him most tenants are like this.
No one treats a cheap rental like it is their own home.
He tells me hs neighbor called him racist
for saying such a thing.
"Now he's got nobody in there," he sighs,
"has to fix the place all up again."
He taps his fingers in justification.
"I told him he needs to rent
to an older white couple.
They always know how to set their money aside.
I told him that."
The nurse calls my name before I can
decide how best to respond.

18/365 Parents Hate the Science Fair

Of all the things that parents hate
and their children absolutely love,
and there are many such things,
that among the top contenders
one would not expect to find
the school science fair.

And yet
the mere mention of the event
it would seem
strikes panic into the hearts
of well-intentioned moms and dads
sends up a chorus of groaning
during parent night forums,
and fills my inbox with angry assertions,
demands, and thinly veiled threats.

One would think I was asking
for rocket science,
expecting these 4-week projects
to win the X Prize
reinvent the wheel
free us from dependence on fosil fuels
and render the Hadron collider irrelevant.
In reality,
they are watering sunflower seeds with orange juice
burying Sun Chips wrappers in th vegetable garden
and using mirror-lined bowls to cook hot dogs on a sunny day.

They could do most of this without assistance
if only their parents would let them.
The stress comes from these parents,
the expectations of grandeur
the dread that comes at the thought
that the kid at the next table
might have done a better job
and will be on display
for the neighbors,
the other parents,
and everyone to know.
The parents insist the stress
comes from me.

It is not the science
that is at issue
it is the public nature of the fair
the need to look better than the Joneses
hide the flaws in their lives
the embarrassment that they can not recall
the scientific method
the function of lenses
keep any shred from being fodder
for the gossip mill.
God forbid that we challenge our children
Encourage independence
Or allow the perception that some children
are actually better at something
than others.

They look at their child and see failure
do most of the project for them
then try to make it look like they didn't.
They think I don't know.
They think I'm somehow out to get them.
Both are ridiculous.
If they keep complaining the way they do, though...
I will be.

17/365 Pendulum

Sunlight flickers
piercing branches of distant tall trees
bending slightly through layers of atmosphere
in preparation for spectacular sunset.
The rhythmic squeak of chains
squeals of delight
intangible rustle of wind
the sounds of togetherness
"push me, Daddy."
"push me higher."
She swings, forward and back
pausing at each apex
silhouetted against the sun
each hair on her head
aglow

16/365 To Form a Bond

Ask a chemistry teacher
about electrons
and she will tell you a love story
about states of excitement
attractions so intensely held
they will remain, forever,
encircling the sole object of their afinity
infinitely close
but never quite touching

She will tell you about searching,
the frustration of quantum leaps
of needles and haystacks,
knowing with increasing certainty
how rapidly they move
is maddening,
making it all that more impossible
to find them.

She will tell you about bonding,
beyond the mere notion
that opposites attract.
There are as many nuanced ways
for atoms to be held together
as there are ways to love,
each uniquely serving
its purpose.

Ionic Bonds
When particles, like you, in ways
in their very nature
are as different as can be
they can become charged,
positive and negative
(and around each other they tend to)
There is a need to be met,
and orbital unfulfilled on one hand
and an equal need to give on the other.

They say these bonds are the strongest.
There is no theft of electrons here.
Only a willingness to give,
to selflessly empty the outer shell,
will knit you two together so tightly.
But if this is the only way you love,
like salt,
rigid and crystalline,
it is a challenge not to dissolve
when the rain comes.

Metallic Bonds
Effortless and fluid
the bonds that seal metal to metal,
seamless as any alloy
are stronger, like steel,
than the sum of their parts,
blended and solid.
They say after a while
you will look more and more
like one another.

Covalent Bonds
When atoms come together,
organic and raw, and
not yet complete on their own,
they will bring their electrons
put everything they have in one cloud
on one table
and say, "this is ours now"
not mine, not yours
but fluidly enshrouding this union of two.
Joys and burdens,
shouldered by both,
fills outer shells of contentment.
When the bond is nonpolar,
the sharing is equal,
but it is not always this way.
By necessity, there are times
when the weighty finger of fortune
lays heavy on the balance,
one side is always more positive than the other.
Remember
the afinity of charges.
Cling tighter.
Let the cloud storm around you
embrace the imbalance.
If the bond is formed properly,
this is not greed.
This is interdependence.
This is strength.
This is why the bond was formed from the outset.

Hydrogen
These bonds are the new ones,
formed out of the ones which first wove you together.
They are peripheral,
between the two of you
and those you encounter together
created by the very inner strength
that binds you as a couple
New forces,
tender and stabilizing,
let you draw others closer
build structure, family,
community, home.
These are the molecules that will crystallize around you
They say there is security in numbers.
This is more than speculation,
more than hypothesis.
This is theory.
This is practically law.

15/365 Dear Poet

Forgive me if
I didn't applaud just then
at the end of your poem
when the others did.
I did not mean to be impolite.
It just didn't seem an appropriate response,
For while it likely was delivered with great passion,
and may well have been carefully crafted,
or not,
stirring and pointed,
or less so,
and while it is true that I love a scathing diatribe
as much as the next guy
the one you chose to deliver just now,
it was about me.

And before you raise an objection over this issue
let me save you from the embarrassment
of whichever stupid thing you most want to say next:

"No, it wasn't about you, Christopher.  Just... people like you."
Who blindly accept pedophile clergy as holy men
and clearly condone their behaviors by association.
Because, you know, there are so many of us who think that's just fine.

"I mean, the really religious ones."
Who, it would seem,
all either invented slavery, spurred the holocaust, burned the rain forests, or kicked your puppy.
Yes.
That's exactly what we do.
That, and pork and bean suppers.

"The born agains, you know... the Jesus people."
The ones always quoting the Bible like it's
the Word of God or something.
Who dare to believe that absolute truth exists
and that wisdom comes from a divinely inspired book
rather than (as we all know it does) a 3 minute slam poem
penned last week
by a guy with a BS in English lit,
who works part time at Kinko's.

True, we the embrace the idea of being "born again."
It' not that weird.
You're a poet. It's a metaphor. 
For starting over.
If we called ourselves "Phoenix rising from the ashes" believers
it would mean the same thing
And then maybe mediocre poets would stop
using that one quite so much.

It was about me.
For having faith in a loving God,
I am a bigot.
For my ritual of Sunday morning prayer and rejoicing
I am lumped in with Hitler and the Klan
and those who shoot clinic doctors in the name of "life."
Yes, even as we speak
I am clearly trying to wrench that wedding ring
from your gay finger
and replace it with a stylish WWJD bracelet
I wake up each morning
for the sole purpose of
plotting new ways
to legislate your reproductive health.
You got me.
I love my God so much
that I seek to abuse others for His glory.
Have you not heard me on the streetcorner
railing passersby about the filth in their souls
while boasting about my own perfect sainthood?
(That's what we do!)
Listen closely.
People like me,
We all live to cast blame on the victims,
to decry social justice as an evil plot
and welfare as a corrupting menace,
while lining our pockets with taxpayer money.
All 25 to 40% of us in the US population.
According to you, we are also the one percent!

And the way we all apparently
"shove our religion down your throats"
Always that phrase to talk about faith,
but not militant veganism, recycling, or tax policy.
I wonder why.
Must be that cross-shaped shoehorn we always use to force that Bible down the hatch.
Little secret:
that's why the Bibles in the hotels are so tiny!
Makes them go down easier.

I'm sure it leaves some scarring
when we bludgeon the resistors into submission.
Because frequent abuse in the name of God
is the best way to make somebody love Him more.
That's not in the Bible, but 
There are lots of poems that will back me up.

I talk to the Jehovah's Witnesses
when they come to my door. 
They always have an angle,
wanting to talk about the war,
or physical fitness, or what have you,
poor missionaries,
too timid to even mention God outright half the time.
They must not know about the shoehorn trick.
A few minutes of idle chit-chat on their issue
they slip me a Watchtower,
and they're off to the next house.
The funny thing, though,
is that "people like me"
are usually too intimidated by "people like you"
to even show up at the door in the first place.
I wish I had.even that much nerve.
Sadly, the few that have the nerve
are often the ones who need to have the shoehorn taken away.

You say
that my Bible is a hate book.
Because out of that whole book of scripture,
the hundreds of pages,
it is natural to assume
that those who read it
spend most of their time obsessing over
two tiny passages from Leviticus
and trying to read stances
on political hot button issues
into verses that have little to do
with our modern dilemmas.
The other 423 pages are not nearly as applicable
to you and your angry existence,
so we must just skip those parts.
I know I apparently did,
being that my personal relationship with God
is all about
you.

Though, I've been reading those other pages lately.

Did you know that some Bibles
are printed in two colors of ink?
Black for the standard text
and red for the words Jesus spoke.
I'm partial to those red ones. 
They're rich in meaning, and color.

As any good student will tell you,
the most important ideas to take home from the lesson
are the ones the teacher says over and over.
In those verses in the red
My teacher says, "Blessed is the man..."
over and over
A third of His parables talk about  poverty,
more as a blessing than a curse,
and how to part with money if you've got it.

My teacher says, over and over, "I tell you the truth..."
After saying this,
He speaks most often about what the Kingdom of Heaven is like.
And what our lives should be.

My teacher says, "I am the bread of life."
"I am the light of the world."
"I am the good shepherd.  I know my sheep."
Tells us to care for the orphan and the widow.
My teacher did not come for condemnation.
He stopped a stoning.
Drew a line in the sand.
Said, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."

He reserved His harsh words
for just a few:
1. His twelve naive disciples, when they said stupid things
2. the holier-than-thou of his day
and 3. those who made their living
swindling the chosen people of God in their own church.
To the sinners, He said,
"Follow me. I'm going to your house."
To the weak and hurting, He said,
"Pick up your mat and walk."
To the cranky grown-ups, He said,
"Let the children come... the Kingdom of God belongs to such as these."

These are the teachings that "people like me" will follow.
These are the words that spurred the abolitionists
to end slavery
People like me,
The pacifists,
to oppose killing
People like me,
yearning for fellowship,
striving always to have child-like hearts,
Mother Theresa, Doctor King,
Who did justice,
loved mercy,
and walked humbly with their God.

Do not lump them in with those who have worn the cross like sheep's clothing.
There are many of them,
Notorious and vile
But there will always be more gentle sheep than there are wolves
Not all will turn a blind eye to injustice.
Be not fooled.

And please,
before you mock the idea
that Christians,
that people like me,
could number among the oppressed in this country,
do me a favor.

Look at your face in the mirror
for just a moment.
Watch it.
Listen
as a simple statement escapes my lips.

"I am a follower of Jesus Christ."

Watch the way your lip curls into a tsk,
You're doing it,
The subtle narrowing of your eyes.
I see it every time.
You scowl at the thought that someone else
puts their faith in things unseen
and believes in unconditional love.
You make me unwelcome.
Blast my faith in public without remorse
and enjoy the applause.
Forgive me if I don't join in.

You operate under the assumption
that people like me
who embrace God
are all as stupid as the ones on TV
spouting their venom at people they don't know
and waving their ridiculous signs.
Ask yourself,
of the two of us
whose belief system is more foolish?

Listen to that.
Hear the disgruntled sigh that issues from your chest
even now
as you think,
"is this poem over yet?"

No,
it isn't.

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