Poem Collection 2009

8/9/2019 Poem Collection 2009

1/42

POETRY BYMARK SANDLIN

M Y LIFE AS A M ISSIONARY

My life as a missionaryReally isnt too contraryThough I thought it might be scaryEvery last Tom, Dick and HarryTold me that I must be waryThe natives there are known to carryDysentery And beriberi

And at times my life was solitaryI wondered if Id ever marryAnd some facts I found necessaryThey hadnt taught in seminary

It was a sad commentaryEspecially how frgmentaryWas my small vocabularyBut I bought myself a dictionary

Christmas there isnt quite so merryWithout snow flake or holly berryBut Thai cuisine is legendarySo Im set in matters culinary.And problems that are monetary

Dont give me a coronary

OKso Im no William CareyLife sometimes is sedentaryAnd sometimes its pretty hairy

But theres joy extraordinaryWhen Jesus takes an ordinaryThai man or womans sins to carryBy His deathsubstitutionary.

In short, Ive really found it veryGrand to be Gods emissaryAnd when I dieif Christ should tarryId just as soon they take and buryMe in some Thai cemeteryMy epitaph/obituary?--By Gods grace, a Missionary

--June 2000


2/42

CLUTTERED SOULS

My soul is all uncluttered.

Well, not allBut less cluttered than once it was

And less than could beAnd less than manyWho are themselvesShelvesPiled high, piled pell-mellWith who knows what.

Asthmatic child, I wheezed through boyhoodLungs full, but not with airHow freely now I breathe!How beautifully

Empty lungsFill with air

Shocking, really, how we permit, and promoteThe rubbishing of the soulHow it must scandalizeThe one who did His partSo neatly and so wholly.

Pathetic that we let the garbageCreep back in at allBut worse still to give it honored placeLeaving much less room therebyFor all else that alone belongs thereFor all else that alone matters.

Shelves light-laden, sparsethats betterA few classicsjust a few The one day better than a thousand elsewhereInstead of the inverse, seen everywhere:The cluttered souls elsewhere, always elsewhereShelves piled high inCloset amalgam, promiscuous mixThe many loves of the crammedCluttered soul.

Prepare the way! Build up the road!You are not a king, but a queenAlone, with him, sheWins all


3/42

Keeps allRules allNo queen takes a second king.One king, one realm, one all.

Incorrigible, though, the imperialism of the soul.

It expands, the soul, and fills the vacancyWith new stuff, new lovesNew kings

There isInside each of usA clutter-shaped vacuum.

A clear field, a clean slatemonopoly, really is what He wants:A cloistered virgin.But that is just what we cant seem to give;Cant. Wont.Our solitude must have its solaceSome change of paceCant expect a harem to sit around forever

So: Faint-With-LoveBegins to frownAnd fidgetAnd friskAnd finallyAll manner of riff-raff forces inVia doors ajar, left unsecuredThrough hopes of tame intrusion

And tame they come at firstIts true.Tap-tapA little peekAnyone home?Saw the door ajar

Im speaking now of slow queens

The better sortThe decent foolish queensNot the slattern who hangs out a shingleAnd burns the doorsGod knows they existBut Im not thinking of them

Just the ones, I mean, with plain curiosity The roving eyenot even that!


4/42

Just adriftno malice aforethought! Just wandring souls, daydreamers

Not bad, just stupidNot stupid, just carelessNot careless, just open.

Open.not shut in!A jar .not barred and double-barred!

No danger, surelyWouldnt have thought soThe fool assumes the bestThe blade slips in too quick, between the ribsDeath comes before the lessonCan be learned and passed on

We might have learned somethingFrom that which killed usIf it hadnt killed us.Great tragedy of the dead fool:Death, compounded with FollySenseless sleep.

He that hath ears to hear, let him hearBut dont listen with your ears fullShake out the noise first

Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it...But dont pray with your mouth fullNo point asking for fullness from a full mouth

Eyes full of adulteryDont look with your eyes fullRemove the planks.

Let these words sink into your ears Jesus warnedAnd then He told them the simple gospelWhich they couldnt hearWith ears full of their own thoughts


5/42

The quiet secretaryOf many years servicePut her desk in order Then went home And quietly drank, and sat And drank, and waited, until quite late, whenThe secretary wrote a last memo:I cant compete with your lovers. And left it on his dresser, and wentTo the closed garage to start the car And sit. And wait.

Listen: we are making our bedWe are forging our chainsDo we think we can despoil that matPrance and frolic, wrinkle and soilThen go all pristine to meet our Lover?

Dont try to love with your heart full.

Dont you know thatWe are becoming what we will be?Did you thinkYou could wear the harlot garmentTo your weddingAnd change it at the altarAnd then be good?

Heres a better way:Make your forest a garden.A park.The forest is fine in some waysBut too jungly, all unkemptWith thick undergrowth, intertwined So many unknowns and so much clutter

You are not a jungle

Be what you ought to beA parkIs landscaped, laid out, lawns mowedTrees trimmedEquipment for play in precise placementAll plannedthe park.

With benches, those windows of the gardenWhere all is viewed, where at your rest


6/42

You scan the curves, and sense the symmetryAnd feel the spaceAnd the gentle jelling of a dozen greens

While always above youThe vast dome of blue with puffs of white:

They cant clutter the Sky.All empty and intangible, above-it-all, secureStuff slips right through and lower landsTo perch and pile beneathThe SkyWhich gravity, its janitor,Untiringly tidies, clearing out the clutter.

All above: clear.All below: order.In the park.You be like that.

A darkened generationPeers out though slits of eyesEncrusted with infection and obstructionThe eye, the lamp of the body, all encrustedO cluttered eyes, O awful accretionAnd all dark inside

O blindness of the cluttered eyesWill you see again, O cluttered soul?Cant get a view in edgewiseBut that doesnt make the SkyLess glorious or crystalline or vast or spare or pureAbove your cluttered headOnly you, thats all, walking blind, or nearlyBeneath that swept and pristine canopyTragic burdening of the soul!Gunking of the glory that might have been yours

Swallowing camels has left youFull of camelsNo wonder youre uncomfortable, and tightMovement arrestedWalking doesnt appeal, let alone flight!Flabby fullness, counterfeit feelingAll must and can be trimmed

And thats grace, by the wayNot excusing


7/42

But excisingThats grace The sacred scalpelSpare, severe scalpel, full of graceReal gracethat cleanses and sets free.

You will tell me that birds still fly aboveAnd clutter even the clearest of viewsI will respond that if you havent the strength of willTo shoot them downAt least keep their nests from your hair.

Lovers lurk, it is true, under every spreading treeBut its not too lateTo quit frequenting such trees

To stay at homeTo bolt the doorsTo change the sheetsTo clear the shelvesTo cleanse the mindTo cloister the heartTo keep the tryst

To unclutter the soul.

Without holiness no oneWill see

September 2003


8/42

EARLY EXPIRATION

Be carefultheres an early expiration datethey told me something like thatand you try to remember but

who can with all the bottles and boxesand numbers on flat everything these daysand I dont remember if I asked them if it would bedangerous if I forgot but I knowI would of remembered if they had said very clearIT IS DANGEROUS orif theyd of said anything like that I would of rememberedyou get so busy and so who can remember all the detailsabout when this and that are to expirebecause I am running around like a chicken with my headcut off half the time anyway

and the other half just trying to keep upso sure enoughtime got away from meand I ate thoseand they did expire early after alland so did I.

-- October 2003


9/42

D IRE STRAITS

Be openThey keep admonishing me.You absolutely must be broader than thisThey sternly lecture.

Loosen upThey frowningly chide.

I irk the urbaneAnd the intellectualAnd the irresoluteHow primitive and cloistered I seemTo them

No need to stay in ancient paths,They say.

(You hick,They do not say.)

Their brows furrow with authentic concernI feel like a sick patientUnder their worried gaze.

But I have tasted their tonicI have sampled their curesThey are sweet, synthetic mixesQuintessentially modernArtificial cherry flavorThey serve not to give me vigorI have sat under their fluorescent bulbsImbibed their I.V. drip

They dont work for me.Like a difficult patientIm inclined to slip out of bed at the first opportunityDuck under their TV whichHangs, bat-like, from the ceiling of my convalescent caveAnd escape back out into the light

I cannot breatheIn the heavy air of their opennessThey have trimmed, stitched, and cosmetically alteredThe Ancient of DaysThey have rehabilitated HimTo suit their EnlightenmentI hardly recognize Him


10/42

He used to be so full-orbed,My GodIt took the whole volume of the BookTo give the full portrayalAnd even then I felt I was just beginning to get the picture

But then they began chipping awayCarefully delineating what He isAnd didAnd saidAnd meant

And what He isnt And didnt doAnd didnt sayAnd didnt mean

Chipping away at the revealed GodTo fashion somethingMore consonant with their creed.

I am Jessica in their drainpipeTheyd best have left it coveredId rather play in the wide yardThan sing their ditties in this pipeI swear I am dyingWithin the narrow confines of their liberalism.

Now, at this pointThey will hold me down on the groundAnd bend my arm behind my backAnd pull up sharplyAnd make me admit thatThey worship the same God I do.

Uncle.

But sculptingDoes leave all those chips on the floor--What about those chips?Which of those are nonessential?

Forgive me, butI do not trust your ivory towers of BabelYour white-collar, west-coast think tanksYour common-denominator ecumenismYour fickle hermeneutic


11/42

I will call you brotherI will call you sisterI will not refuse to pray with and for youGod forbid I should refuse to love youBut I will not join you in your cubbyholeI will not quietly take my pills

And shut upAnd take the drip

Nope.Give me all of GodI will stay straitenedI prefer the great Physician

You take your plastic panaceasYour gurusYour seminarsAnd workbooksAnd video series

Ill take Him as He has revealed HimselfWarts and all

Ill take His oceanWith all its unknownsIts terrifying depthsIts folds and shadowsIts weight of glory

You can have the platitudesOf salesmenAnd psychoanalystsAnd the listless cobwebs of your liturgy

Give me theReal Person of God.Give Him to me straightGive Him to me without censorshipOr political correctingOr disclaimersOr tweaking

Having said all thatI fall silent,And my elders sadly glance at one anotherAnd slowly shake their headsAnd ask, with pity,Dear boy, what makes you think


12/42

Your narrow interpretation is the right one?What makes you think that you

But they are beginning to fade away nowI can barely hear themI can barely see them

As their brows furrowUnder their broad foreheads.

Im sorryI cannot stay for the debateThank you for your concernBut I feel I am suddenly called awayI cant concentrateDeep is calling to deep,Yet again,And I must respond

You may have the rivulet of your broadness.I wish you well.As for me,I will be sailing,Somewhere,Wind at my back,On the unbounded seasOf my closed mind.

-- September 2003


13/42

WWJD

WWJDUsed to mean so much to meWhat a challenge every dayTo try to do things Jesus way

The way Hed do them if He facedThose situations in my place

When faced with some unique temptationId turn to my imaginationWondering what would He doIf He was facing this test too?If He was walking in my shoesWhat strategy would Jesus use?

Though Hes been gone 2000 years

It really helped allay my fears Just to picture Him somehowFacing things I face right now.I wondered What Would Jesus Do?And felt that brought me wisdom, too.

Thats what I thought for quite some timeBut now I must confess that ImRethinking the theologyOf WWJDYou see, Im finding verses nowWhich claim that Jesus is here nowHes here! Alive! Hes IN the fray.Hes IN the trials I face each dayWhat then is the implication?I dont NEED imaginationDont need to ask what He would doIf He were here with me and youBecause: Hes HERE! He lives inside us!Everyday to teach and guide usThe risen Lord has entered inHis Holy Spirit abides within

I wonder if weve caused Him griefHas this revealed some unbelief?Have these 4 letters been the toolsTo lower Living Faith to rules?

These days, Im asking something new;Im asking What WILL Jesus do?His Holy Spirit, here to stayWhat WILL He do, through you?--today!


14/42

What WILL He do in your life storyChrist in you, the hope of glory?So ask not what would Jesus doHes IN your life, IN all you doAnd wants to live His life through you.

--October 2000


15/42

RICE CHRISTIAN

Our daughter wasnt more than threeWhen I checked her theology.One evening, fore she went to sleepI thought Id ask her something deep

And so, just as I tucked her in,I asked Alisa, with a grin,Where is God, Sweetie-pie?

Gods in the rice , was her reply.

Her answer wasnt very longI wondered if Id heard it wrong.I asked again, she said it twice:

Gods in the rice. Gods in the rice.

This only--then she spoke no moreThe rice? What did she say that for?My wifes the best cook I have met,Her foods as good as food can getHer cookings heavenly, and yetOur child meant something else I bet.

Hes in the ricethat little jewelShe hadnt learned in Sunday School.On a throne, even on a cloudThat sort of answer is allowedHes on the earth, the air, the seaBut in the rice?thats heresy.I might expect that from a cultSuch a reply from an adult.

I thought, what will our neighbors say?Theyll ask, To whom do those folks pray?Some worship stars, some follow Zen,But those folks worship Uncle Ben.

Gods in the ricethe words hung thereSuspended in the evening air

I might have pondered them all nightBut then I had a quick insight.It dawned on me what she must meanI realized what she had seen.

No doubt she watched, throughout the day,At mealtimes when we bowed to pray


16/42

Her little eyes would sneak a peakAnd see her parents seem to speakTo the rice piled on the platesThe Rice--The Ruler of Our Fates?!?

She saw which way we seemed to gaze

She saw where we directed praiseShe saw, and must have thought, How odd,We bow to rice, and say, Thanks God.

Poor thing! She must have come ungluedTo see us praying to our food.We thanked the rice for its provisionWith theological precision.Each mealtime as we sat to sup,We thanked our God--then ate Him up.

I set her straight, you can be sureHer faith was clearly immature.But then I got to thinking harderIs God truly in the larder?

Where does the One we worship dwell?

Is God enthroned in paradise?Or everywhere?Or in the rice. For some households Gods whereaboutsIS in the riceor thereabouts.

God says our heart is where our stuff isDo we know how much enough is?Or do we keep stockpiling thingsFor all the joy stockpiling brings?

Nothings changed through all the ages.Nothing new from all the sagesCancels this philosophy:Where your treasure is, your heart WILL be.

In these days of goal-setting,Vision statements, and go-gettingLuring converts by their greedCatering to each felt need.We miss the Giver for the giftWe dont want God, we want a lift!

But God has said one thing is vitalHe, Himself, and no dumb idolLet God Himself be all we need


17/42

Be THOU my vision, this our creed.With upturned face, I worship TheeNo worldly treasures need I see.

Friends, never seek the Fathers handSeek His face , thats His command.

Let things be things and nothing more Just to be used and not adored.I close my poem with this brief prayer--That Youll find Him beyond compareThat youll remember every minute:God gives the rice, but Hes not in it.

-- November 2000


18/42

THE W ORST KIND OF IDOLATRY

To treat an idolOf wood, or stone, or metalWhich having ears cant hearHaving eyes cant see

Having legs cant walkAnd having hands cant help

To treat that idolAs if it were the Living God--

Is pretty bad.

But there is something worse.

And that is to treat the Living God

The Creator and Sustainer of all the earthWho never slumbersWhose arm is not shortenedWho sees and hears all things

To treat the Living GodAs if He were an idol--

That is worse.

As if He were blind, deaf, and dumbImmobile, impotentImpossibly old,Irrelevantly slow,In constant need of usTo prop Him upAnd keep Him from tottering.

That is worse.

To forsake the fountain of Living WatersIn order to hew out broken cisternsThat can hold no water--Thats pretty bad.

But to regard the fountain of Living WatersAs Himself no betterThan a broken, empty cistern--Thats worse.

Its somehow much, much worse.-- August 2003


19/42

SAVE THE CHILDREN

The youth look through you(Have you noticed that?)With their empty eyesVacant, satisfied, restless

Waitcan you be satisfied and restless?Or do those combine to make a third thingCalled apathy?Edgy easeRestless rest

Their minds are music videosFocus shifting every 3 secondsSong changing every 3 minutesCommunicating nothingLeaving nothing in its wake

The teens are empty soulsAll emptiness insideThe hippies were better! NowThere are no causesThere is no contentThe style is the substanceOf their empty world.

God! What have we done?We have altered our livingVital, pulsingThree-dimensioned worldOf pounding surfs and galesOf snows and peaksOf trees to be shimmied upAnd robins nests to be probedOf fishing poles to be improvisedAnd small sparkling fish to be thrown backOf frozen ponds to be skated onAnd ice cream trucks to be chasedOf holes to be dug, kites flownOf kickball games, and marblesAll the prosaic, earthy realitiesEach one far better than the fiction.And in their place, we are left withThe Disney video.

The world changedThe day someone poisoned the Tylenol.It was only a few bottles, reallyA few deathsBut many, many more died


20/42

When the whole worldWas sealed in plasticAnd then placed in additional plastic

Our plain, honest world of paper (from thoseTrees we once shimmied up)

Became the world of plastic, individually wrappedVacuum sealedSo that the dirt cant be found anymoreUnder the fingernails of the childrenAnd the frustrated, aproned mothers of yesteryearAre goneI mean their frustration is goneAnd the aprons are goneAnd they are gone.The parks are emptyThe swings decayAnd the children dont return from creeksAnd from mud piesStreaked with dirtPockets filled with rocks, or cricketsTodays children return from movies and partiesClean as a whistleAnd filled with dirtAnd filled with nothing.

Today the junkEnters a different portal;Used to be their minds stayed healthyWhile their teeth decayedThis is now reversed.

But I think I have upset the youthStodgy old manThat I am--I am wrong, you say?I am wrong?Praise God! I am wrong!Nothing could give me greater joyThan to know that I am wrong.

But I get around a fair bitEven at my advanced ageAnd Ive been watching.

I am wrong, you say.Wonderful.

Now you must prove that to me.


21/42

(But in the meantime,O God,Save the children.)

--October 2003


22/42

W E GOT A GYM

We finally got a gymThank GodTheyll be pouring in now

They meet felt needs, gymsNothing like preening in front ofMirrored walls, wearing spandex pantsTo give people a feeling ofMet need

We tried a new Sunday School programA small investmentThat brought small returns

We tried a new church library

A larger investmentThat brought a few retirees

We tried a busing programAn even larger investmentThat brought riff-raff

Finally we made a huge investmentWe have a holistic approach now(Thats a quote from the brochure)The holistic approach meansThe wholepersonNot just the spiritWe tried the spiritAnd the returns were very small

So we wised up: wise as serpents(Thats a quote from the brochure)Now well meet felt needsInstead of real onesI expect theyll be pouring in nowNow that, thank God,We finally got a gym.

--October 2003


23/42

H USBANDS , LOVE YOUR W IVES

Husbands, love your wivesAs Christ loved the churchAnd took her on date nightsAnd never put ministry above her

And brought her flowers, andGave her the credit card sometimesSo she could go on a buying spree.

Husbands, love your wives Just as Christ loved the churchAnd never spoke a harsh word to herBut accepted her just as she is Without berating or upbraiding herNo matter how dissolute she became.

Brethren, love one another,For love is from God,And God is love;And Love doesnt carry a whip.Love doesnt call people namesLike Dog! or Fox! or Hypocrite!Or Sons of snakes!Or Blind guides!

Brethren, love one another.Love is unconditional;It doesnt threaten,Or give ultimatums.Love doesnt stand pounding on closed doorsDemanding repentance.Love is patient;It takes a number and sits down.Love waits its turn;It can jolly well wait its turn.

Love is patient, love is kindIt is warm and fuzzyAnd accommodating.Love never rails.

--Mark Sandlin, July 2003


24/42

TO AN UNKNOWN FAD (Acts 17:22-23)

Youll never guess who came today to join our worship serviceSt. Paul himself! Ill tell you, we were all a little nervousI saw him in the hallway as I hustled through the door;He introduced himself, I almost passed out on the floor!I shook his hand of course, but then I really couldnt waitThe band was warming up, and I was running kind of lateI handed him our flyer and he quickly read it allAnd then he scanned the notices wed posted on the wallHe seemed a bit surprised to see how full our schedule wasAnd I thought, Praise the Lord that our church does all that it does.He walked by our displays and saw the conferences wed been toOur little display tables showing all the stuff were into

The band was cranking up now, so I left him for a whileBut halfway through the song he stood and with a gentle smileHe asked if it were possible to say a word or twoOur worship team was miffed, of course, but what was I to do?

He said:I see that you are all religious folks in all respects

When I came to your church I wasnt sure what to expect.But there among your ministry displays I came uponI saw one empty table with these words inscribed thereon:

TO THE UNKNOWN FAD, it said, so what you dont know Ill proclaim.If you would try this Fad, I know youd never be the same.

Youve run the gamut of the trends, youve worshiped every fadIf you didnt try some trend or two Im sure you wish you had.Youve had dynamic speakers at your workshops and retreatsThe fun you feed the kids does kind of keep them off the streetsYouve got your vision statement, got your short- and long-term goalsYour ad campaign and new dress code are adding to your rollsYour church has been a cell church and a seeker church and fun churchA program church, a Bible church, a keep-them-on-the-run churchYou seem to have included all the ideas of the day;But may I take a moment to suggest a better way?You may find in the end that its the best thing youve yet hadIm speaking once again, of course, about the THE UNKNOWN FAD

The Unknown Fad just laughs at fate and fleeting circumstanceWhen all the world starts hopping He steadfastly will not danceHis head He tosses proudly when some new trend comes along


25/42

He taps out His own rhythm and He whistles His own song.Ten thousand voices cry out, each one in a higher keyBut the Unknown Fad just stays His course and whispers, Follow Me

I guess that in a nutshell I am saying, in effectThat you are clearly all religious folks in all respectsYour other fads are formed of dust by mans own thought and artThe Unknown fad is changeless, timeless, high and set apartHes the one fad youve not tried, the only Stone youve left unturnedHes the answer to your questions, Hes the lesson yet unlearned.Dont get me wrong, your dreams and hopes themselves might not be badIm just saying , Lay them at the altar of the Unknown Fad.

-- March 2002


26/42

G OD S BEEN M ESSING W ITH MY SELF-ESTEEM AGAIN (Song)

Gods been messing with my self-esteem againTrying to make me feel less important than I amBut if I dont love myself how can I love my fellow man?Gods been messing with my self-esteem again

Gods been making me feel bad about myselfMaking me feel I mustStill adjustThe way I amId got some warm fuzzies--I was feeling good--but then...Gods been messing with my self-esteem again

God's been dissing my self-confidence againAs if He wants my confidence instead to be in HimMy poor fragile ego now is really wearing thinGods been messing with my self-esteem again

Well, now I realize what Jesus wants to seeMy ego must be crucified so He can live in meNo longer on myself but on His grace will I dependPraise God! He's been messing with my self-esteem againHallelujah! --God's been messing with my self-esteem again!

--April 2000


27/42

S.O.C.K.*

My work keeps me off of American sodFour years at a stretch, and I find it so oddHow the country has changed every time I returnTheres so much to take in and so much to re-learn.Though change isnt obvious to each churchgoer,The church--like the world--changes too, only slower.

So on furlough one day, on the couch for a snooze,I thought, Maybe Ill hop in the car for a cruise.The weather is too nice to sit here homebound;Maybe Ill go do some poking around.Maybe see some old sights and then just make a stopTo see an American Christian bookshop.

Well, the bookshop was much bigger than I had thought,The parking lot vast--but I fought for a slot.The glass doors whooshed open and then closed behind,In the entrance a Bible verse hung on a sign.The verse said, I lift up mine eyes to the hills,So I lifted mine up, and saw stuffed to the gillsA gigantic warehouse with stuff beyond measure;A superstore strangely named Heaven in Treasure.

Well, I couldnt tell which one was more in demand,The Scripture itself, or Footprints in the Sand.There were Testamintsbreath mints marked John 3:16;And cookbooks that introduced Bible cuisine.There was oil for anointing and prayer cloths for healing,And angel mobiles dangling down from the ceiling.There were holy land mustard seeds ready for planting,A Prayer of Jabez Room for sitting and chanting,Toy armor for children marked Fight the Good Fight,And a whole seprate room selling Paintings of light.There were all kinds of frog items, that seemed quite odd,Till I saw FROG means Fully Relying On God.There were CD-rom games and a chance to invest inA Holy land tour led by Charlton Heston.And posters and T-shirts and paraphernalia,Had slogans to help with whatever may ail ya.There were Scriptures on every spoon, ashtray, and cup

* Sick of Christian Kitsch.


28/42

(You laugh but you know Im not making this up.)

And the Bibles! The choices just made the mouth water:A Bible for mother, a Bible for daughter,Taped Bibles for people too busy to read,Bibles for every conceivable need.Bibles for teens who want God to be cool,Bibles so small you can take them to school.A Bible for sisters, a bible for brothers,A bible for golfers, for singles, for lovers!Bibles with God less severe and less bloody,Self-esteem Bibles with God as our buddy.Spirit-filled Bibles for those with afflictions,Co-Dependency Bibles for those with addictions.And each new translation with slight variationCaused the consumers to buy with elation

With new Bible frenzy they thought it a mustTo buy them and take them to gather new dust.

There were Bibles in every shape, color, and sizeSo many to choose that it dazzled the eyes.I opened a fancy one just for a minute;A leather deluxe--and I saw these words in it:St Paul wrote, We dont peddle Gods Word for profit;I slammed the Book shut and thought: Oh Paul, come off it.These peddlers invest!--they deserve a return!

Whos it hurting if they make some money to burn?Then I proceeded to walk past the pilesOf Christian stuffed animals lining the aisles.Action figures of Moses and Jesus and PaulAnd aerobics praise videos lined one whole wall.The small section marked Christian Classics was bare,So that Left Behind Book 16 could be placed there;While Augustine, Luther, and Spurgeon, and FoxeWere hastily stored in a small cardboard box.

But the huge music section took up half the space!All the sounds of the world with a fresh Christian face.Urban and rap and bee-bop, instrumental;Electronic, Fusion and experimental;Celtic and blues and acoustic and rock;Screaming guitar or traditional Bach!Country and western, or folk songs, or jazz;They had all the same music the other guy has.


29/42

More music than Id seen in many long moons;The Devil no longer has all the good tunes!

I looked all around at the blessed merchandiseAll of heaven was here, and at fair market price.Gold and silver, said Peter and John, Have I none,But if they could see this place theyd sure have some fun;Theyd see weve progressed, that today our faith frees usTo make a small fortune by marketing Jesus.

I pondered inside what to make of this place,Till the answer just struck me right smack in the face:WWJDthat stuff filled one whole shelf:Thats it! What would HE do , if He stood here Himself? Jesus was patient and loving and kind,And always had others welfare on His mind;

He was wise and discerning and righteous and true-- Jesus would understand just what to do.

And with that in mind I bent over a tad,To get a last look at some little doodad;I bent very close to examine the labels,Then, briskly, I overturned all of the tables.After all, really, what WOULD Jesus doIf He came here and browsed for an hour or two?

Well, it took only moments but seemed to take days,To run through the store overturning displays.I left nothing upright, though I left I confessOne plaque on the wall that said God bless this Mess.

Well, alarm bells rang out, and the doors auto-locked,And store guards surrounded me, armed, triggers cocked.The customers all started shouting at me,And some child in a Veggie Tales shirt bit my knee.The sprinklers came on, and the cashiers were screaming,When I woke--to discover that I had been dreaming.Before I could reach for my knee and say ouch,I discovered that I was back home on my couch.

Well that was some dream as Im sure you can see;It was stranger than strange what had happened to me.But as I awoke I began to recall,That none of it really had happened at all.What ridiculous fiction! What pure fantasy


30/42

My afternoon dream had presented to me!

So I rose from the couch and I tucked my shirt in,And thought, Maybe Ill just take the car for a spin.The weather is too nice to sit here homebound;Maybe Ill go do some poking around


31/42

FULL TANK Part I

I remember in my teens without two dimes to rub togetherHow I loved to drive my Volkswagen in any kind of weather.I loved the feel of powr under the hood there in the backWith my little air-cooled engine I was ready for attack.Terrorizing anyone who veered into my laneI thought I was a cool dude (but I guess I was a pain).

But anyway, my point is, that I liked to drive that car,And I savored independence as I wandered near and far.

But cars cant run on wishes out there on the interstateTen bucks! That would have filled the tank in 1978.

I thought Id fill er up, but then I thought that might be rash,Cause when youre still in high school you dont have big piles of cash.

And so I pumped a dollar in, or maybe pumped in two,Our town was not too big so just a bit would see me through.I kept wishing for a tank full, but despite my wishing foundThat my Beetle functioned fine with just one dollar swishing round

Who cared about the fuel if I still had enough horsepower?Who cared about the long run?--I was living for the hour!

Like cramming for exams and then still passing all the courses,I found that I could function fine with limited resources.

I kept the Beetle buffed in hopes of wowing all the chicks,And of course I kept returning for my daily petrol fix.Always putting in a splash or two to barely get me by,And then always almost empty without really knowing why.Running on a trickle, but still managing to run;Longing for abundance but just barely having fun.

If Id ever had to travel far, I never would have made it.The full tank had too high a cost and so I never paid it.Always thinking bout a fill-up but then frightened by the prices;Always ready for a cruise but never ready for a crisis.

And now at last Im sidelined while I watch the cars go by;I gambled once too often, now I find myself bone dry.So here I sit at last with only vapors in my tank;


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The foolish virgins lamp ran dry shes got herself to thank.

Part II

Some years have passed since then, Im older now, and slightly wiser.I know now that where fuels concerned I dare not be a miser.God isnt just some thing we use then put back on a shelf;God isnt just a part of life, He says Hes life itself.Hes the fuel that fills the tank, He gives His strength, His seal, His unction.Were designed to run on Him, and without Him we just dont function.God seldom helps the mighty, or the wealthy, or the wise,With tank and bank already full of all they truly prize.

Today mans tools have left their marks upon Gods altar stones;A church that seems alive may yet be full of dead mens bones.

With best intentions they design their own programs and plans;They say the blueprints Gods, but all the fingerprints are Mans.Still, God blesses the humble and the proud the Lord opposes;Proud man who climbs Gods altar his own nakedness exposes.

As the wind propels the windmill and the water turns the wheel,Christs flesh and bloods our food and drink, His Words our daily meal.Hes the water in the wellno, Hes the water in the spring!Refreshing, cleansing, satisfying, filling everything.Hes the oil that fills the lamp that shines its brightness all night long;

Hes our breath, sustaining life; He is our rock, our strength, our song.We speak with words HE gives, we serve with strength by HIM supplied;All praise then goes to God, and all mans boasting is denied.God, who delights not in the strength of horse, nor legs of man,Is pleased with those who say to Him, I cant, but God, You can.Yes, those whose strength is God alone have surely found the key;As Zinzendorf has said, I have one passionit is He .

To know the presence of the Lord, let this be our petition.To know God, and to make Him knownjust thisour sole ambition.Lets not be like the ones who knew the Lord, and yet forgot,Saying, Surely God was in this place, and yet we knew it not.So lets come to Him with thirsty heart, extend our empty cup;The Spirit and the Bride say come and take and be filled up.

--Dec 2000 (Part I) and March 2001 (Part II)


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GONE NATIVE

Oh no; there goes the neighborhoodThey were comfortably there, and we were hereThey were them and we were us

Or, erI was usAnd they were ThaiThai. So: them

They were the short, dark-haired, smiley people:The Thai

Then they developed classes:Hes a banker.

Shes a housegirl.

Then personalities:Hes a joker.Shes an airhead.

Then characters:Naree is so kind.Wanchai really encouraged me to get closer to God

Then they become your friends. And you forget yourself, and at timeslongminutesforget that youre from a different world, or look different.And if you go further and deeper than that, you begin to lose the sense of

otherness

You lose your sense of proportionIt was more comfortable to keep them there

And then, to top it off, youer, Imarry one.

Theyre in the house now.

And not just for controlled visits.

You marry into this national familyAnd whatever they were beforetarget group? goal? focus of sympathy?

ministry?Now they have jumped from that, to neighbor, to friend, to family


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So you see the newspaper picture of the scalded boy in intensive care and thinkNot: How could that Thai lady scald her baby? But: Look at that little hand! So like my Alisas. Look at that sweet little hand.And you cry and want to visit the baby, and all babies everywhere

When you hear, The Thai are so-- you begin to switch offBecause youve found that whatever adjective followswill not be true of every ThaiAnd perhaps not true of any Thai

But the intimacy, the blurring of distinctions has its drawbacksIt can take the edge off your evangelismYou no longer walk down the streets smiling and nodding at everybodyLoving the Thai people, flashing prayers, willing them to Christ

Instead you take them for granted, like you always took the people in yourown country for granted.

They get inside youBecome part of youAnd soon you are as hard on them as you are on yourselfOr as soft on them as you are on yourself.

Theyre not themTheyre well, theyre you.

So its time to take a step back. Just like you ought to do with yourself now and then.Youve identified too closelyGone native.

c. 1995


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ALISA S ARRIVAL

Alisas arrival could not have been neater,Nor Mommy and Daddy more happy to meet her.It started when some labor signs were detected

Fully 3 weeks before she was expected.But, thankfully, suitcases all had been packed,The route to the hospital carefully tracked.My sister Kim, herself mother of two,Came along as the coach, and told Pom what to doI was there too, and I served like a saint,(I fed Pom little ice chips and tried not to faint).

Just seven short hours, the time seemed to fly!And soon we were hearing the sound of her cry.Then Daddys vision sort of started to blur,And he gulped and he blinked as he wondered at herAlisa Marie had come into the worldA cute little, smushed little babya girl!Our lives had been changed in the space of one day,And everyone joked, How apt!born on Sunday.

Shes a part of us now, of our days, of our nights(Sometimes we dont bother to turn out the lights),Cause its bottles and blankets and odors that linger,Shes got us wrapped right round her miniature finger.And with car seat and stroller and baby-wise waysYou would think wed been parents for more than 12 days.

But I see we must close now: shes starting to fussSo well say once again, Thanks for praying for us.And do pray still, we ask (theres no prayer request greater),That shell grow in the care of her loving Creator.

--May 1995


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G OD SHELF

I knock on the doorOf the simple flat,3rd floor walk-up

Tenderloin district.The plump Laotian woman answers andHears me speak her language andAllows me entry with myHandful of tracts and my Laotian BibleAnd I sit with her and talk

She does not know Pra-yesu.

As I try to tell her of HimI am in competition with the television

Atop its wooden cabinetWhich is turned on, as I have no doubt it always is

And I, a single young man, a bit lonelySeminary studentA bit scared, a CaucasianFrom Georgia, upper middle classCollege graduateSit in an inner-citySan Francisco refugee flatAnd speak uneven LaoTo a dark-skinned Buddhist woman from another worldAbout Pra-yesu, a Savior from another galaxy

That is our gulf, our great divideThe deafening canyon that will makeThe meeting of our mindsSuch an exquisite challenge

Did I mention the TV being on?

As I, the alien creature from one worldTry to explain about an alien galaxyTo an alien from the third worldAs I strain to deliver my shaky LaoOn the TV movie a woman is being raped

She is screaming and kickingAnd being chased,As I talk about Pra-yesuAnd try to be seen and heard above


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A rape scene.

HereI really must note thatThe peasant refugee is

At one point, at leastAt this one point identicalTo a vast multitudeOf humanity in every land:She does not lower the volumeThe slightest bit. AndLike that vast multitudeShe still vaguely tries to followWhatever it is I am sayingAs do I.

I dont recall ever having seen aRape scene on TV in all my lifeHow can a rape scene be on TV?How can a rape scene go on so long? And the rape scene goes on and onAnd the screaming goes on and on and on

And it finally winds downAround the time that I do

And as I leave my tract and leave the flatI feel a deep sadness, and an underlying anger,And a nagging confidenceWhich I have often felt in similar settings over the many years sinceThat the plump little clueless Laotian womanWill wind up in hellAnd the fault will lie, in part,With that particular rape sceneItself just a few minutesOf one movieItself just a tiny portionOf the daily and nightly transmissionsFrom atop the wooden cabinet.

-- September 2003


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SAM S RETIREMENT

Sam retired earlycause most of one lung anda pretty good piece of another

had to be removedenough to make it sos hecouldnt keep up, account of beingwinded easy, but at57 now, and getting a fair bit of restin the barcolounger there in front of the TVwhere its got that little wooden lever sosyou can swing your feet up, with thelamp beside and the crystal ashtray that gets emptiedtwice every day, at least, buthe and Doris keep busy enough

just right thereplus with the bunch of the grandkidssometimes practically living with them afterall the divorcesit makes the little place crowded sometimesand theres always one of the littler kids complaining about the smellof the cigarettes which is in every carpet fiberthe wallpaper smells of it andall the sofa cushionsand it seems like even the wooden furnitureone or another will always saybut Sam and Doris dont notice that just the extra expense of feeding them allwhich you try gettinganything out of the exes for thatand too about some of the older ones, andespecially the older girlsomebodyought to take her in handcause shes going to wind up pregnantor worsebut life mostly just ends upbeing a lot of Sam and Doris shushingthe kids sos they can hear the TVfor one stinking minute and what the people on theprogram are saying

-- October 2003


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I C ARRY M Y CROSS IN MY POCKET (Inspired by a popular poem, sold along with a small cross, that begins this way:

I carry a cross in my pocket, A simple reminder to meOf the fact that I am a Christian

No matter where I may be...)

I carry a cross in my pocketA simple reminder to meThat my faith is as thinAs the plastic it's inAnd it's hidden where no one can see.

I carry a cross in my pocketIt was too heavy there on my backWhere it chafed and it hurtAnd it wrinkled my shirtAnd would throw my whole day out of whack

So I carry my cross in my pocketWith this poem that can cause no offenceI can read it for funPut it back when I'm doneAnd it only cost 59 cents.

Yes, I carry my cross in my pocketYou can put Satan on the alert:Though he trounce me and beat meDeceive and defeat meAt least Ive got this in my shirt.

--March 2002


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LOST H IS POWER

Sweetest tastes have all gone sourStale old blessings left to scourFeeling weaker by the hour

Lost His power, lost His powerFallen now from lofty towerEbbing joy has left me dourHead in hands to sit and glowerLost His power, lost His power

Drought has fallen on my flowerAll its beauty to devourNeed a fresh renewing showerLost His power, lost His power

--1995/2003


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LAST DAYS LULLABY

Sleep on, O weary watchmanThe countrys all a-bedLet dangers sort themselves out

You just rest your sleepy head.Doze on, O drowsy shepherdDont fret you oer the sheepNo wolves round here, I bet, and plusYou need your beauty sleep.

Snooze on, O weary warriorDont fear your armors chinksLet battle rage around you nowYou need your forty winks.

Let down your guard, O guardsmanEnjoy a snooze sublimeThough foes are thronging at the gatesIts way past your bedtime.

Sleep on, O tired teacherHang up your thinking capThe wisest thing to do, sometimes,Is just to take a nap.

Play on, O playful prophetTonight do as you pleaseNo need to burn the midnight oilYou need to catch some zs.

Kick back, O sleepy servantThe masters out of sightHes far from home, and anywayNo thief would come tonight.

Sleep tight, O sleepy subjectsThe kingdoms safe and soundIgnore those howls and shrieks and growlsNo enemys around.

Night!

-- June 2003

Poetry by Mark Sandlin


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Poem Collection 2009

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Transcript of Poem Collection 2009