Maundy Thursday Prince


Lord, let me

let You

Love me.


I don’t know what else to do.


I’m terrified

You might not come through

for me

when I need You most

like a rescue mission gone pear-shaped—

a lit candle of hope drownin’ at sea—

leavin’ me to plan my own escape,

using an ole paddle board

and some duct tape.


Lord, I can’t stand not being in control.


Trusting someone else

with my fate

is a colossal leap of faith

I entrust to You,

the Lover of my soul.


Lord, I want to feel comfortable

in my own skin.


There’s so much I want to say and do

but I don’t know where to begin.


They say

I should perform

for an audience

of One King

of an eternal dominion

not a room full of jurors

or a thousand minions,

who could care less about my suffering


cause they don’t know

what I’m thinking


or how often my tears

slide down a slippery slope of fear,

finding their way back

to the provincial pack

of which I am not,

seeking to please everyone

even the people I haven’t met yet,

except for God.


Lord, I feel like runnin’ away.


Then again,

the world seems so vile

and unkind.


And what I find

inside my mind—

a runaway rowboat,

headed to a deserted isle,

leavin’ behind a “Dear John” letter,

my only proof of existence—

isn’t much better.


Only the tender timbre

of my Maker’s voice

makes me want to stay.


I want to know more

about this Maundy Thursday Prince,

ever since I’ve read what eyewitnesses say,

“He massages people’s feet

as He washes away the dirt

and the stench of the street.

He walks with those who suffer

and suffers when those who suffer

go astray.”


This is the Rabbi

who inspires closet skeptics

to “come-out” and pray.


Let’s be real,

true cynicism isn’t real livin’;

it’s brothers robbin’ brothers

the joy of breakin’ bread

to stay home alone,

eatin’ Ramen with Sriracha



I wouldn’t be so defensive

if I weren’t always breakin’

all the rules.


I’d blame it on my ADHD

if I could.


But if Pain has taught me anything,

it’s that impulsivity

doesn’t have to control me.


Lord, did You create me this way

or is this part of Original Sin’s proclivity?


No one has the right to judge me,

not even myself.


Cause I’m limited to what I can see,

understanding only a sliver of my own secrecy:



and inclinations



Only the One

who knows everything

about everything,

including every possibility

about every possible world:

a Christmas tree in this one,

a 7G Tower in the next one,

a wormhole in the third one,

a multiverse of different-but-same,

ad infinitum.


How can the clay say to the Potter

“Why have you made me like this?”


As a mere man

that’s how,

a concoction of breath and dust.


Drunk with arrogance,

I fight against my mortality

and tendency to rust.


A clatter of dancing bones

broken to pieces

by the nonchalant toss of a slur

with the force of 10 stones.


Lord, You made me a man

so why do I quiver

and blow apart

like a dandelion in a floral bed

next to a still river,

suddenly uprooted

by the mischievous wind

that plucks without a hand?


When I start searchin’

for a thunderbolt or trident

I know I’m overcompensatin’

for somethin’,


probably for being shaken

to my core.


Lord, remind me

trouble at sea

doesn’t mean I’ve been forsaken;


it just means I’m navigatin’ a skiff

that’ll one day be upgraded

to skim the waters, effortlessly,

far away from cravin’ the shore

into the heart of the sea,

a sea that’s meant to be

swallowed slowly

and perpetually explored.


Friends feed the inherent desire in every single one of us to be seen and heard and remembered. And that makes us feel immovable and immortal as if the universe itself came alive to witness a miracle. And nothing we say or do will ever be forgotten. (This hints at the foreshadowing of a personal relationship with the ultimate Being—immovable and immortal—who is closer to us than a brother and who created us to know Him and to be known by Him.) But what if this convivial concept of friendship escapes us?

Read More »



if you’ve dropped your keys,

hat or hash pipe

into the “rabbit hole”

of delusive fantasy,

whirling and writhing down

an eternal abyss of insanity,

further and further away

from the drain of objective reality.

Read More »


Our reassurance

is His willingness

to be caught in the cross hairs,

a red dot

at the intersection

of an atoning fare

and a predetermined time-slot.

Read More »

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