Rescued from the Rapture

6/15/24

Strokes on canvas come to life.

Entangled particles of love explore.

Earth orbits a dying sun—

mere reflection and mortal strife.

A villa with a view not easily ignored.

 

“For by grace you have been saved through faith.”

Soil of Vine rich with trust.

Proverb and parable collide—

good deeds like talents buried

turn to rust.

Listen to chimes of old,

a call to Middle-Eastern metaphors of grace:

fruit of branches pruned fills the cup

the Gardner-Groom lifts up

to bless and toast and taste

the sweetness of the day,

a much-anticipated day

when He can see His eclectic bride eternal

face-to-face.

 

For now, the genealogy of suffering

is in every kiss.

While the already-not-yet kingdom of God

is continually crafted,

sanded down and stained

into His pre-ordained workmanship.

For we are Heaven’s masterpiece,

framed in doctrines of sweat and bliss.

Incarnated poems

(“created in Christ Jesus to do good things”)

clip Icarus’s apocalyptic wings

as feathers of pride melt

like sun-struck wax

when we abide inspired

with tongues of fire

from Holy Spirit lips.

 

To be clear, this is not an anti-rapture poem but a poem about an anti-rapture obsession, to the point that we fail to “come to life” here-and-now, merely giving lip-service to Paul’s Spirit-inspired declaration “For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago” (Ephesians 2:10, NLT).  

10/17/24

Ten years ago, my parents, Robert and Sheila, were killed in a car accident on Christmas Day. A head on collision with a drunk driver took them away from me. It turned out that both front airbags were defective. They were coming back from looking at Christmas lights. My seven-year-old daughter was in the back seat. She was not wearing her seatbelt. She was thrown from the wreckage. She died instantly.

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10/12/24

“You need me! Without me … you’re nothing! I keep you alive.” “Are you kiddin’ me? This isn’t living.” “How dare you interrupt me! You entitled, insecure, unappreciative little brat! I give you hope. I give you purpose. I give you meaning. If you leave me now, you’ll die. You’ll have nothing to get you…

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10/10/24

When you were young, before my siblings and I were born, before you kissed our father— elevating him from bachelor to prince— you made shadows of figure 8 patterns with your shoulders and head on the Nicaraguan dirt.   A pendulum swing of brown cascading pigtails and a homemade skirt that made all the rich…

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