Here at one year past my ordination,
Seventeen years, five months past my calling,
Twelve years into full-time obligation,
Celebrating fourty-four years’ stalling,

On my second church and my fifth career,
Sixth hometown, the plot begins to thicken.
It’s not that I jobhop or fail to steer;
I’m not adventuresome, just no spring chicken.

Some seventy-six sermon videos,
Going on six-thousand I’ve delivered.
Riding high in my second rodeo,
Trying hard to keep my arrows quivered.

Though too much to learn and nothing to teach,
God help, says Paul, I can’t choose not to preach!

Some say nothing ever happens by chance.
They say God knew all before all ever was.
They think it’s all ordained, a song and dance,
But I believe the Bible, just because.

Some say God won’t repent or change God’s mind.
They say God has no reason for regrets.
They say God orchestrates all but I find
Rejoicing in those things that God forgets.

So God can be let down by God’s anointed.
The Bible says the future isn’t stiff.
It says God was surprised and disappointed.
The biggest word in scripture, that is “if”.

I say these things even though I’m liable
To be called “heretic”. Read the Bible!

Ah, Sunday morning! An obligation
To enter the House of God’s dominion.
Is there conviction or confirmation?
The Great Physician’s second opinion.

Ah, Sunday morning! The benches are hard!
The air feels heavy within sacred bricks.
God’s Word is sharp like a pottery shard,
For those who are kicking against the pricks.

Ah, Sunday morning! Comfort and care,
Sisters and brothers all in the same boat.
The preacher rows, but the Helmsman is there
To chop the waters yet keep us afloat.

Ah, Sunday morning! It’s all in your head
If you stop the alarm and stay in bed.

Does God know the future? What does it hold?
Tell me, and give me your chapter and verse.
If the future’s not yet then it’s nothing to know.
God says a choice is a blessing or curse,

But it’s ours to make. It’s undecided
Which road we take, so choose you this day
Whether Yahweh or Baal. God confided
In scripture the truth: We choose our own way.

Time travel, the stuff of science fiction
But God says time moves in one direction.
You don’t back up; you have no depiction
Of all that will be, just God’s protection.

We know God is love and will always care.
Whatever the future, God will be there.

I don’t share them all. Cards on the table
Can’t hold a candle to cards up the sleeve.
When? Where? My call. I’m simply not able
To publish those I don’t want to believe.

There’s pain in the telling, death in the stew,
Buckshot that might injure more than the mark.
Vagueness and code, I try not to fool you.
I try not to strike up a flint that will spark

Inflamed conversation. Don’t give a thought
To unworthy memories having no place
In blessings abounding the dreamcatcher caught.
Just flies in the ointment, lines on the face.

I don’t share them all. I know when to quit.
Our do I? Who knows if the fuse is lit?

A tribute to friendships taken from me,
Stolen or poisoned, faked and forgotten,
Spilling into the streets of Never Was and Used To Be.
Nylon, polyester, wool and cotton.

Which was it? Lie or exaggeration?
For one, you can give me attribution
But not for both, although my station
Makes one seem the other. No solution

For love lost mystery shadowed too long
To know where it starts or where it will end.
I only know that what once was a song
Is now just an ode to a long lost friend.

Nice while it lasted. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks for letting me think you were caring.

Saturday! Here at last! Now I’m owning
That procrastination celebration
That I’ve lived all week, so now I’m loaning
Saturday the right to recreation.

Saturday! Here at last! Take your leisure.
Sabbath rest with a twist of laziness.
Saturday! Yours to blow, only be sure
To obscure your right to rest with haziness

Over whether you will give Saturday
To hobby, rest, refreshing sanctuary.
Or will you say you went another way,
And used it as a time of pain to carry

All the memories of things you didn’t do
And thus use Saturday for working too?

Your truth. My truth. Must be quite a thing, truth.
Live it up. Live it down. Live into it.
It’s my truth. You can’t question. That’s uncouth.
Live it out. Live out loud. Live and do it.

I guess it sets me free to spill the beans.
To tell the world how good or bad it was.
It’s always bad, this truth of mine, it seems.
It’s always good to tell it just because

Your truth, my truth, never hides a lie.
Did it happen? I say so. Who’s asking?
They did it. I just slid it in a public cry.
It’s my truth. I claim it, so I’m basking.

Jesus, Elijah, Moses in a booth:
That tiny temple heart that holds my truth.

Friday Sonnet waits at the starting block
For the starting gun to launch it with a bang.
Not quite the weekend. Long time on the clock.
It’s the saddest song that I ever sang.

Many murdered hours lay at her feet,
Sacrificial time lost to the idol.
Anticipated Leisure, time to meet
The reason you can’t afford the title.

Friday Sonnet state: Hurry up and wait
And watch the seconds ticking slowly by.
Friday Sonnet slate: Give it up to fate.
No time left so why should we even try?

We should pretend it’s just another day
And not defend it. Get more done that way.

I dreamed I went spelunking on a mountain.
A little mountain climbing in a cave.
I couldn’t bear it. Doubt flowed like a fountain
And early on the road I said “No way!”

Now was that cowardice? Give up too soon?
Or did I wisely choose a better way?
A bit of both. My dream companions swoon.
Methinks they, too, thought better of the day.

We goad each other on to do good deeds.
We sometimes follow those who make wrong choices.
So how to stay untangled from the weeds?
Heed the sage advice of inner voices.

Spelunking on a mountain? Never me!
Cautious and alive is what I will be!