When King Herod went on a rampage
of killing Hebrew babies two and under
in the hope of destroying the prophesied
King of Kings, Mary and Joseph fled with
baby Jesus out of harms way to Egypt.
They stayed until it was safe to head
home. Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus
fled terror. Baby Jesus was a refugee.
Baby Jesus was a helpless immigrant
in Egypt. Baby Jesus emigrated to Egypt.
The King of Kings was a refugee; the
King of Kings was an immigrant; Jesus
is a refugee; Jesus is an immigrant.
Where is Jesus? Jesus, King of Kings,
is there with the babies who have been
torn from their mothers’ breasts; Jesus,
King of Kings, is there with the babies
torn from their fathers’ arms. Where is
Jesus? Jesus sits in the sweltering heat
with the babies. Jesus loves the little
babies, all the babies of the world; red,
black, brown, yellow and white, they are
precious in refugee, immigrant Jesus’
sight. Immigrant Jesus loves the little
babies of the world. There is Jesus.
If we are Jesus’ body, how will the
babies know Jesus is there?
Where are we?
*idea from a meditation by Frederick Buechner
and a blog post by the Rev. Dr. Barbara Edema
What if Adolph Hitler
wrote the best poem ever?
Thank God, that isn’t
something we ever
have to consider.
What if Idi Amin
wrote the best novel ever?
Thank God, that isn’t
something we ever
have to dwell on or in.
But there are others —
poets, novelists, artists —
Do they get by on their
or should they be held
and their work
or should their work
be judged separate?
The representatives and senators
want, more than anything else in
life, to be reelected, quite simply.
That is why they don’t represent
the people, but bow before the
(p)-resident in fecklessness and
He watched the high school girls’
cross-country team practicing.
They sped past his house, up
the dune and back down again.
One, short speedster with pony-
tail flying, flew like a hare
past all the others, up and down,
up and down and round again,
circling her teammates. He watched
the stragglers and relived his
high school cross-country days
as the team straggler. He wanted
to run out the door and give the
stragglers encouragement telling
them that he now has forty-thousand
miles in forty-five years running on
his legs and that, indeed, the race
does go to the perseverance of the
tortoise, but, he stopped short. What
girl wants to be compared to a
There are intrusions
that come into well-planned lives
but nature survives.
Nature surely thrives
in spite of the best-planned lives
Into best-planned lives
the gift of nature happens.
“And all shall be well;
all manner of things shall be
well,” while nature thrives.
The history of humanity
is not told with historical
accuracy in the history
of humanity, because
the history of humanity
is written by the victors,
plunderers and pillagers
who would never wish to
be seen at all as such
(It’s Custer’s Last Stand;
what a great white man.);
school children get a re-
visionist human history
that looks sweet and nice,
almost exclusively for
whites who are portrayed
as being nice and right
because their god is on
their side while black,
brown, yellow and red
people died. Thank
heaven for a few good
Sunday School teachers
who faithfully read the
red-lettered words of
the red-lettered Bible
and had the children
sing, over and over,
“Jesus loves the little
children, all the children
of the world, red and
yellow, brown, black
and white, they are
precious in his sight,
Jesus loves the little
children of the world.”
The (p)-resident’s wife’s jacket
stated, “I Really Don’t Care; Do
U?” This was the jacket she
wore to greet the traumatized
children torn from their mothers
and fathers at the border. What
kind of message was that to
send — I say one thing but mean
the other or the (p)-resident
slipped it on her before she
left for the plane and she had
no idea what she was carrying
on her back like some crazy
adolescent prank of slapping
a stupid sticky note on the
jacket? And the (p)-resident
bragged about it. Well, guess
what? FLOTUS is betrayed again,
this time with something disgust-
ing all over her back.
Someone said he was just
“getting things off his chest”
not really writing poetry and
he got to thinking about that
and the function(s) of poetry
and how it is about all kinds
things (at least 55 differ-
ent forms not to mention an
infinite variety of content)
which includes the afore-
mentioned “getting things
one’s chest“ (idiomatic
not unlike the harsher
one’s spleen,”) and so, he address-
ed the criticism by writing this
so it would no longer “stick in
his craw.” Ultimately, isn’t it
all “in the eye of the beholder,”
anyway and shouldn’t we “first
remove the log from our own eye,
so we can see clearly to remove
the speck from our friend’s eye”?
There, the “bone of contention,”
and tossed in the
garbage behind closed doors where
the Chocolate Lab can “sniff it out”
but can’t get at
He moves with great strides
arms swaying at his sides.
There’s a sense of purpose there;
some even stop to stare,
but he keeps his gaze straight ahead
as if to say, “Can’t stop, have places to go instead.”
As I sit and watch him pass by,
I wonder if his pace will intensify
or if he can even maintain that pace
in this one-man race.
Ultimately, there is cessation
when he will reach his destination.
And so I cheer him on
knowing he has already won.
It’s one man’s one-man race
and he always comes in first place.
They say the White House pit viper
is no pied piper
who actually piped the rats away.
The White House pit viper
is more a Svengali
dictating what the (p)-resident will say.
Then the (p)-resident feels so jolly
as the children (not the rats) are carted away.