The Kingdom In Ferguson

Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done.
On earth as it is in heaven.

Oh God, please come
because what's being done
seems so far from heaven.

Do you know that kids are killed
in playgrounds and streets
and hope is beat
with the club of injustice?
Can you abide this?

Do you see
that in games of he-said he-said
the blood that's been bled
again and again
usually flows
from beneath black/brown skin?

Father, may your kingdom come.
May justice be done.
May we live as one.
But not through a war where one
has won
and another lost
made to bear the cost.

Jesus, bring here
to this roiling hate
a cure for this ill,
something to satiate
the cry for blood,
this overflowed flood—
the sum of years of aggression
dammed up by oppression.

Spirit, break the the untenable position
whereby a mathematical supposition
says an eye demands an eye
never pausing to try and see.

Our Father,
can the scales of blind justice
ever tip toward both
as we learn that the most
we can do for one another
to be well
is to value each other
and indwell
every mister and sister
with the likeness of the divine?
There in their eyes and mine
is our God's pleasure
in equal measure!

So God,
we are waiting for you,
hoping you'll go ahead and do
what you have clearly called us to.
For what we long to see
is already possible
since you've set us free
to be your people,
a mighty faction
called to be disciples of action.

So we ask...
To whom can we turn to become friends
to make amends
and bring thy kingdom
even here, hundreds of miles
from Ferguson?

No more waiting,
or sideline-contemplating.
We must make peace
at least
in the orbits of our lives
all wars must cease.

So may thy kingdom come
thy will be done
in me
through me
let me
as you are
in heaven.

Your Attention Please

I got stopped in my tracks this week. Stopped cold.

Target knows what they're doing. That dollar section right inside the doors is both a blessing and a curse to parents everywhere. The curse is that your children are dying to go there and to spend inordinate amounts of time poring over novelty band-aids, cartoon-themed pencils, and super balls. The blessing is that everything is only a dollar, so it isn't too much of a sacrifice to get the kids something now and then. They're happy, and you're happy for having made them happy even if it only lasts as long as the car ride home.

A few months ago the big discovery from this treasure trove was a tiny Angry Birds notebook. Finnden had recently become rather enamored with Angry Birds on my phone, so he was quite smitten with this miniaturized notebook. Little did we know how much joy would be derived from our one-dollar find.

For two weeks he took it everywhere he went—the park, the grocery store, and on walks. There were times when he'd be playing in the other room and we'd suddenly notice that the house had gone quiet… never a good sign. We'd go searching for him, sure to find some disaster around the next corner only to discover him sitting cross-legged on our orange couch in the living room, pretending to write in his "journal." He'd color in it, pretend to read from it, and was known once or twice to say "let me check my calendar" as he flipped through the pages.

In time though, as all things do, it lost it's treasure-status and floated aimlessly from this bin of toys to that. Soon it seemed forgotten.

Then came Friday.

We had just laid Finn down for a nap. Next thing we know he had marched himself across the hall and was standing in the doorway of our room.

"Can I help you?" I asked. "We need to find my Angry Bird notebook," he answered. "Oh, do we?" "Yes." "Well," I told him, "we'll have to look for it later. Right now it's time for your nap." He sighed. "Okay. But as soon as I get up we need to find it." "Okay."

Two hours later I went to wake him and found him sitting on the end of his bed staring at the wall. It was impossible to tell how long he'd been there like that. When he sensed me in the doorway he looked up at me.

"We need to find my Angry Birds notebook now."

And so we set about doing just that. We looked high and low together. Finally, after emptying nearly every item out of one particularly cluttered closet we uncovered that hidden treasure once more. He was elated. With Karen's help he immediately perched himself on a stool at the kitchen counter, and with marker in hand began re-coloring every page.

Twenty minutes later Karen and I realized we needed to run some errands. As we prepared to leave the house I asked Finn to go find his shoes. I'm sure I heard him say, "Okay." Five minutes later I walked back into the kitchen to find he hadn't moved.

"Finn." Nothing. "Finn!" He looked up from scribbling in his notebook. "Huh?" "Go get your shoes on."

This time I made sure to watch him as he got down from the stool and sauntered into the hallway toward his room. A minute later I came looking for him again only to find him watching himself flip through the pages of his notebook in the hallway mirror.

"Finn!" "Huh?" "Shoes." "Oh, sorry daddy."

I glared at him as he wandered into his room and sat on the edge of his bed, still engrossed in his silly notebook.

"Finn, put the notebook down right now, and put on your shoes!" He did. Eventually.

I told him to head to the garage and get himself in the car. But of course, I walked into the garage a few moments later to find him leaning up against the side of the car with the notebook open in his hands, and he was singing as if it were a songbook. I snatched it from his hands. He looked at me ready to protest, but he saw immediately that my patience was gone.

As we drove away from the house there was a tremendous amount of unspoken frustration aimed at the backseat. I had heard his request. I had helped him hunt high and low. And when he'd gotten what he wanted my voice had become some kind of ignore-able buzz in his ears. Then there was a buzz in my head, a voice that was in direct contrast to the thoughts I was thinking. It asked me: Are you any different?

A few weeks ago there was a particular question that I asked of God. I didn't ask it just once. I was persistent. And I was insistent on having an answer. I went to him again and again. I implored him hour after hour. And he answered me. But the way that he answered me was slow. It wasn't just an answer, it was a series of insights into his heart and my own. He helped me empty out some cluttered closets, and he reminded me of some of the things he'd been stock-piling for me there over the last few years.

But afterward I wasn't really looking anymore. I'd gotten what I'd come for. And while I'm quite sure he had a lot more to say, new places to take me and insights to give, I think I stopped paying attention.