Who love the LORD they fear,
Enter and worship here.  
Who love or know Him not,
Enter, but fear a lot.

When the Spirit's around - that's the third of the Three -
He regularly raises fresh questions for me:

You see , He's both the sought and the seeker, the truth and the teacher
the help and the helper, the gift and the giver.

He's the breath and the voice, the chooser, the choice
the anointer, the oil, the peace and turmoil.

He's the joy and the cries, always there to baptise
the bearer of fruit with fresh gifts to boot.

He's as wild as the wind, He'll breeze where He will
I've tried to contain Him, but He won't remain still.

I can't ever define Him, can't assign Him a label,
just accept He's my God and that my God is able

to be true to His Word while resisting defining
He'll still leave me questions, but that's not surprising.

He kicked off creation, gave the church her fresh start
and we're just the latest to play our small part.

I saw your beauty,
majesty
I was beside myself
with the deepest envy...
I wanted
the light that shined with you
the life that shook them with laughter...
And I found...some of it

I was told the Refiner’s Fire
Would make me shine and glow.
I wish I had I known, that long ago,
The true Refiner left open the door.

I could have stepped outside,
And realized the sun is even warmer.
Into a new light, enters my soul,
And instantly I feel calmer.

Free from all the control and lies,
I was told as the fire was lit.
The choice that was always meant to be mine,
Was stripped away bit by bit.

It’s Healing and Grace, I’m needing right now -
I can’t find in the walls of this church.
The fire holds no love for me now,
The sun is what I deserve.

I’m standing in sunlight, still fully loved,
Without fire licking my skin.
After decades in a constricted cell,
I’m breaking out from within.

The refiners fire was always manmade,
A way to foster control.
The sunlight instead, beckons me in,
Bringing me back to the fold.

White's a privilege,
a responsibility, an advantage,

(topped-up by a Y chromosome for some)

which can't be worn lightly.

Let’s not kid ourselves -
despite the painted ceilings
the flaky teachings
- God is not a white man
God doesn't carry chromosomes
or gender-bearing genitalia.

God designed all of that paraphernalia
for us to enjoy, out of a love of diversity
out of a mischievous plan for human sexuality
out of a need to be reflected in more than one gender
because one was not strong enough to fully bear
to accurately render God's image alone.

Be clear, being white is a privilege,
a responsibility, an advantage
placed on our shoulders by successive generations
who denied,
pushed down,
held back
and placed into submission
the rest of God's rich palate of humankind.

God is not a white man -
No, they agreed upon the olive skin
of a chosen, a select people
and wore that dark complexion with pride.

So put aside that ancient lie.
God is not some white guy.

God is translucent.

today i walked west
but only for a couple of minutes before i reached the old church that i've lived next door to practically my entire life
it's from the '60s, and as soon as you walk in a sign is still hung in the entry that reads
"Colored Church" with a cross underneath
i always loved it here
it's small
cozy
with a ringing sense of familiarity
much reminiscent of the people who gather here every Sunday
really,
it's been my quiet place for a while
somedays i come just to bask in the uninterrupted silence that it offers
but most, i sit at the old, nearly crumbling piano that's slightly out of tune
at the very front
and i'll just play for hours
simply to get lost in the echos of the pitch that's just barely off, but that's not unlistenable
it's become somewhat of a sanctuary to me
and i'm probably crazy to seek solace in a place whose very nature, more times than not, tends to frighten me
but maybe everything that i fear
is what ultimately will bring me the most joy

at least that's what i will let myself believe

No, not a melting ***
you know, the kind you get in industrial kitchens:
heavy, stained, covered and sealed,
left to boil and bubble, leaving questions
about herbs and spices and what we’ve concealed.

No, not a melting ***
but a large, glass salad bowl, the kind you place
in the centre of a garden trestle table
glistening in the sunlight,
with two oversized dark wood serving spoons
and a glossy drizzle of vinaigrette dressing.

The glass revealing every shade
of green and black and red, yellow and white
teasing us with every crunch of each anticipated bite,
each variety and shape, inviting us to participate, to fill our plates
and in this feast of an adventure, to celebrate
what we are - together.