POETRY BY MARK SANDLIN

MY LIFE AS A MISSIONARY
My life as a missionary
Really isn’t too contrary
Though I thought it might be scary
Every last Tom, Dick and Harry
Told me that I must be wary
‘The natives there are known to carry
Dysentery
And beriberi’

And at times my life was solitary

I wondered if I’d ever marry
And some facts I found necessary
They hadn’t taught in seminary

It was a sad commentary

Especially how frágmentary
Was my small vocabulary
But I bought myself a dictionary

Christmas there isn’t quite so merry

Without snow flake or holly berry
But Thai cuisine is legendary
So I’m set in matters culinary.
And problems that are monetary
Don’t give me a coronary

OK—so I’m no William Carey

Life sometimes is sedentary
And sometimes it’s pretty hairy

But there’s joy extraordinary

When Jesus takes an ordinary
Thai man or woman’s sins to carry
By His death—substitutionary.

In short, I’ve really found it very

Grand to be God’s emissary
And when I die—if Christ should tarry
I’d just as soon they take and bury
Me in some Thai cemetery
My epitaph/obituary?--
“By God’s grace, a Missionary”

--June 2000
CLUTTERED SOULS
My soul is all uncluttered.

Well, not all

But less cluttered than once it was
And less than could be
And less than many
Who are themselves
Shelves
Piled high, piled pell-mell
With who knows what.

Asthmatic child, I wheezed through boyhood

Lungs full, but not with air
How freely now I breathe!
How beautifully
Empty lungs
Fill with air

Shocking, really, how we permit, and promote

The rubbishing of the soul
How it must scandalize
The one who did His part
So neatly and so wholly.

Pathetic that we let the garbage

Creep back in at all
But worse still to give it honored place
Leaving much less room thereby
For all else that alone belongs there
For all else that alone matters.

Shelves light-laden, sparse—that’s better

A few classics—just a few
The one day better than a thousand elsewhere
Instead of the inverse, seen everywhere:
The cluttered souls—elsewhere, always elsewhere
Shelves piled high in
Closet amalgam, promiscuous mix
The many loves of the crammed
Cluttered soul.

Prepare the way! Build up the road!

You are not a king, but a queen
Alone, with him, she
Wins all
Keeps all
Rules all
No queen takes a second king.
One king, one realm, one all.

Incorrigible, though, the imperialism of the soul.

It expands, the soul, and fills the vacancy
With new stuff, new loves
New kings

There is
Inside each of us
A clutter-shaped vacuum.

A clear field, a clean slate

—monopoly, really—is what He wants:
A cloistered virgin.
But that is just what we can’t seem to give;
Can’t. Won’t.
Our solitude must have its solace
Some change of pace
Can’t expect a harem to sit around forever

So: Faint-With-Love
Begins to frown
And fidget
And frisk
And finally
All manner of riff-raff forces in
Via doors ajar, left unsecured
Through hopes of tame intrusion

And tame they come at first

It’s true.
Tap-tap
A little peek
“Anyone home?
Saw the door ajar…”

I’m speaking now of slow queens

The better sort
The decent foolish queens
Not the slattern who hangs out a shingle
And burns the doors
God knows they exist
But I’m not thinking of them

Just the ones, I mean, with plain curiosity

The roving eye—not even that!
Just adrift—no malice aforethought!
Just wand’ring souls, daydreamers

Not bad, just stupid

Not stupid, just careless
Not careless, just open.

Open.
—not shut in!
Ajar.
—not barred and double-barred!

No danger, surely…
Wouldn’t have thought so…
The fool assumes the best
The blade slips in too quick, between the ribs
Death comes before the lesson
Can be learned and passed on

We might have learned something

From that which killed us
If it hadn’t killed us.
Great tragedy of the dead fool:
Death, compounded with Folly—
Senseless sleep.

He that hath ears to hear, let him hear…

But don’t listen with your ears full
Shake out the noise first

Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it...

But don’t pray with your mouth full
No point asking for fullness from a full mouth

Eyes full of adultery…

Don’t look with your eyes full
Remove the planks.

Let these words sink into your ears…Jesus warned

And then He told them the simple gospel
Which they couldn’t hear
With ears full of their own thoughts
The quiet secretary
Of many years’ service
Put her desk in order
Then went home
And quietly drank, and sat
And drank, and waited, until quite late, when
The secretary wrote a last memo:
“I can’t compete with your lovers.”
And left it on his dresser, and went
To the closed garage to start the car
And sit. And wait.

Listen: we are making our bed

We are forging our chains
Do we think we can despoil that mat
Prance and frolic, wrinkle and soil
Then go all pristine to meet our Lover?

Don’t try to love with your heart full.

Don’t you know that

We are becoming what we will be?
Did you think
You could wear the harlot garment
To your wedding
And change it at the altar
And then be good?

Here’s a better way:

Make your forest a garden.
A park.
The forest is fine in some ways
But too jungly, all unkempt
With thick undergrowth, intertwined
So many unknowns and so much clutter

You are not a jungle

Be what you ought to be
A park
Is landscaped, laid out, lawns mowed
Trees trimmed
Equipment for play in precise placement
All planned—the park.

With benches, those windows of the garden

Where all is viewed, where at your rest
You scan the curves, and sense the symmetry
And feel the space
And the gentle jelling of a dozen greens

While always above you

The vast dome of blue with puffs of white:
They can’t clutter the Sky.
All empty and intangible, above-it-all, secure
Stuff slips right through and lower lands
To perch and pile beneath
The Sky
Which gravity, its janitor,
Untiringly tidies, clearing out the clutter.

All above: clear.

All below: order.
In the park.
You be like that.

A darkened generation
Peers out though slits of eyes
Encrusted with infection and obstruction
The eye, the lamp of the body, all encrusted
O cluttered eyes, O awful accretion
And all dark inside

O blindness of the cluttered eyes

Will you see again, O cluttered soul?
Can’t get a view in edgewise
But that doesn’t make the Sky
Less glorious or crystalline or vast or spare or pure
Above your cluttered head
Only you, that’s all, walking blind, or nearly
Beneath that swept and pristine canopy
Tragic burdening of the soul!
Gunking of the glory that might have been yours

Swallowing camels has left you

Full of camels
No wonder you’re uncomfortable, and tight
Movement arrested
Walking doesn’t appeal, let alone flight!
Flabby fullness, counterfeit feeling
All must and can be trimmed

And that’s grace, by the way

Not excusing
But excising
That’s grace
The sacred scalpel
Spare, severe scalpel, full of grace
Real grace—that cleanses and sets free.

You will tell me that birds still fly above

And clutter even the clearest of views
I will respond that if you haven’t the strength of will
To shoot them down
At least keep their nests from your hair.

Lovers lurk, it is true, under every spreading tree

But it’s not too late
To quit frequenting such trees

To stay at home
To bolt the doors
To change the sheets
To clear the shelves
To cleanse the mind
To cloister the heart
To keep the tryst

To unclutter the soul.

Without holiness no one

Will see—

—September 2003
EARLY EXPIRATION
Be careful
there’s an early expiration date
they told me something like that
and you try to remember but
who can with all the bottles and boxes
and numbers on flat everything these days
and I don’t remember if I asked them if it would be
dangerous if I forgot but I know
I would of remembered if they had said very clear
IT IS DANGEROUS or
if they’d of said anything like that I would of remembered
you get so busy and so who can remember all the details
about when this and that are to expire
because I am running around like a chicken with my head
cut off half the time anyway
and the other half just trying to keep up
so sure enough
time got away from me
and I ate those
and they did expire early after all
and so did I.

-- October 2003
DIRE STRAITS
“Be open”
They keep admonishing me.
“You absolutely must be broader than this”
They sternly lecture.
“Loosen up”
They frowningly chide.

I irk the urbane

And the intellectual
And the irresolute
How primitive and cloistered I seem
To them

“No need to stay in ancient paths,”

They say.
(“You hick,”
They do not say.)

Their brows furrow with authentic concern

I feel like a sick patient
Under their worried gaze.

But I have tasted their tonic

I have sampled their cures
They are sweet, synthetic mixes
Quintessentially modern
Artificial cherry flavor
They serve not to give me vigor
I have sat under their fluorescent bulbs
Imbibed their I.V. drip

They don’t work for me.

Like a difficult patient
I’m inclined to slip out of bed at the first opportunity
Duck under their TV which
Hangs, bat-like, from the ceiling of my convalescent cave
And escape back out into the light

I cannot breathe
In the heavy air of their openness
They have trimmed, stitched, and cosmetically altered
The Ancient of Days
They have rehabilitated Him
To suit their Enlightenment
I hardly recognize Him
He used to be so full-orbed,
My God
It took the whole volume of the Book
To give the full portrayal
And even then I felt I was just beginning to get the picture
But then they began chipping away
Carefully delineating what He is
And did
And said
And meant

And what He isn’t

And didn’t do
And didn’t say
And didn’t mean

Chipping away at the revealed God

To fashion something
More consonant with their creed.

I am Jessica in their drainpipe

They’d best have left it covered
I’d rather play in the wide yard
Than sing their ditties in this pipe
I swear I am dying
Within the narrow confines of their liberalism.

Now, at this point

They will hold me down on the ground
And bend my arm behind my back
And pull up sharply
And make me admit that
They worship the same God I do.

Uncle.

But sculpting
Does leave all those chips on the floor--
What about those chips?
Which of those are nonessential?

Forgive me, but

I do not trust your ivory towers of Babel
Your white-collar, west-coast think tanks
Your common-denominator ecumenism
Your fickle hermeneutic
I will call you brother
I will call you sister
I will not refuse to pray with and for you
God forbid I should refuse to love you
But I will not join you in your cubbyhole
I will not quietly take my pills
And shut up
And take the drip

Nope.
Give me all of God
I will stay straitened
I prefer the great Physician

You take your plastic panaceas

Your gurus
Your seminars
And workbooks
And video series

I’ll take Him as He has revealed Himself

Warts and all

I’ll take His ocean

With all its unknowns
Its terrifying depths
Its folds and shadows
Its weight of glory

You can have the platitudes

Of salesmen
And psychoanalysts
And the listless cobwebs of your liturgy

Give me the
Real Person of God.
Give Him to me straight
Give Him to me without censorship
Or political correcting
Or disclaimers
Or tweaking

Having said all that

I fall silent,
And my elders sadly glance at one another
And slowly shake their heads
And ask, with pity,
“Dear boy, what makes you think
Your narrow interpretation is the right one?
What makes you think that you…”

But they are beginning to fade away now

I can barely hear them
I can barely see them
As their brows furrow
Under their broad foreheads.

I’m sorry
I cannot stay for the debate
Thank you for your concern
But I feel I am suddenly called away
I can’t concentrate
Deep is calling to deep,
Yet again,
And I must respond

You may have the rivulet of your broadness.

I wish you well.
As for me,
I will be sailing,
Somewhere,
Wind at my back,
On the unbounded seas
Of my closed mind.

-- September 2003
WWJD
WWJD
Used to mean so much to me
What a challenge every day
To try to do things Jesus’ way
The way He’d do them if He faced
Those situations in my place

When faced with some unique temptation

I’d turn to my imagination
Wondering what would He do
If He was facing this test too?
If He was walking in my shoes
What strategy would Jesus use?

Though He’s been gone 2000 years

It really helped allay my fears
Just to picture Him somehow
Facing things I face right now.
I wondered “What Would Jesus Do?”
And felt that brought me wisdom, too.

…That’s what I thought for quite some time

But now I must confess that I’m
Rethinking the theology
Of “WWJD”
You see, I’m finding verses now
Which claim that Jesus is here—now
He’s here! Alive! He’s IN the fray.
He’s IN the trials I face each day
What then is the implication?
I don’t NEED imagination
Don’t need to ask what He “would” do
If He were here with me and you
Because: He’s HERE! He lives inside us!
Everyday to teach and guide us
The risen Lord has entered in
His Holy Spirit abides within

I wonder if we’ve caused Him grief

Has this revealed some unbelief?
Have these 4 letters been the tools
To lower Living Faith to rules?

These days, I’m asking something new;

I’m asking “What WILL Jesus do”?
His Holy Spirit, here to stay
What WILL He do, through you?--today!
What WILL He do in your life story
“Christ in you, the hope of glory”?
So ask not “what would Jesus do”
He’s IN your life, IN all you do
And wants to live His life through you.

--October 2000
RICE CHRISTIAN
Our daughter wasn’t more than three
When I checked her theology.
One evening, ‘fore she went to sleep
I thought I’d ask her something deep
And so, just as I tucked her in,
I asked Alisa, with a grin,
“Where is God, Sweetie-pie?”

“God’s in the rice,” was her reply.

Her answer wasn’t very long

I wondered if I’d heard it wrong.
I asked again, she said it twice:

“God’s in the rice. God’s in the rice.”

This only--then she spoke no more

“The rice”? What did she say that for?
My wife’s the best cook I have met,
Her food’s as good as food can get
Her cooking’s “heavenly”, and yet
Our child meant something else I bet.

“He’s in the rice”–that little jewel

She hadn’t learned in Sunday School.
“On a throne”, even “on a cloud”
That sort of answer is allowed
He’s on the earth, the air, the sea
But in the rice?—that’s heresy.
I might expect that from a cult
Such a reply from an adult.

I thought, what will our neighbors say?

They’ll ask, “To whom do those folks pray?
Some worship stars, some follow Zen,
But those folks worship Uncle Ben.”

“God’s in the rice”—the words hung there

Suspended in the evening air

I might have pondered them all night

But then I had a quick insight.
It dawned on me what she must mean
I realized what she had seen.

No doubt she watched, throughout the day,

At mealtimes when we bowed to pray
Her little eyes would sneak a peak
And see her parents seem to speak
To the rice piled on the plates
The Rice--The Ruler of Our Fates?!?

She saw which way we seemed to gaze

She saw where we directed praise
She saw, and must have thought, “How odd,
We bow to rice, and say, ‘Thanks God’.”

Poor thing! She must have come unglued

To see us praying to our food.
We thanked the rice for its provision
With theological precision.
Each mealtime as we sat to sup,
We thanked our God--then ate Him up.

I set her straight, you can be sure

Her faith was clearly immature.
But then I got to thinking harder
Is God truly in the larder?

Where does the One we worship dwell?

Is God enthroned in paradise?

Or everywhere?—Or in the rice.
For some households God’s whereabouts
IS in the rice—or thereabouts.

God says our heart is where our stuff is

Do we know how much “enough” is?
Or do we keep stockpiling things
For all the joy stockpiling brings?

Nothing’s changed through all the ages.

Nothing new from all the sages
Cancels this philosophy:
Where your treasure is, your heart WILL be.

In these days of goal-setting,

Vision statements, and go-getting
Luring converts by their greed
Catering to each felt need.
We miss the Giver for the gift
We don’t want God, we want a lift!

But God has said one thing is vital

He, Himself, and no dumb idol
Let God Himself be all we need
“Be THOU my vision,” this our creed.
With upturned face, I worship Thee
No worldly treasures need I see.

Friends, never seek the Father’s hand

Seek His face, that’s His command.
Let things be things and nothing more
Just to be used and not adored.
I close my poem with this brief prayer--
That You’ll find Him beyond compare
That you’ll remember every minute:
God gives the rice, but He’s not in it.

-- November 2000
THE WORST KIND OF IDOLATRY
To treat an idol
Of wood, or stone, or metal
Which having ears can’t hear
Having eyes can’t see
Having legs can’t walk
And having hands can’t help

To treat that idol

As if it were the Living God--

Is pretty bad.

But there is something worse.

And that is to treat the Living God

The Creator and Sustainer of all the earth
Who never slumbers
Whose arm is not shortened
Who sees and hears all things

To treat the Living God

As if He were an idol--

That is worse.

As if He were blind, deaf, and dumb

Immobile, impotent
Impossibly old,
Irrelevantly slow,
In constant need of us
To prop Him up
And keep Him from tottering.

That is worse.

To forsake the fountain of Living Waters

In order to hew out broken cisterns
That can hold no water--
That’s pretty bad.

But to regard the fountain of Living Waters

As Himself no better
Than a broken, empty cistern--
That’s worse.

It’s somehow much, much worse.

-- August 2003
SAVE THE CHILDREN
The youth look through you
(Have you noticed that?)
With their empty eyes
Vacant, satisfied, restless
Wait…can you be satisfied and restless?
Or do those combine to make a third thing
Called apathy?
Edgy ease
Restless rest

Their minds are music videos

Focus shifting every 3 seconds
Song changing every 3 minutes
Communicating nothing
Leaving nothing in its wake
The teens are empty souls
All emptiness inside
The hippies were better! Now
There are no causes
There is no content
The style is the substance
Of their empty world.

God! What have we done?

We have altered our living
Vital, pulsing
Three-dimensioned world
Of pounding surfs and gales
Of snows and peaks
Of trees to be shimmied up
And robin’s nests to be probed
Of fishing poles to be improvised
And small sparkling fish to be thrown back
Of frozen ponds to be skated on
And ice cream trucks to be chased
Of holes to be dug, kites flown
Of kickball games, and marbles
All the prosaic, earthy realities
Each one far better than the fiction.
And in their place, we are left with
The Disney video.

The world changed

The day someone poisoned the Tylenol.
It was only a few bottles, really
A few deaths
But many, many more died
When the whole world
Was sealed in plastic
And then placed in additional plastic

Our plain, honest world of paper (from those

Trees we once shimmied up)
Became the world of plastic, individually wrapped
Vacuum sealed
So that the dirt can’t be found anymore
Under the fingernails of the children
And the frustrated, aproned mothers of yesteryear
Are gone
I mean their frustration is gone
And the aprons are gone
And they are gone.
The parks are empty
The swings decay
And the children don’t return from creeks
And from mud pies
Streaked with dirt
Pockets filled with rocks, or crickets
Today’s children return from movies and parties
Clean as a whistle
And filled with dirt
And filled with nothing.

Today the junk

Enters a different portal;
Used to be their minds stayed healthy
While their teeth decayed
This is now reversed.

But I think I have upset the youth

Stodgy old man
That I am--
I am wrong, you say?
I am wrong?
Praise God! I am wrong!
Nothing could give me greater joy
Than to know that I am wrong.

But I get around a fair bit

Even at my advanced age
And I’ve been watching.

I am wrong, you say.

Wonderful.

Now you must prove that to me.

(But in the meantime,
O God,
Save the children.)

--October 2003
WE GOT A GYM
We finally got a gym
Thank God
They’ll be pouring in now

They meet felt needs, gyms

Nothing like preening in front of
Mirrored walls, wearing spandex pants
To give people a feeling of
Met need

We tried a new Sunday School program

A small investment
That brought small returns

We tried a new church library

A larger investment
That brought a few retirees

We tried a busing program

An even larger investment
That brought riff-raff

Finally we made a huge investment

We have a “holistic approach” now
(That’s a quote from the brochure)
The holistic approach means
The whole person
Not just the spirit
We tried the spirit
And the returns were very small

So we wised up: “wise as serpents”

(That’s a quote from the brochure)
Now we’ll meet felt needs
Instead of real ones
I expect they’ll be pouring in now
Now that, thank God,
We finally got a gym.

--October 2003
HUSBANDS, LOVE YOUR WIVES
Husbands, love your wives
As Christ loved the church
And took her on date nights
And never put ministry above her
And brought her flowers, and
Gave her the credit card sometimes
So she could go on a buying spree.

Husbands, love your wives

Just as Christ loved the church
And never spoke a harsh word to her
But accepted her just as she is
Without berating or upbraiding her
No matter how dissolute she became.

Brethren, love one another,

For love is from God,
And God is love;
And Love doesn’t carry a whip.
Love doesn’t call people names
Like “Dog!” or “Fox!” or “Hypocrite!”
Or “Sons of snakes!”
Or “Blind guides!”

Brethren, love one another.

Love is unconditional;
It doesn’t threaten,
Or give ultimatums.
Love doesn’t stand pounding on closed doors
Demanding repentance.
Love is patient;
It takes a number and sits down.
Love waits its turn;
It can jolly well wait its turn.

Love is patient, love is kind

It is warm and fuzzy
And accommodating.
Love never rails.

--Mark Sandlin, July 2003

TO AN UNKNOWN FAD (Acts 17:22-23)

You’ll never guess who came today to join our worship service
St. Paul himself! I’ll tell you, we were all a little nervous
I saw him in the hallway as I hustled through the door;
He introduced himself, I almost passed out on the floor!
I shook his hand of course, but then I really couldn’t wait
The band was warming up, and I was running kind of late
I handed him our flyer and he quickly read it all
And then he scanned the notices we’d posted on the wall
He seemed a bit surprised to see how full our schedule was
And I thought, “Praise the Lord that our church does all that it does.”
He walked by our displays and saw the conferences we’d been to
Our little display tables showing all the stuff we’re into

The band was cranking up now, so I left him for a while

But halfway through the song he stood and with a gentle smile
He asked if it were possible to say a word or two
Our worship team was miffed, of course, but what was I to do?

He said:
“I see that you are all religious folks in all respects
When I came to your church I wasn’t sure what to expect.
But there among your ministry displays I came upon
I saw one empty table with these words inscribed thereon:
TO THE UNKNOWN FAD, it said, so what you don’t know I’ll proclaim.
If you would try this Fad, I know you’d never be the same.

You’ve run the gamut of the trends, you’ve worshiped every fad
If you didn’t try some trend or two I’m sure you wish you had.
You’ve had dynamic speakers at your workshops and retreats
The fun you feed the kids does kind of keep them off the streets
You’ve got your vision statement, got your short- and long-term goals
Your ad campaign and new dress code are adding to your rolls
Your church has been a cell church and a seeker church and fun church
A program church, a Bible church, a keep-them-on-the-run church
You seem to have included all the ideas of the day;
But may I take a moment to suggest a better way?
You may find in the end that it’s the best thing you’ve yet had
I’m speaking once again, of course, about the THE UNKNOWN FAD

The Unknown Fad just laughs at fate and fleeting circumstance

When all the world starts hopping He steadfastly will not dance
His head He tosses proudly when some new trend comes along
He taps out His own rhythm and He whistles His own song.
Ten thousand voices cry out, each one in a higher key
But the Unknown Fad just stays His course and whispers, “Follow Me”

I guess that in a nutshell I am saying, in effect

That you are clearly all religious folks in all respects
Your other fads are formed of dust by man’s own thought and art
The Unknown fad is changeless, timeless, high and set apart
He’s the one fad you’ve not tried, the only Stone you’ve left unturned
He’s the answer to your questions, He’s the lesson yet unlearned.
Don’t get me wrong, your dreams and hopes themselves might not be bad
I’m just saying , ‘Lay them at the altar of the Unknown Fad.’ ”

-- March 2002
GOD’S BEEN MESSING WITH MY SELF-ESTEEM AGAIN (Song)

God’s been messing with my self-esteem again

Trying to make me feel less important than I am
But if I don’t love myself how can I love my fellow man?
God’s been messing with my self-esteem again

God’s been making me feel bad about myself

Making me feel I must
Still adjust
The way I am
I’d got some warm fuzzies--I was feeling good--but then...
God’s been messing with my self-esteem again

God's been dissing my self-confidence again

As if He wants my confidence instead to be in Him
My poor fragile ego now is really wearing thin
God’s been messing with my self-esteem again

Well, now I realize what Jesus wants to see

My ego must be crucified so He can live in me
No longer on myself but on His grace will I depend
Praise God! He's been messing with my self-esteem again
Hallelujah! --God's been messing with my self-esteem again!

--April 2000
S.O.C.K.*

My work keeps me off of American sod

Four years at a stretch, and I find it so odd
How the country has changed every time I return
There’s so much to take in and so much to re-learn.
Though change isn’t obvious to each churchgoer,
The church--like the world--changes too, only slower.

So on furlough one day, on the couch for a snooze,

I thought, “Maybe I’ll hop in the car for a cruise.
The weather is too nice to sit here homebound;
Maybe I’ll go do some poking around.
Maybe see some old sights and then just make a stop
To see an American Christian bookshop.”

Well, the bookshop was much bigger than I had thought,

The parking lot vast--but I fought for a slot.
The glass doors whooshed open and then closed behind,
In the entrance a Bible verse hung on a sign.
The verse said, “I lift up mine eyes to the hills,”
So I lifted mine up, and saw stuffed to the gills
A gigantic warehouse with stuff beyond measure;
A superstore strangely named “Heaven in Treasure”.

Well, I couldn’t tell which one was more in demand,

The Scripture itself, or “Footprints in the Sand”.
There were Testamints—breath mints marked “John 3:16”;
And cookbooks that introduced Bible cuisine.
There was oil for anointing and prayer cloths for healing,
And angel mobiles dangling down from the ceiling.
There were holy land mustard seeds ready for planting,
A “Prayer of Jabez” Room for sitting and chanting,
Toy armor for children marked “Fight the Good Fight”,
And a whole sep’rate room selling “Paintings of light”.
There were all kinds of frog items, that seemed quite odd,
Till I saw FROG means “Fully Relying On God”.
There were CD-rom games and a chance to invest in
A Holy land tour led by Charlton Heston.
And posters and T-shirts and paraphernalia,
Had slogans to help with whatever may ail ya.
There were Scriptures on every spoon, ashtray, and cup

* Sick of Christian Kitsch.

(You laugh but you know I’m not making this up.)

And the Bibles! The choices just made the mouth water:
A Bible for mother, a Bible for daughter,
Taped Bibles for people too busy to read,
Bibles for every conceivable need.
Bibles for teens who want God to be cool,
Bibles so small you can take them to school.
A Bible for sisters, a bible for brothers,
A bible for golfers, for singles, for lovers!
Bibles with God less severe and less bloody,
Self-esteem Bibles with God as our buddy.
Spirit-filled Bibles for those with afflictions,
Co-Dependency Bibles for those with addictions.
And each new translation with slight variation
Caused the consumers to buy with elation
With new Bible frenzy they thought it a must
To buy them and take them to gather new dust.

There were Bibles in every shape, color, and size

So many to choose that it dazzled the eyes.
I opened a fancy one just for a minute;
A leather deluxe--and I saw these words in it:
St Paul wrote, “We don’t peddle God’s Word for profit”;
I slammed the Book shut and thought: Oh Paul, come off it.
These “peddlers” invest!--they deserve a return!
Who’s it hurting if they make some money to burn?

Then I proceeded to walk past the piles

Of Christian stuffed animals lining the aisles.
Action figures of Moses and Jesus and Paul
And aerobics praise videos lined one whole wall.
The small section marked “Christian Classics” was bare,
So that “Left Behind” Book 16 could be placed there;
While Augustine, Luther, and Spurgeon, and Foxe
Were hastily stored in a small cardboard box.

But the huge music section took up half the space!

All the sounds of the world with a fresh Christian face.
Urban and rap and bee-bop, instrumental;
Electronic, Fusion – and experimental;
Celtic and blues and acoustic and rock;
Screaming guitar or traditional Bach!
Country and western, or folk songs, or jazz;
They had all the same music the other guy has.
More music than I’d seen in many long moons;
The Devil no longer has all the good tunes!

I looked all around at the blessed merchandise

All of heaven was here, and at fair market price.
“Gold and silver,” said Peter and John, “Have I none,”
But if they could see this place they’d sure have some fun;
They’d see we’ve progressed, that today our faith frees us
To make a small fortune by marketing Jesus.

I pondered inside what to make of this place,

Till the answer just struck me right smack in the face:
WWJD—that stuff filled one whole shelf:
That’s it! What would HE do, if He stood here Himself?
Jesus was patient and loving and kind,
And always had others’ welfare on His mind;
He was wise and discerning and righteous and true--
Jesus would understand just what to do.

And with that in mind I bent over a tad,

To get a last look at some little doodad;
I bent very close to examine the labels,
Then, briskly, I overturned all of the tables.
After all, really, what WOULD Jesus do
If He came here and browsed for an hour or two?

Well, it took only moments but seemed to take days,

To run through the store overturning displays.
I left nothing upright, though I left I confess
One plaque on the wall that said “God bless this Mess”.

Well, alarm bells rang out, and the doors auto-locked,

And store guards surrounded me, armed, triggers cocked.
The customers all started shouting at me,
And some child in a Veggie Tales shirt bit my knee.
The sprinklers came on, and the cashiers were screaming,
When I woke--to discover that I had been dreaming.
Before I could reach for my knee and say ouch,
I discovered that I was back home on my couch.

Well that was some dream as I’m sure you can see;
It was stranger than strange what had happened to me.
But as I awoke I began to recall,
That none of it really had happened at all.
What ridiculous fiction! What pure fantasy
My afternoon dream had presented to me!

So I rose from the couch and I tucked my shirt in,

And thought, “Maybe I’ll just take the car for a spin.”
The weather is too nice to sit here homebound;
Maybe I’ll go do some poking around…
FULL TANK
Part I

I remember in my teens without two dimes to rub together

How I loved to drive my Volkswagen in any kind of weather.
I loved the feel of pow’r under the hood there in the back
With my little air-cooled engine I was ready for attack.
Terrorizing anyone who veered into my lane
I thought I was a cool dude (but I guess I was a pain).

But anyway, my point is, that I liked to drive that car,

And I savored independence as I wandered near and far.

But cars can’t run on wishes out there on the interstate

Ten bucks! That would have filled the tank in 1978.
I thought I’d fill ‘er up, but then I thought that might be rash,
‘Cause when you’re still in high school you don’t have big piles of cash.

And so I pumped a dollar in, or maybe pumped in two,

Our town was not too big so just a bit would see me through.
I kept wishing for a tank full, but despite my wishing found
That my Beetle functioned fine with just one dollar swishing ‘round

Who cared about the fuel if I still had enough horsepower?

Who cared about the long run?--I was living for the hour!
Like cramming for exams and then still passing all the courses,
I found that I could function fine with limited resources.

I kept the Beetle buffed in hopes of wowing all the chicks,

And of course I kept returning for my daily petrol fix.
Always putting in a splash or two to barely get me by,
And then always almost empty without really knowing why.
Running on a trickle, but still managing to run;
Longing for abundance but just barely having fun.

If I’d ever had to travel far, I never would have made it.
The full tank had too high a cost and so I never paid it.
Always thinking ‘bout a fill-up but then frightened by the prices;
Always ready for a cruise but never ready for a crisis.

And now at last I’m sidelined while I watch the cars go by;
I gambled once too often, now I find myself bone dry.
So here I sit at last with only vapors in my tank;
The foolish virgin’s lamp ran dry – she’s got herself to thank.

Part II

Some years have passed since then, I’m older now, and slightly wiser.
I know now that where fuel’s concerned I dare not be a miser.
God isn’t just some thing we use then put back on a shelf;
God isn’t just a “part” of life, He says He’s life itself.
He’s the fuel that fills the tank, He gives His strength, His seal, His unction.
We’re designed to run on Him, and without Him we just don’t function.
God seldom helps the mighty, or the wealthy, or the wise,
With tank and bank already full of all they truly prize.

Today man’s tools have left their marks upon God’s altar stones;
A church that seems alive may yet be full of dead men’s bones.
With best intentions they design their own programs and plans;
They say the blueprint’s God’s, but all the fingerprints are Man’s.
Still, God blesses the humble and the proud the Lord opposes;
Proud man who climbs God’s altar his own nakedness exposes.

As the wind propels the windmill and the water turns the wheel,
Christ’s flesh and blood’s our food and drink, His Word’s our daily meal.
He’s the water in the well—no, He’s the water in the spring!
Refreshing, cleansing, satisfying, filling everything.
He’s the oil that fills the lamp that shines its brightness all night long;
He’s our breath, sustaining life; He is our rock, our strength, our song.

We speak with words HE gives, we serve with strength by HIM supplied;

All praise then goes to God, and all man’s boasting is denied.
God, who delights not in the strength of horse, nor legs of man,
Is pleased with those who say to Him, “I can’t, but God, You can.”
Yes, those whose strength is God alone have surely found the key;
As Zinzendorf has said, “I have one passion—it is He.”

To know the presence of the Lord, let this be our petition.

To know God, and to make Him known—just this—our sole ambition.
Let’s not be like the ones who knew the Lord, and yet forgot,
Saying, “Surely God was in this place, and yet we knew it not.”
So let’s come to Him with thirsty heart, extend our empty cup;
The Spirit and the Bride say “come” and “take” and be filled up.

--Dec 2000 (Part I) and March 2001 (Part II)

GONE NATIVE

Oh no; there goes the neighborhood

They were comfortably there, and we were here
They were them and we were us

Or, er…I was us

And they were Thai
Thai. So: “them”

They were the short, dark-haired, smiley people:

“The Thai”

Then they developed classes:

He’s a banker.
She’s a housegirl.

Then personalities:
He’s a joker.
She’s an airhead.

Then characters:
Naree is so kind.
Wanchai really encouraged me to get closer to God

Then they become your friends. And you forget yourself, and at times—long
minutes—forget that you’re from a different world, or look different.
And if you go further and deeper than that, you begin to lose the sense of
otherness

You lose your sense of proportion

It was more comfortable to keep them there

And then, to top it off, you—er, I—marry one.

They’re in the house now.

And not just for controlled visits.

You marry into this national family

And whatever they were before…target group? goal? focus of sympathy?
ministry?
Now they have jumped from that, to neighbor, to friend, to family
So you see the newspaper picture of the scalded boy in intensive care and think
Not: How could that Thai lady scald her baby?
But: Look at that little hand! So like my Alisa’s. Look at that sweet little hand.
And you cry and want to visit the baby, and all babies everywhere

When you hear, “The Thai are so--” you begin to switch off
Because you’ve found that whatever adjective follows
will not be true of every Thai
And perhaps not true of any Thai

But the intimacy, the blurring of distinctions has its drawbacks

It can take the edge off your evangelism
You no longer walk down the streets smiling and nodding at everybody
Loving the Thai people, flashing prayers, willing them to Christ
Instead you take them for granted, like you always took the people in your
own country for granted.

They get inside you

Become part of you
And soon you are as hard on them as you are on yourself
Or as soft on them as you are on yourself.

They’re not them

They’re – well, they’re you.

So it’s time to take a step back.

Just like you ought to do with yourself now and then.
You’ve identified too closely
Gone native.

—c. 1995
ALISA’S ARRIVAL

Alisa’s arrival could not have been neater,

Nor Mommy and Daddy more happy to meet her.
It started when some labor signs were detected
Fully 3 weeks before she was expected.
But, thankfully, suitcases all had been packed,
The route to the hospital carefully tracked.
My sister Kim, herself mother of two,
Came along as the coach, and told Pom what to do
I was there too, and I served like a saint,
(I fed Pom little ice chips and tried not to faint).

Just seven short hours, the time seemed to fly!

And soon we were hearing the sound of her cry.
Then Daddy’s vision sort of started to blur,
And he gulped and he blinked as he wondered at her
Alisa Marie had come into the world
A cute little, smushed little baby—a girl!
Our lives had been changed in the space of one day,
And everyone joked, “How apt!—born on Sunday.”

She’s a part of us now, of our days, of our nights

(Sometimes we don’t bother to turn out the lights),
‘Cause its bottles and blankets and odors that linger,
She’s got us wrapped right ‘round her miniature finger.
And with car seat and stroller and baby-wise ways
You would think we’d been parents for more than 12 days.

But I see we must close now: she’s starting to fuss

So we’ll say once again, “Thanks for praying for us.”
And do pray still, we ask (there’s no prayer request greater),
That she’ll grow in the care of her loving Creator.

--May 1995
GOD SHELF
I knock on the door
Of the simple flat,
3rd floor walk-up
Tenderloin district.
The plump Laotian woman answers and
Hears me speak her language and
Allows me entry with my
Handful of tracts and my Laotian Bible
And I sit with her and talk

She does not know Pra-yesu.

As I try to tell her of Him

I am in competition with the television
Atop its wooden cabinet
Which is turned on, as I have no doubt it always is

And I, a single young man, a bit lonely

Seminary student
A bit scared, a Caucasian
From Georgia, upper middle class
College graduate
Sit in an inner-city
San Francisco refugee flat
And speak uneven Lao
To a dark-skinned Buddhist woman from another world
About Pra-yesu, a Savior from another galaxy

That is our gulf, our great divide

The deafening canyon that will make
The meeting of our minds
Such an exquisite challenge

Did I mention the TV being on?

As I, the alien creature from one world

Try to explain about an alien galaxy
To an alien from the third world
As I strain to deliver my shaky Lao
On the TV movie a woman is being raped

She is screaming and kicking

And being chased,
As I talk about Pra-yesu
And try to be seen and heard above
A rape scene.

Here
I really must note that
The peasant refugee is
At one point, at least
At this one point identical
To a vast multitude
Of humanity in every land:
She does not lower the volume
The slightest bit.
And
Like that vast multitude
She still vaguely tries to follow
Whatever it is I am saying
As do I.

I don’t recall ever having seen a

Rape scene on TV in all my life
How can a rape scene be on TV?
How can a rape scene go on so long?
And the rape scene goes on and on
And the screaming goes on and on and on

And it finally winds down

Around the time that I do

And as I leave my tract and leave the flat

I feel a deep sadness, and an underlying anger,
And a nagging confidence
Which I have often felt in similar settings over the many years since
That the plump little clueless Laotian woman
Will wind up in hell
And the fault will lie, in part,
With that particular rape scene
Itself just a few minutes
Of one movie
Itself just a tiny portion
Of the daily and nightly transmissions
From atop the wooden cabinet.

-- September 2003
SAM’S RETIREMENT
Sam retired early
‘cause most of one lung and
a pretty good piece of another
had to be removed
enough to make it so’s he
couldn’t keep up, account of being
winded easy, but at
57 now, and getting a fair bit of rest
in the barcolounger there in front of the TV
where it’s got that little wooden lever so’s
you can swing your feet up, with the
lamp beside and the crystal ashtray that gets emptied
twice every day, at least, but
he and Doris keep busy enough
just right there
plus with the bunch of the grandkids
sometimes practically living with them after
all the divorces
it makes the little place crowded sometimes
and there’s always one of the littler kids complaining about the smell
of the cigarettes which is in every carpet fiber
the wallpaper smells of it and
all the sofa cushions
and it seems like even the wooden furniture
one or another will always say
but Sam and Doris don’t notice that
just the extra expense of feeding them all
which you try getting
anything out of the ex’es for that
and too about some of the older ones, and
especially the older girl
somebody ought to take her in hand
‘cause she’s going to wind up pregnant
or worse
but life mostly just ends up
being a lot of Sam and Doris shushing
the kids so’s they can hear the TV
for one stinking minute and what the people on the
program are saying

-- October 2003
I CARRY MY CROSS IN MY POCKET
(Inspired by a popular poem, sold along with a small cross, that begins this way:
I carry a cross in my pocket,
A simple reminder to me
Of the fact that I am a Christian
No matter where I may be...)

I carry a cross in my pocket

A simple reminder to me
That my faith is as thin
As the plastic it's in
And it's hidden where no one can see.

I carry a cross in my pocket

It was too heavy there on my back
Where it chafed and it hurt
And it wrinkled my shirt
And would throw my whole day out of whack

So I carry my cross in my pocket

With this poem that can cause no offence
I can read it for fun
Put it back when I'm done
And it only cost 59 cents.

Yes, I carry my cross in my pocket

You can put Satan on the alert:
Though he trounce me and beat me
Deceive and defeat me
At least I’ve got this in my shirt.

--March 2002
LOST HIS POWER

Sweetest tastes have all gone sour

Stale old blessings left to scour
Feeling weaker by the hour
Lost His power, lost His power

Fallen now from lofty tower

Ebbing joy has left me dour
Head in hands to sit and glower
Lost His power, lost His power

Drought has fallen on my flower

All its beauty to devour
Need a fresh renewing shower
Lost His power, lost His power

--1995/2003
LAST DAYS LULLABY

Sleep on, O weary watchman

The country’s all a-bed
Let dangers sort themselves out
You just rest your sleepy head.

Doze on, O drowsy shepherd

Don’t fret you o’er the sheep
No wolves ‘round here, I bet, and plus
You need your beauty sleep.

Snooze on, O weary warrior

Don’t fear your armor’s chinks
Let battle rage around you now
You need your forty winks.

Let down your guard, O guardsman

Enjoy a snooze sublime
Though foes are thronging at the gates
It’s way past your bedtime.

Sleep on, O tired teacher

Hang up your thinking cap
The wisest thing to do, sometimes,
Is just to take a nap.

Play on, O playful prophet

Tonight do as you please
No need to burn the midnight oil
You need to catch some z’s.

Kick back, O sleepy servant

The master’s out of sight
He’s far from home, and anyway
No thief would come tonight.

Sleep tight, O sleepy subjects

The kingdom’s safe and sound
Ignore those howls and shrieks and growls
No enemy’s around.

‘Night!

-- June 2003

Poetry by Mark Sandlin