Did you ever open a can of pork and beans and search for the pork? Usually, at least in my case, I have found one disgusting white chunk of fat. Not tasty. I wonder how that can of “pork and beans” might be likened to some things in life. Hype can sound so good. Reality can be so different.

Pork and Beans

Pork and beans:
A marriage made in heaven.

I see the beans,
But, where’s the pork?

All I ever see is a small chunk,
Of white fat.

I wonder:
Is that a metaphor for life?

Bunches of beans.
Where’s the pork?

Richard L. Brewer

Rabbi!

Teach me
I hunger for
Knowledge.
Treat me
Gently.
I am vulnerable,
Not a target.
Not a notch.
But a hungry soul.
Oh, please
Don’t be.
A rabid rabbi.
-Richard L. Brewer

THE AROMA LINGERS

The tomb is quiet.
The aroma lingers.
Sweat, blood, dust, must.

Linen folded.
A shroud lay empty,
Still wet with lymph and blood.

Guards prone, stunned, and silent.
Stone removed,
By angels hands.
Not to release an entombed savior.
Rather, a message to an entombed race.

Death could not hold Him.

A miracle that He would rise.
A miracle that He would die.

He was the power of God.
To speak was to command angels.
Yet, He resisted His power.
And, He sweat, as it were, drops of blood.

I don’t understand.
I don’t identify.
I would have had the armies slain.
I would have avoided all the pain.

And, the world would have forever been condemned.

What I wouldn’t do, He did.
The tomb is quiet.
The aroma lingers.

Richard L. Brewer
Easter 1996

“Now on the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” So Peter went out with the other disciple, and they were going toward the tomb. Both of them were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. And stooping to look in, he saw the linen cloths lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen cloths lying there, and the face cloth, which had been on Jesus’s head, not lying with the linen cloths but folded up in a place by itself” (John 20: 1-7, ESV).

It has been suggested that Hebrew tradition explains the neatly folded napkin. The folded napkin had significance for the Master and Servant. When the master was done eating, he wadded up the napkin and left the table. The servant knew to clear the table since the wadded napkin meant, ‘I’m done’. A folded napkin, laid beside his plate meant, ‘I’m coming back!’ Think about it!

https://www.christianforums.com/threads/why-did-jesus-fold-the-napkin.7554918/

 

Babe Interrupted

Born as a young fair baby
Grew to be a full grown man.
One hundred percent human,
Still, He was the Great I am.

Grew in wisdom and in stature,
And favor with God and man.
Didn’t stay a young fair infant,
Grew to be man’s very sin.

The same lay in a manger,
Hung, blood dripping, from the cross.
To bring to man salvation
To separate silver from dross.

Like Adam, I would flee from
The piercing eye of love.
Yet, God in all His mercy
Persisted to hunt me from above.

Finally I relented, but
Still I protested in my shame
So he fashioned me in covering
With His kindness, love, and Name.

Alas, I’m still relenting
I still hide in many ways
Yet God is more persistent
And he interrupts my days.

Richard L. Brewer

 

 

Him and Me

Him:
No sin.
Same Temptation.

Me:
Go sin.
Tame temptation.

Him:
Sweat drops of blood.
Pled: let this cup pass.

Me:
No drops of sweat.
Pled: let me safely drink.

Him:
On the cross.
Said: it is finished!

Me:
Avoid the cross.
Have I ever started?

Him:
Forgives sin.

Me:
Forgiven.

Oh, to be like him.

Richard L. Brewer

 

Illusion

Anger Swells,
Threatening to explode.
Terror!

I read:
Jesus was angry
And sinned not!

I fear anger.
I fear expressing
Anything!

Any expression
Is like sin.
Excruciating!

I’m bound up.
Unable to move.
Frozen!

I have no control.
I am uncontrolled.
Unbearable!

Words are insufficient.
My soul groans.
The agony!

I can do
Nothing, or
So, it seems!

Controlled!
Controlled!
Unconsoled!

So, I grasp
At straws
Trying!

I have hope.
I control.
Illusion!

Like a vapor
I fade away,
Slowly!

Better illusion, than…?!
Still anguish!
But…In control…I am!

-Richard L. Brewer
March 5, 1996

 

WOUNDED HEART

Oh wounded heart, pierced with so much pain.
Closed off to hurt, closed off to anything.
Oh, guarded heart, crushed by so much pain.
Oh, wounded heart, closed to everything.

To bear a wound is such an awful thing.
It saps the strength. It takes the want away.
Life withers up. And, the bones go dry.
No will to live. God, please let me die.

Oh wounded heart, pierced with so much pain.
Closed off to hurt, closed off to anything.
Oh, guarded heart, crushed by so much pain.
Oh, wounded heart, closed to everything.

Hours seem like days. And, days seem like years.
No laughter comes. There are only tears.
The crying ends. Then there’s only numb.
If only death, would so quickly come.

Oh wounded heart, pierced with so much pain.
Closed off to hurt, closed off to anything.
Oh, guarded heart, crushed by so much pain.
Oh, wounded heart, closed to everything.

Without a hope. Or, so at least, it seemed.
Without a smile. Oh, how my soul screamed.
No want to live. And, no hope to guide.
Just dark shadows, into which I hide.

Oh wounded heart, pierced with so much pain.
Closed off to hurt, closed off to anything.
Oh, guarded heart, crushed by so much pain.
Oh, wounded heart, closed to everything.

With life so bleak, a gentle touch I felt.
A hint of hope, in struggled prayer I knelt.
The greatest friend, who knew agony.
He cared enough, to come and comfort me.

Oh, healing heart. Pierced with so much pain.
Once closed by hurt. Once closed to everything.
Oh, healing heart. Restored to love again.
Restored to hope. Restored to live again.
Oh, healing heart. Oh, healing heart.

Richard L. Brewer

 

Songs

My grandmother, Alice Matilda, took home-grown cabbage and made sauerkraut.

She picked up apples and made home-brewed apple cider.

She even collected dandelions and made dandelion wine.

Grandma told me the juices from the kraut, the cider, and the wine were good;

Especially when they got songs in them.

Songs in juices, whatever could that mean?

In my imagination, I moseyed up to the juices and listened for the songs.

Classical, country, gospel, I certainly did not know.

Yet, I suspected that it was gospel music because,

Once ingested, they led to dancing, glee, and not altogether decipherable utterances.

Were they charismatic-like jubilation?

A holy wine, like Jesus made in the stone jars?

Surely the songs were not literal, but only metaphorical.

Oh, to imagine the tongues, the dancing, the glee, and spontaneity.

I imagined how those song-filled juices might taste.

I wondered if I might gyrate, or glossolate.

Sauerkraut. I like it okay, but never had the kind with songs.

Dandelions. Only blew the spores off. Maybe should have tasted.

Apple cider is good. Even had it when it is so-called hard.

I think that is the kind with songs in it. Grandma died years ago, so I cannot ask.

I do know it gets a twang and bloats the plastic jugs.

I can imagine how it might blow off the top and make a mess;

Iffin it lasted that long. Of course, it doesn’t.

Long, deep swallows exhaust the supply, and gives voice to the songs.

I ain’t got much melody. The best I can do is make a “joyful” noise.

Yet, it sounds better when provoked by the song-filled liquid.

Grandma would tell the stories about the juices and “cackle”.

I think the stories must have stimulated found memories of swiggin’ the juices.

I bet that she produced songs, dances, and maybe even strange utterances.

Perhaps she stopped indulging in the “songs-filled juices” because her body couldn’t take the stress.

Or, maybe she wanted to maintain her dignity, if she ever quit at all.

Perhaps she indulged in secreted imbibing, kind of like going into to her closet to pray.

I wish she were here to ask her more questions.

Maybe the best I can do is to grow some cabbage, pick up apples, and collect dandelions.

And, see if I have some of grandma’s old skills.

Home-grown experimentation with songs-a-plenty. I might just learn to dance, too.

Richard L. Brewer

03/19/2018

THE DOOR

It’s been there a long time, a door. I knew that it was there and I felt its power.

Yet, I couldn’t find the doorknob. Couldn’t even see it.

That which is behind the door is important. It’s vital. I crave it. Yet, don’t know what looms behind it.

Progress, growth, maturity? I found the doorknob. Yet, fear overtakes me. Yearned for, but yet feared. Coveted, yet foreign.

Can I handle it? Though the old is awful, it is familiar.

Dare I risk? Apprehension, fear, taut stomach, set jaw. Moist eyes. Knot in throat. Whatever is behind the door must become.

The door’s ajar. Light. Excitement. Potential. Heart picks up its pace. Breathing becomes quick and shallow. Excitement, yet apprehension. I’ve never been this way before. Envied others. Yearned. Felt alone. Felt odd, awkward, and strange.

Yet, I suspect that I’m not strange. It would be a relief, a burden lifted, a band removed from my heart. Dare I give up the awfulness of security to risk newness? I must.

The door is on the heart of my being. That which was unknown, yet coveted, abides within. Potential for joy, happiness, fulfillment, play, expression, emotion, exhilaration.

Yet, deeply felt pain, tears, but those too, healthier expression.

Grab the knob! Pull open the door! Perhaps the light will initially blind, but my eyes will adjust to see new life.

Sure, be cautious. Fear a little. But, don’t fail to open the door.

If all the way is too much, test the water. Do it. Do it. Do it! Or, experience a bit of hell forever. Take heart, live, cry, go forward.

Risk! Pain, but reward. Fuller humanness. You CAN do it, and will.

-Richard L. Brewer
Written sometime in 1998

Thirty Pieces

They denied the One they sought.

For 30 pieces His life was bought.

He died and arose.

They died and perished.

A tragic end to a cynical people.

 Richard L. Brewer

Thirty Pieces of Silver