June 11, 2019

Tiny Desk Sermon: Trinity Sunday, Romans 5:1-5 (Or: Crazy Talk)

June 3, 2019

New Song: Christ Is Love in Word and Deed

The Evangelical Lutheran Church in America held a song writing contest for its annual "God's Work. Our Hands." Sunday, a day of service in the community. I wrote this song for the contest. Mine was not selected, so now I can share it with the church.

If you would like to use this in worship, please contact me for permission and for proper attribution. I have a high quality tiff file I can send you for printing.

You can listen to a MIDI version of the song here.

Bonus prize if you can spot the Easter egg in the song.

Christ Is Love in Word and Deed 

Christ is love that loves to serve,
serves to live, lives to love.
Christ is love in word and deed.

God's grace is in our muscles,
hammers sounding out a call,
rakes and gloves reveal it now for all.

Work is our gift and burden:
mend and fix, restore and heal,
kneading, cooking, sharing in a meal.

Our lives are lived in wonder,
knowing we are loved and named,
laboring because in Christ we're claimed.

Hands strive for Jesus' justice:
health and home for ev'ry one,
neighbors loved, the reign of Christ begun.

May 18, 2019

This Whiteness

Grandfather could so smoothly
pour his evening whiskey and slur
an n-word or five during Lawrence Welk
before the gentle nod off
in his 1950’s recliner green

Aunt would teach school children
and love them so, she said,
even the little black ones,
she said, and still speak of them
diminutively, and of their parents
dismissively, and end the day
with a refreshing front porch lemonade

Some ancestor in Massachusetts
fought for abolition and justice
and spoke of prophets Amos and Jesus
but never imagined in her
white mind wrapped in razor wire
a fullness in blackness,
a greatness, a she and he empowered,
a liberation of herself from her white self

And here I am attentive but in white fog
of my own insolence and actions
my crossing the streets of Chicago
when young black men approach
when I see the protests and riots and think
if you would just…if you could only…
when I make every effort for my white sons

and even writing this poem
and even writing that previous line
cannot end it, this whiteness,
this inherited shame and shamelessness
this enfolding in my brain of what
we ourselves, by our fault,
by our own fault,
by our own most grievous fault,
have wrought, have clung to white-knuckled,
have ignored in our beloveds,
have so blithely pruned from family trees
and cannot prune from ourselves

May 15, 2019


Three Musicians. Pablo Picasso


I want to write a melody
that will ache your heart that will
sing the shards of you together
mismatched and misaligned flawlessly

aesthetic phrasing fashioned out
a buoyant sixth reaching up
a minor third dropping down
major sevenths harmonizing with you

lovely, more gorgeous than you thought
your musical life to be and then may I
beg, please sing it back to me
to my ache to my beauty to my dissonance

in our jazz I might discover why
God inscribed every
crying, awful, wondrous,
uncomposed note fixed in me