Whispered Prayers

 Whispered Prayers, a Southside Psalm

Whispered prayers, “Raindrops of mercy”

As eyes and hearts look upward seeking

Billowing clouds with dark shadows of promise

“Dear LORD have mercy on us, wretched souls.”

 

Jegos, the wind before the rain, stirs

Heaps of swirled cumulonimbus heaving

Into a thunderous rumble, emitting

The one blasting lightning blow.

 

And the hills to which we lift up our eyes

Are aflame; each and every crevice blazing

Breaking news flashes across our line of vision,

Let justice roll down like dark smoke.

 

Mercy and justice are not two parallel fence posts

Which corral the love and power of the Living God;

Rather they are woven strands of beauty

Whose pattern is revealed with shifted stance.

 

Hear O heaven, and give ear, O earth;

For I the LORD have spoken.

And when ye spread forth your hands,

I will hide mine eyes from you:

Yea, when ye make many prayers, I will not hear:

Your hands are full of blood.

 

LORD, we kneel, weary and broken,

Hearts ripped open in repentance.

Our ears dull of hearing, and eyes unseeing.

Purge the dross that fouls our nation.

 

As we gaze across the charred landscape,

With only a splattering of pitter patters

Which threaten to loosen landslides of ashes,

Hope lies buried deep within, And yet.

 

Rooted and grounded in Love

Reaching down to the sturdy Rock

Against which no winds will prevail, no storm dislodge,

Green sprigs unfurl.

The wood pile is stacked way high, almost ready to tumble

Holy Spirit, this week You have spoken to me about Your holiness, Your compassion, Your justice, Your omniscience over the earth. Which one of these would you have me think about today?

If you clamor up on top of the parking garage at Fourth Street, to the fifth floor, you can see pretty much all of Tucson.  Randy Reynolds does it every week, arriving breathlessly to be reminded about the omniscience of God, over all the earth, even Tucson.

The Native American community tucked in around the original site of Schuk-shon, meaning the place at the foot of the Black Mountain, the now bustling with delightful innovation downtown, the Bohemian happy sad of Fourth Avenue, the freeway stretching long and connecting in all directions, the gleaming and somewhat smug foothills, the block upon block of mid-century single-family homes struggling to keep up with the Jones, the schools with brand-new principals and fresh-from-professional development teachers determined to make a difference, the sprawling full of backpacked saggy shorts and short skirts ying yang, the spit and polish base with mothballed millions rolled out and waiting, past the brimming-to-the-corner jails and prisons full of souls waiting to be set free to the barrios tumbling down on the other side of 22nd Street.  

You are there.

I am there, ceaselessly, day in and day out through my Church.  Through the steepled crosses poking upward as a reminder of our long expected Jesus born to set Your people free, from our fears and from our sins release us.  Through the hopeful young pastor digging up the gas line in a shabby old house as he prepares to follow My call away from the cozy Starbucks at Sunrise and Campbell to drunks peeing in his front yard.  Through the grey-haired men and women hunched in folding metal chairs in the downstairs basement of Trinity Pres, filling out food stamp requests, paying overdue bills so the water will be reconnected, and setting up appointments at the Veterans' hospital yet again.  Through the stately Methodist church whose coffee and doughnut breaks between services sometimes slide into political wheeling and dealing as the powers-that-be temper their finesse with My heart, For the clump of twenty-somethings gathering from over all the city to meet Sunday nights to worship and pray as they prepare an assault on the sex trade of Tucson just in time for the Gem and Mineral Show.  Through the tiny-on-every-street-corner Hispanic churches filled with Sunday morning hopes and week day realities.  And yes, through the Vineyard, bursting with new growth seeking My face, with the old guard still showing up just after dawn to wander through familiar streets where memories haunt each alley and side street and pray for My Spirit to come down in power and majesty.

Yes, I am on the move, a fresh move, because where My people are, I AM in their midst, be it two or three gathered together.  

And don’t you forget it.  And don’t you murmur against my people. What is it to you?  Let Me be the judge.  And you, you can chop wood.

Come Thou long expected Jesus, born to set Your people free, from our fears and sins release us.  Let us find our rest in Thee.  

Dear desire of every nation.  Joy of every longing heart.