A Different Road

 
This date, September 11,
has become for us,
O God, a suitcase full
of jumbled memories and emotions 
for the past 20 years.
 
As we lift our hearts and minds
to you, this day, remind us
that the real question
is not Alan Jackson’s:
“Where were you when
the world stopped turning
that September day?”
but “Where have we been
since then, and who are we now?”
 
Remind us that the quickest way
for terror to win is for hatred, fear, 
anxiety, and xenophobia to flourish.
 
Remind us that it will be defeated
when understanding, hope, education,
peace, and love triumph.
 
Remind us that grace is the gift
we have been given
to bring to the struggle.
 
As a human race, O God, 
we are slow to learn 
that death may not be
the most effective response to hatred,
dehumanization, not the healthiest means
of international relations,
and preemption leaves a bit to be desired
as a reaction to terrorism.
 
When we fail to see the direct correlation
of escalation, somehow blinded 
by moral superiority,
let us not also be blinded 
to transforming alternatives.
 
Help us, O Lord, to seek paths toward peace
that have not been irreparably rutted
by the supply train of war’s weaponry.
 
Help nations to find workable ways
to weave justice together with mercy,
so that innocent life does not become
the debris of international confrontation.
 
We remember not only the potential casualties
in the civilian population, but also
the thousands of men and women
who have accepted the calling
as first responders and of soldierhood—
those who daily face the front line,
squeezing the precious tube of courage,
risking life and limb.
 
If ever there was a need 
for guardian angels, it is 
on the neighborhood streets-turned battlefields.
Send your angels 
to do your watching, O God. 
Send your angels!
 
More than never forgetting this date,
and what happened
across this country 20 years ago,
let us always remember,
which is not really the same.
 
Never forgetting is a way
of holding-on to the past,
with no clear avenue to the future;
 
always remembering
is a gift for carrying forward,
in hopeful and life-giving ways,
the people and stories who preceded us.
 
May we re-member and reanimate
the lives of those
whose bravery and sacrifice
are foundations for our existence,
with enough consciousness and courage
to differentiate between love for them
and revulsion for what they had to do.
 
Let waving flags and unwavering pride
neither swell for the hell of war itself,
nor for the hatred
of a people we call “other”,
but for those who descended
into war’s bowels, by force or by choice,
to face the demons formed
when greed, godlessness,
and fear overcome
the common bonds of all humanity,
and when politics unleashes ego,
declaring collateral damage acceptable.
 
Let one-eyed squints
down loaded barrels
be not consumed
by death’s insatiable appetite;
praying, instead,
to seek paths to de-escalation.
 
May our memories of those
whose lives were taken
by war in all its forms;
lives taken in whole or part,
and those whose appearance and affect
seem to have mostly dodged destruction;
be one part filled with love, 
respect, and appreciation 
for their selfless answer to duty’s call, 
and another part filled
with the grief of knowing 
that we must somehow find 
a different road to walk.
 
© 2021 Todd Jenkins

Inky Shadows

 

When those of us
who’re lacking melanin
toss ‘round texts
that speak
of darkness and light,

  where the absence
  of incandescence
  is associated
  with chaos and evil,

    but luminescence
    ushers in the flesh
    of hope itself,

    we need, forthwith,
    to acknowledge the truth
    of life’s journey:

  the sun’s refraction
  has the capacity
  to clarify creation’s intentions;
  but the utter, blind density
  of midnight’s cloak
  is every bit,
  if not more, a revelation
  of divine love’s whisper.

Truth be told,
grace permeates
all strata of visual acuity;
often recognized most fully
in the inky shadows.

© 2020 Todd Jenkins

Forgive Us

 

Photo by Jennie Roberts Jenkins

 

Forgive us, dear Lord:

  for whitening you up
  to match our own
  mirrored reflections;

  for declaring our own
  personal experience of you
  to be normative;

  for lashing you
  to an anemic
  nationalist paranoia;

  for attempting to cleave
  our fawning over you
  from our created
  responsibility to neighbor;

  for disguising
  a self-protecting interpretation
  of holy writ
  as divine word itself;


  for confusing
  a comfortable cultural enclave
  with your cosmic community.

Forgive us, dear Lord,
and deliver us
from ourselves and
from the tiny hotbed
of hopelessness
 with which we have
surrounded ourselves!

© 2019 Todd Jenkins

Worth

Photo by Jennie Roberts Jenkins

 

  We long for a world
  where knees are not
  the feet of people
  who have the gargantuan weight
  of their own sociocultural insignificance
  piled upon them,

   where knees are not
   the shoes of those whose backs
   are crimson-striped
   with the whip of oppression.

    Show us, O divine hoper,
    a table ‘round which
    all gather and voluntarily kneel
    because their collective soul
    has felt its worth,
    a priceless gift birthed
    in community.



“O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth!
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
‘Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees…”

© 2019 Todd Jenkins

In God’s Image

Photo by Jennie Roberts Jenkins

It’s not that you or I,
  personally, resemble,
   in our physical features,
  the divine;

but that God has planted,
  in every soul,
   seeds of hope,
  grace,
   and love;

and when we, together —
  all of us — allow
   the rain of forgiveness,
  the sunshine of mercy,
   and the rich humus of community
  to nurture the collective

garden of humanity,
  the most amazing
   and resilient wildflowers
  are raised up,
   reflecting the image of God.

© 2019 Todd Jenkins

According to Plan

Photo by Jennie Roberts Jenkins

 

I just got back
from a visit
to tomorrow.

There’s good news
and bad news.

The bad news:
things won’t go according
to your expectations or plans.

Some of what you wanted
and planned to do,
you can’t.

You’ll have to do some things
you never imagined;
and most of it will be less glamorous
than you dreamed.

The good news:
if you do what needs
to be done for those you love,
or even and especially
for a stranger,
you’ll be spending
a day called today,
in a life called your own,
doing something helpful
for someone else;

and isn’t that more valuable
than having things go
according to plan?

© 2019 Todd Jenkins

Borrowed

 

When is the last time
you borrowed something;
a cup of sugar,
a tool or piece of equipment
from a neighbor;
a book
from the local library?

The sugar was used,
but the neighbor knows
you’ll return the favor
when it’s needed.

The tool or book,
though, was treated
with respect and returned
in good working condition.

That’s what
good neighbors do.

Our grandchildren
and great grandchildren
called the other day
to remind us
that we’re borrowing
the earth from them.

They’ll be along
to borrow it
from their descendants
in due time.

Let’s all be sure it’s
still fully functional.

© 2019 Todd Jenkins

Storycast

 

  Though words sometimes appear
  to cast their own net —
  a sieve that seems guaranteed
  to gather abundantly —

   until the syllables and syntax
   become a story shared,
   and lived between the cracks
   and rifts of broken lives
   and shattered dreams,
   they are little more
   than arrhythmic gongs.

   In light of this
   inescapable reality,
   I beg you to unfold
   your narrative between us,
   as I risk doing the same.

  These are the only songs
  from which our lives
  can draw breath.

© 2019 Todd Jenkins

Age

Photo by Jennie Roberts Jenkins

 

I am 60.
You may be older.
Or not.

  We may have grown up
  in different times;
  likely in different places.

   Our experiences weren't the same,
   yet we have shared
   an essential common denominator:
   life.

  It has shaped us;
  bent us, cracked us,
  sometimes broken and crushed us,
  stretched us, grown us.

   In the time and space
   that lies between us
   here and now,
   let us not use our differences
   to compare and compete,
   as if there is a prize
   or a finish line
   which only one or a few
  of us can reach.

  Let us, instead,
  place our stories and ourselves
  side by side,
  daring to reveal our true selves
  to one another,
  unvarnished and without the need
  for peripheral accessories.

   Let us weave the power
   of our collective selves
   into a garment of hope;
   a hammock in and from which
   the fire of love can be kindled
    in our souls;
   a quilt of grace
   to comfort the cosmos
   in all its fractured places.

© 2019 Todd Jenkins

A Preacher’s Heart

                Photo by Jennie Roberts Jenkins

A preacher’s heart;
Lord, you know
how many times
it’s been wrung,

   how many times
   it’s been wrapped
   around hurting people,

  how many times
  it’s been slung:
  under the bus,
  to the moon
  and back;

   how much it breaks
   for those who’re pushed
   beyond the margins
  and below the surface.

  A preacher’s heart;
  calm it, Lord,
  heal it, and wrap it
  in your love.
  Amen.

© 2019 Todd Jenkins