Psalm #11 (Mustard Seeds:Cannonballs)

On Mondays I’ve taken to writing psalms. I'm late to the game this week due in large part to the fact that I took my oldest son on a fun-filled, extended weekend bike trip. These kinds of excursions have a way of robbing one of words, at least for a day. (Some things need to simmer, anyhow.) So, I'm kicking off my week a little late. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere. The changing of the seasons is a marvel for some. For others, it signifies the coming of a more melancholic season. I wrote today's psalm for those others.

And after you take a gander at today's psalm, join me on my Facebook page for a word association game. (It'll be fun. I promise.)


Psalm #11 (Mustard Seeds:Cannonballs)


If addiction to grief were a thing, such would be the carnal cravings of those with the most authentic lives. Children with velvet blankets, we might rub the corners firsts. Then we'd pull the edges over the eyes, shroud ourselves in night, usher in the dreams of the murder of crows, the legion of doubt, or the garden of Eden, whichever the night might first give.

Lord have mercy.


If tomorrow’s healings rest in today’s faith are we to bear the eternal fever? The thing meant for hope-- the smallest seed of faith-- becomes a cannonball to be dodged as if such a thing were possible. If faith is a suspension of the will, the laws of nature, of nuclear hatred, fear, and the ashes of doubt that cover every potential promise, is such a thing possible? We, our own little gods, have always turned mustard seeds into cannonballs.

Christ have mercy.


There was a man, said Theophilus' friend, with demons aplenty and he lived among the graves by the sea, among the pigs on the overlook of the foamy unpredictable. He was without his wits, and without wits can there be a mustering of any worthy faith? His demons were Legion, the usurpers of will, and they were as obstinate as the tide, once, but now no longer.

Only say the word and we shall be healed--

Theophilus, the demoniac and I know this to be true: every gentle hope of peace passes first through addiction; then, through a Word; then through life and into death. From sea to glassy sea, it moves, plunging headlong into the sparkling forever.

Lord Have mercy.