The Cloud of Unknowinng

The Cloud of Unknowing

it’s never quiet in the harbor

              simply different degrees of stillness

even midst a calm faint breeze

              distant sounds roll over the liquid space

              and miniscule waves lap along shore’s edge

the hum of an unseen, single engine plane

             the occasional calls and cackles of sea fowl

but all the muffled, auditory data is eclipsed

             by the vast, broad panorama before me 

sitting on the edge of this island

             i gaze at the wide spectrum of an earthly sphere

             a locale that i’ve called home

far to my right periphery – just past the island’s point

             lies a landmark of the Civil War

            alone in the harbor, flags flying, tourists embarking

moving counter clockwise, barrier islands, colonial fortress

           lighthouse, grand shore-line homes

                         an abandoned trolley bridge and the Star of the Sea

beyond, at sky’s verge – drawbridge, causeway, marsh

          the faint image further on – a newer connector

and there, straight across the bay, the pleasant land

    (although i’d like someone to tell me, where’s the mount) 

marinas, maritime museums and water towers

    whilst reaching across from suburbs to city

                    the grand new cable-stayed link

     named for a Huguenot descendant,  local legend

to my extreme left more connectors-bridges-water

      a funky round hotel, countless boat masts

                  a few sails unfurled, even a sailing team or two

and rising between the bridges, between the rivers

         the proud, resilient holy city

sunlight gleaming on parked cars lining

                                           the water’s edge boulevard

modern edifices on the west side of the peninsula

         that i know to be the medical district

cranes, docks, ante-bellum homes & everywhere steeples

i’ve been called a son of this city

        a prophetic voice that needs to be heard

                                   i don’t know what that means

not sure that i’ve found my place or my voice

       and yet i’ve been called back, as much “home”

       no, more home than any other earthly domain

and here i sit, gnats starting to nip

            as any wind fades, the sun sets behind me

            while I pray, ponder and dream

what next, Lord? rest and waiting challenge this doer

i pause – pan the vista once more before leaving

     all around a façade of timelessness

     but above it, through it, under it, flows the eternal

once again, midst a veil of uncertainty

                                  i surrender my dust into His hands

“The unfolding of Your words gives light;

                              It gives understanding to the simple.”

 mark d. cooke, 2-20-13 
                    sitting at Sunrise Park on James Island

Dilemmas*

*Alternate title: “Spiritual Schizophrenia: Why I’m Glad Paul Wrote Romans 7”

i  hunger for Your Presence

            while hiding and on the run

worshiping Your Holiness even as

            fleshly thoughts bombard my mind

lifting my gaze Heavenward only to be

            distracted by some earthly visage

ministering Your Healing but busying myself

            to numb my own soul-sickness

dancing in Your Light while the outward man

            walks with chains around his feet

speaking Your Peace over weary souls while

            feeling adrift in the storms of life

committing to Spiritual Disciplines yet frequently

            losing Your Rhythms of Grace

the inner man delights in the Law of God while

            my psyche bends to the law of sin & death

longing for Transparency and Authenticity

            i erect walls of defense and obstruction

seeking to walk by Faith and not by sight while

            still allowing life’s routines & circumstances

                       to leave me anxious & afraid

thirsting for true Community

             i too often run to my cave

“oh wretched man that i am;

           who will set me free from this body of death?”

You beckon me to sweet Solitude with You but

            i cower in a sense of isolation & loneliness

You call me to Shepherd others when

            i myself am a wayward sheep

You invite me to worship in Spirit & Truth while

            i’m burdened by ritual & tradition

You send me to the ministry of Reconciliation but

            there are brothers with whom i no longer walk

You call me to speak the Truth in Love yet

            too often i cowardly refrain

You urge me to model Grace but how easily

                 and foolishly i can speak judgment

                           and words that do not edify

You call me to come and Die while a dead man

                whispers lies in my soul

You command me to pray for true Unity while

               i am often separated from my brother

                            by superficial things

You declare that I will receive Power and release it into

              the world, but sterility clings to my life

You plead with me to come and Rest but i’m still

              wrestling angels by the river Jabbok

You welcome me as Friend opening Your arms for     

              Intimacy yet i so easily treat You like a stranger

“oh wretched man that i am;

            who will set me free from this body of death?”

“Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

mark d. cooke – 1-19-08

Snake in the Pocket

The ongoing, bizarre saga that is happening with the Diocese of South Carolina and the National Church reminds me of an Eastern NC parable.
On a cool autumn day a little boy is walking down a path and comes upon a snake shivering in the shade.
"Would you please pick me up and warm me in your pocket?" says the snake
"If I do that, you will bite me!" says the boy
"No, no, I promise that I would never do that! Please just carry me a while and leave me in the sun. I promise that I will not bite you!"
"You promise?"
"Absolutely!"
So the boy picks up the snake, puts him in his pocket and walks down the path.
When he comes to the sunny spot, he puts his hand in his pocket, and the snake bites him.
"You promised that you would not bite me!" the boy cries.
"But I'm a snake."

Mea Culpa: How a light hearted extrovert fell into cynicism and compassionless living

Mea Culpa: How a light hearted extrovert fell into cynicism and compassionless living

A pastor friend posted a political joke on Facebook yesterday that was unkind and unchristian, but that wasn’t my initial response. In fact, I laughed and thoughtlessly posted it myself.

            Going on with my day, I became somewhat surprised when a few friends posted rebukes on my page, but many more responding with “like” and defending our right to offend with the truth.

            My original, defensive thoughts were that those offended were a little more to my left and were missing the humor, but they were people I loved and respected, so I began to wrestle with the whole issue.

            Then the Lord got right in my face, when a reprimand came from one of my key leaders (a friend, brother and a straight up guy) – “There was no healing grace in your post.”

With my intellectual & spiritual pride wounded, I deleted the post, as quickly as I could get to my computer and wrote personal apologies to those who had admonished me.

            When I shared the whole incident with my beloved, the Lord’s reproof grew even stronger. “But you’re the one that so committed to speaking blessing into people’s live.”

She was right. They were all right. What had just happened here? How could I have become so insensitive, humor at the expense of suffering? I could see Ann Coulter making the statement or even G.K. Chesterton, but the Lord whispered clearly in my heart, “Could you see me saying it?”

With love, not condemnation, our Father was clearly reminding me that, growing weary and unfocused in the fray, I had failed to guard my heart, mind and words from the prevailing cynicism of our day, within and without the Body of Christ. He also exposed the growing lack of compassion that had been emerging in my heart towards those that were not like me.

So for those who had the candor and gumption to chastise me, thank you. For those who laughed with me and defended my carelessness, I pray we rediscover the balance of truth and grace, renewing ourselves to being gracious and kind to any and all, even those with whom we politically and theologically differ.

And to all, would you pray for me, for one another and with each other that His healing grace would permeate our lives, cleansing deeply our broken places and releasing his love into the world.

“The end of all things is at hand; therefore be self-controlled and sober-minded for the sake of your prayers. Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins.” – 1Peter 4:7-8

Mea Culpa: How a light hearted extrovert fell into cynicism and compassionless living

A pastor friend posted a political joke on Facebook yesterday that was unkind and unchristian, but that wasn’t my initial response. In fact, I laughed and thoughtlessly posted it myself.

            Going on with my day, I became somewhat surprised when a few friends posted rebukes on my page, but many more responding with “like” and defending our right to offend with the truth.

            My original, defensive thoughts were that those offended were a little more to my left and were missing the humor, but they were people I loved and respected, so I began to wrestle with the whole issue.

            Then the Lord got right in my face, when a reprimand came from one of my key leaders (a friend, brother and a straight up guy) – “There was no healing grace in your post.”

With my intellectual & spiritual pride wounded, I deleted the post, as quickly as I could get to my computer and wrote personal apologies to those who had admonished me.

            When I shared the whole incident with my beloved, the Lord’s reproof grew even stronger. “But you’re the one that so committed to speaking blessing into people’s live.”

She was right. They were all right. What had just happened here? How could I have become so insensitive, humor at the expense of suffering? I could see Ann Coulter making the statement or even G.K. Chesterton, but the Lord whispered clearly in my heart, “Could you see me saying it?”

With love, not condemnation, our Father was clearly reminding me that, growing weary and unfocused in the fray, I had failed to guard my heart, mind and words from the prevailing cynicism of our day, within and without the Body of Christ. He also exposed the growing lack of compassion that had been emerging in my heart towards those that were not like me.

So for those who had the candor and gumption to chastise me, thank you. For those who laughed with me and defended my carelessness, I pray we rediscover the balance of truth and grace, renewing ourselves to being gracious and kind to any and all, even those with whom we politically and theologically differ.

And to all, would you pray for me, for one another and with each other that His healing grace would permeate our lives, cleansing deeply our broken places and releasing his love into the world.

“The end of all things is at hand; therefore be self-controlled and sober-minded for the sake of your prayers. Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins.” – 1Peter 4:7-8

Charting a New Course

in an earlier day of youthful dreaming

       i ran down paths of self-centered plans

naïve, unchallenged vigor was sufficient

      to carry me through a typical day

my inward focus drove much that defined me

      even as it cleverly cloaked its existence

              more from myself

                                  than those who walked with me

but even they lived veiled in their own complacency

i marched on under the banner of western Christendom

       ignoring a higher call to come and die

there was great fanfare as others cheered me on

                   in some odd, heretical way,

                                    i was enslaved to their clamor

throwing their drachmas at my feet

         i became their champion

                paid to carry on a corporate, unholy cause

shrouded in spiritual language

       with the necessary credentials

                      the degrees bestowed by mortal man

the crowd festively gathered on shore’s edge

       to launch me in a grandly, decorated vessel

                  just below the water line - a hidden, decaying hull

chin high, chest out and a fair maiden at my side

       i hoisted anchor, waved my sword

                to the accolades of a cheering throng – and set sail

suddenly, in less than a moment

      the sound of fading applause still lingering in my ear

            the wind grew cruel, the storm came, the waves rose

my soulish, self-driven visions slipped overboard

                 and consciousness failed me

unaware of the passing of time

           i was awakened by a gentle hand stroking my head

i looked into the eyes of my beloved

                                         her serenity and love embraced me

“where are we?” i stammered

“be still.” she whispered. “we’re safe. we’re on His ship.”

        that was enough, i slept again

in the ensuing days, we held a funeral

         for the dreams of a dead man

                              and saw for the first time

       the birthing of a future not conceived of my own design

in the aftermath of shipwreck, rescue and awakening

    His healing grace revealed the impotence of my illusions

                                      the sufficiency of His presence

    and all that i considered of value cast into the depths

                    to my surprise i was not diminished but enriched

stripped of façade and false securities

       i discovered a fresh route unfolding before me

    that’s not completely accurate – it had always been there

He had designed it with me in mind

           before matter of any kind had been spoken into being

and now in this moment, dressed in fresh attire

      fashioned by trans-rational hands – i set sail anew

absent of fanfare and glitz, lighter, leaner, gentler

                                                             and greatly humbled

having been delivered from a ruin of my own making

       and the only things lost – fool’s gold & fading treasures

a fresh breeze, like hope, blew across the deck

             i clung gently & loosely those i held dear

resting in the knowing that someone, other than

           and greater than myself, had charted a new course

                                                    *mark d. cooke, 4-22-1998

* it has been many years and many voyages since i wrote these lines, and after all has passed, i can still say with Paul, "We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf..."   

The Sights, Scents and Sounds of Further On

The Sights, Scents and Sounds of Further On

the soft, steady drizzle muffled the cacophony of sounds

as i ran through the streets of the old city

the scents and sights seemed magnified

shrouded by the canopy of grey

all the senses washed over me like a nostalgic flood

the intoxicating confederate jasmine on the iron gates

mingled with the aroma of countless restaurant kitchens

the Civil War cannons i climbed as a toddler

the clatter of horse hooves on cobblestone

(the smell of horse urine on the street)

Dad’s favorite house on the Battery

with black men fishing nearby at the rail

tennis courts at Colonial Lake

where i had countless matches with countless friends

the historic churches, in many i had preached & served

the “secret” and serene places

where i would meditate, pray, wrestle and dream

the schools, neighborhoods, beaches, the merchant ships

the friends, colleagues, family, tourists, and the traffic!

i have migrated back to my earthly home for just a few days

and you might think that i am home sick

this may be true but not the way one might think

returning to this place is a journey into yesterday

woven into my DNA, shaping much of my life & calling

in my more vain & fleshly moments i may envy those

who now call this place home

and there is great refreshing in a temporary retreat

but deep in my spirit there is a knowing

a still small voice…“this is not the home you long for”

i have not been called to yesterday but to eternity

and it is a great travesty for me to mistake

the shadow for the substance

the sacramental element for the reality beyond

but as i love the sacrament for what it points to

i love this flawed, imperfect, scarred, proud, holy city

for where it has led me

its sights, sounds and scents

do not create longing for a return “home”

they are but earthly signs that broadcast to my soul

“there is a fragrance you have not known,

a resonance you cannot comprehend,

a splendor you have yet to behold”

some that have gone before us have had glimpses

their words – inadequate or incomprehensible

wheel within a wheel, fragrant garden, river of fire, streets of gold,

no sun or moon just glory, myriads of myriads, Ancient of Days,

tree of life, marriage supper of the lamb, thrones, trumpets, sound of many waters

and on and on and on and on…

until that day, i celebrate this pilgrimage as sacrament

ever longing for the awakening moment

i will smell, hear, see, taste and touch

and know that I am home 4-19-12