Worship’s chills haven’t yet retreated from their bodies.
They peer into the atmosphere that is blurred
by the tears in their eyes.
Fog descends upon the mountaintop
and they wonder about the little cries
of those down in the valley.

On the mountaintop
imperfect people
raise their hands
in submission to a power
bigger and better than themselves.
Crying to God
“Shine
as the rain in our lives
pours down”
Declarations
of brokenness
are trumpets of ecstasy
that blare in God’s ears.

In the valley
trepidation’s warriors
digress down a staircase
that has one direction- down.
There are no landings to rest on
and the highest place you will ever go
is ground level-
the cornerstone of mediocrity.
Chains of terror
bellicosely hold them back
from an elevator
in which God comes down
so that they can go up.
Higher and higher
until they are so enveloped in heavenly beings
that the light is more evident than the darkness.

They look up
to the city on a hill
and see them trying to hide light
under a basket of hypocrisy.
Soldiers of an irrelevant force
are making promises that won’t be kept.
Lofty people
come down into the valley
and give lofty glances
to the ones who dwell in the melancholy
of yesterday’s transgressions
and tomorrow’s inequities.
A church bus drives by the hungry child
and he hopes that they will stop by and offer him nourishment.
But they barrel down the highway with their cruel snickers
just like every other car that has passed.
Only the ones that confess
that they don’t have the strength
to carry their imposition alone
will make a difference.

But what matters
is the brook of living water
that babbles up the mountaintop
and even further down into the valley.
What matters is the twinkle
God brings
to the despondence in their eyes.
While corruption screams
love whispers.
But the whispers of love
make the trees dance
and the flowers tremble.
And our confessions of inadequacy
bind the human race together.
The disciples ponder this
and can’t wait to disperse into the valley
and show the hungry children
what their faith is really about.


On the mountaintop
crimson stains are made as white as snow.
Veils are torn; faces behind masks are revealed.
The grace of tomorrow
outweighs the deceit of yesterday
like our sins being consumed in a cup of vinegar
but love singing its anthem and rising from the grave on the third day.
God’s fingers penetrate the resonation of gloomy clouds
with beacons of sunlight.
But maybe, just maybe,
if the people on the mountaintop took the basket off of their lampshade
this downpour of hope
would proclaim its renown
down in the valley
as well.