Poem

What does it mean to be a prophet, pastor, and poet?
Does it mean we afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted?
As if we can decide or decipher who falls in which category.

Does it mean we let love fuel and feed our lives?
But what about those who we struggle to love?
You know, the one in the quiet moments when no one else is around except the emptiness of your own thoughts you even see as unloveable or unworthy of such sacred love.

Does it mean we escape into a world of words where we might build a place where we rule and make all the laws?
After all, what are these words of mine but an attempt to construct with nouns and verbs a vision of the house where I want to dwell?

Perhaps the problem is classification and categorization.
Perhaps the problem is that we think we have to choose which role to take.
You can proclaim to be a prophet and pound the pulpit pointing out all the injustice in the world.
You can decide your path is the pastor, the one who tries to be with and among seeking to love each person.
You can enroll in a poetry class and even occasionally try your hand at poetry...posting to your blog...hoping no one will troll you in the comment section.

But perhaps it is at the intersection of all three where we find the traces of grace.
The prophets who don't shout but speak with softer verbs still calling out injustice.
The poets who might not rhyme like Dr. Seuss but still make us smile at the beauty today.
The pastors who seek to walk the way of the world and not just talk.

What is found at that intersection of Prophetic Avenue, Pastoral Lane, and Poetic Trail?
What monuments or landmarks or shops/stores/housing?
Who is there?

Close your eyes.
Stand at that intersection.
Then, open your eyes again this day to go out in search of such a place. 

But beware ~~ you may just find it.