Welcome to the place where I keep and sort most of my writing. Below is a brief intro to my projects. For a brief intro to me, visit my vital stats page.

The Words for the Church project consists of weekly poems inspired by Scripture, one for every week of the liturgical calendar. These poems are designed to be used in church community or devotional settings. I have attempted to tag these by subject and liturgical time frame. For reprinting and permissions, click here.

The Weekly Story project consists of primarily children’s stories and poems from the summer of 2016.

Miscellaneous poetry, prayers, stories and liturgies are scattered throughout and tagged by subject. If you’re looking for something specific or need something customized, drop me a line. I’m always interested in doing something new!

Commuter Haikus is my Twitter project, consisting of 5-7-5 observations from my daily commute into downtown Chicago. Follow me on Twitter to get one every weekday.

My upcoming project is a serial fantasy adventure. Once I’ve mapped out the story and done the preliminary research, I’ll be delivering a chapter a week here on the blog. Stay tuned!

If you want to keep up with these adventures and future projects, sign up to get my words in your inbox.

Basically – enjoy. And thanks for reading!

– Chris

that postmodern crap.


They say we should starve ourselves
for faith. Or rather they wonder why
we don’t because they’re doing it.
See, I’m a grain of sand on the tongue,

and it irritates these oysters when
I stick in their throat. There’s a story
about this somewhere in there, that
place we don’t understand, about a pearl

and a wedding. I don’t remember the
reference, I just know it. Do you? It
wasn’t a rule, just a reality, the
kingdom of heaven built on tiny things

like eating too much and wasting re-
sources. He isn’t wearing any clothes but
that’s probably because they divided
them up by lot. They keep doing that. Non-

sense is a good word for it, yes,
thanks for that. I’ll keep using it. If
you name it, it’s yours, right? Non-
sense seems to be a better definition than

systematic, fundamental, evangelical. Faith
is not seen, but misunderstood, a viable
inviolable, I don’t but I do, I believe but
help my unbelief. I see Him do it so I eat

with sinners. I hear Him say it so I say
it too. He named me, so I am His. Somehow I
believe all this, and I don’t even under-
stand why or how it happened. Defining the

Definition of all things is foolish. Failures
are avenues for the perfection of grace.
So go ahead and line it all up. Maybe a pearl
can come from the irritant… but maybe not.

a leaf, taken


it’s liminal –
gathered family jewels
the sigh of relief
an unfinished blink
liquid embraces long withheld
pulling away + proximity
forms and figures tallying value
viewing by seeing or without
celebration decked in flowers, trimmed photos
taking the leaf to its zenith
an anointing of rain

down the beards of gardeners
preparing planting beds
over upturned cups
of umbrellas,
sweet across my cheek,

lifting us into a wilder earth
nails tapping to the wood and
the dampening dust on the lid
under the lids
all around the latch,
glancing, the beams with the particle
meteors plummeting

cooling density and the long sleep,
the long and faithful rest,
a new thing for each and
older than every other –
solitary, an epiphany;
en masse, an exultation of eyes.

(When the lid closes, stay
a while. When the lid opens,
enter, and cherish the entry.)

from a year-end meeting


Then the day came when I no longer
wondered why the disciples shook
the dust from their feet where the
welcome wasn’t. It didn’t matter

that a dim bulb was flickering in
the dean’s office, or that some wet
words dribbled, viscous, from the
down-turned corner of the pulpit, or

that the sentiments unraveled like
a roll of toilet paper. It wasn’t just
about the goggly eyes ogling inside
the fishbowl, suspended over a bubble

mouthing “wow” and “we’ll take that
into consideration” and “our thoughts
and prayers are with you.” It wasn’t
just about the vacuum sucking the truth

out of the room, or the flaccid plat-
itudes staining the once clear silence.
The image had previously played for
me as a disdainful “shake it off” with

a sandal twerk. Now it just seems
as though Sodom and Gomorrah are
crumbling to powder, and the flee-
ing remnant isn’t looking back.



Yesterday was Easter.
Like lilies we arched
our necks and sent
fragrance heavenward. We were full
as full can be after baskets and feasts; the feeds
filled up with family photos and we liked
and loved and shared. It was a season
of champagne. Monday came and I
greeted it with risen
indeeds, and my deeds came
not from the blush of a sunrise
empty grave but from the whitewash

maw. Risen One, Easter
has been happening for two thousand some years and so has
Monday, and Tuesday, and the rest of the week.
Would that single Sundays could change

our solitary weeks, rituals our train rides,
feasts our hungry bellies. You are not a God
of “one-and-dones” but a lifeline. The fullness
we know
at times
is a reminder that You are indeed
filling, now, and again, and
again. If I was refreshed
once and for all, would I need
You each day? I wake

and receive, and sin, and receive, and mourn,
and receive, and rejoice, and receive. I would despair
if I couldn’t receive, but it’s funny how I wish
I didn’t have to. I am in need, I confess it. I live in a

body of death in a
place of death in a
time of death, and You are Life
Eternal. Remind me, my Easter, through my filthiest
moments, through my rainiest
hours, through my loneliest
days, that Easter is every
day, that Your once-and-for-all is a
presence, not a pact I need to
fulfill. How shall we then

live? By confession: grace
an evident
sacrament, a long-
ing and fulfillment




I wake to the wrong
in this unfamiliar,
for never have I known a day without breath, or
a moment bereft of Divinity.
It is all anti- and un- and non-,
a string of empty sentences,
a filmy negative:

It sticks to me,
seeping in through cell walls.
Pitch and tar: a network of scars dissolving under
translucent skin,
as if blood was black
and black was blood.
Midnight is needling in my veins,
and for a moment there is
the violent silence between spark and ignition,
and blood bursts into consuming flame.
I, too, consume
the void.


Waiting was never easy.
The frequent settling frosts coat the fields in cobwebs.
My ancient static stations have (of old) been places picked clean, and
the cross circles my dead, suspended by a thread invisible.
What place do dreams have here?

To me it is less about
isolation or overpopulation
and more about the amount of me present nowhere and now.
To me it is less about
blinding light or stifling dark,
and more about who is blocking both.

In limbo, loss has a name, and you hear it echo
in the sobs of songbirds,
in the chimes of bell towers,
in the muttered mantra:
“He left.
He left.
He left…”

I notice the dive
more by motion than intention, as it stutters on my cheek,
and blinks an eyelash on my temple.
How close you are, and how far:
close enough to be tremulous, far enough to prove it:
What place does hope have here?

To me you are more about
incense and entrance through thicker smoke,
than you are about breathing easy.
To me you are more about
affection and caress and the touch of lips to life and limb
than you are about washing hands.

In limbo, loss has a name, and you hear it echo
in the weeping of the women,
in the ring of nail through bone,
in the splash of viscera on sand,
“Come back.
Come back.
Come back…”

What place does
love have here?


Once I dreamed
of a blackness silent but once, to speak:
and all else fell silent.
In the after-echo was a gathering storm
of pinpricks,
as if the veil overhead was pierced by
a million falling angels
and filtered through the ensuing sieve a beckoning increase.
It was the edge of glory,
the very margin of a sweeping light.

Then the microscopic became fearsome
and tore the world from its hinges,
picked it up and shook it in joyous canine frenzy.
We were fetched, and brought forward,
and thrown far afield to return,
to ever return,
to ever turn.

And the light blinded us so that we might see,
through spit and mud, the ceiling we knew
split from side to side as a ribcage parted,
to reveal
the figure of Utter Fullness
a Lamp to light the way and to gather all lamps in radiance.
In the train of rising trumpet blast,
there was a thrum of budding thunder
as infinity bloomed.

I paused,
remembering my hell.
My Lover slipped His left arm under me
and embraced me with His right,
and stripped me of my chrysalis,
and I took flight.



Old friend,
rest your head on my
chest again, weigh me down.
How you’ve grown since I last let you
rest at the edge of my bed.
A lion from a kitten,
pads and claws from pinprick paws,
sinew and muscle and softest fur,
Dogged, determined a hounding
Within, this familiar. Flee
The haunting, my twin.

Here kitty kitty-
how you have grown!
What big eyes you have
fixed on me. The inward home
Never tame, and always domestic,
And always on my chest
awhile a week a year a life,
all those
moments you grew and I knew
you grew, and the fear of it was

Will you ever leave me, beloved?
Or will prowling purrs greet me
bedside to wake and
defeat me each day
that I live, you eat
me and feed me, your
crushing my chest with present choices.
I’ll let you nudge me til I reach for you,
gnaw me while I preach at you
scratching itching ears and comfort scars
claw to the bone. Yawn,
large and
constant companion, while I
I will live with you
and learn from you,
and rule you and be ruled, and

perhaps the sea


Foaming and violent as the wave,
we echo of beatings taken
on shores unknown or known too well.
The sea is as young as it is sage,
as seasoned in relief as in spite,
splitting sand and salt asunder
in its desperate grasp for land.
Within our breasts beat
echoes of land taken kernel by kernel,
we know not where,
we know not when,
we know naught, lest we see.

Leagues and knots,
leagues and knots rattle,
leagues and knots roll beneath us,
scraping our hulls, lulling us,
pulling parabola ripples back
and forth and back, forth
to conquer back, forth
to falling back, forth
to inky behemoth back, forth
to back, and finally forth.
We are parabolic too.

The sea and sky are each inside the other,
entwined in supine leisure,
boiling as aquamarine, fallible,
flawed and two things at once: one new thing.
The oldest things, perhaps,
the deepest things, perhaps, fail us
at the moment of resurgence,
for they shift beneath our feet and
we are walking on air with our heads in the ocean.
The upside will be down,
on all sides sea as far as the eye,
on every side beings of import and concomitant export believe.

We are waves and sand and sea and sky,
grey and blue and green and black,
and one day there will no more of us,
(by virtue or valor, the earth will be full of us),
and the sky will consume the sea and send it
back and forth on the wind
as judgment and serene volition.

On that day,
may we drink deep of the saltless nectar of clouds,
may we inhabit mist in memoriam of who we were,
may we wash mountain peaks and greenify gardens,
and revel in the rivulets.

Be still with me, and feel
the beating of the back and forth and
the fullness of a pregnant horizon.
Know the frailty of sand and time.
Place your hand in mine
and evaporate.

too small a thing


“It is too small a thing
to shine light in the dark
of the days on the path for the dead.
And it is much too tiny
to give you a light, when
I can make you all lights instead.

It is too small a thing
to plant the seed deep,
and let your growth be up to dirt.
And it is much too tiny
to cease nurture of each
to be Life to all those who hurt.

It is too small a thing
to just give you sight.
I must walk with you so I might see.
And it is much too tiny
to provide you with eyes
and not a new way to be free.

It is too small a thing
to be Lord of your lives
and to rule with benevolent grace.
and it is much too small to
relinquish the rule of your hearts
and not love face to face.

It is too small a thing
to just be with you now
in the moment your sorrow is air.
And it is much too tiny
to not breathe it in
and be one with you in your despair.

It is too small a thing
to build heavenly homes
and to fit them for queens and for kings.
And it is much too tiny
to not make a place
for you here in myself, ‘neath my wings.”

We are too small a thing
for an infinite God
to fit into anything less,
so He came to us tiny
to capsule in bodies
His Love and His Truth and His Rest.

(from Isaiah 49:5-7)



Don’t you tell me
everything is going to be okay,
that silver slivers line the sky behind those brooding clouds.
Are your eyes better than mine?
Can you see past the present?
Wait, that’s right.
Your special knowledge grants you sight.
Let me clarify:

We are not thriving in the Garden,
we are dying in the desert.
We cannot reverse the plummeting,
we cannot catch ourselves.

Let me be discouraged.
I am one in need, to feel in my viscera
the disconnect, the anger, the problem,
so I can grow to know it, this Nineveh,
holding it in my hands and rolling it around my tongue.
Let me breath it back and swallow it up in my lungs.
Don’t you see?
Sweeping it behind the bright side
only conceals it!
It still exists.
Do you think, somehow, that’s final?
I’ve seen enough to know it’s not,
that left there, it will only rot.

I can feel pain.
By grace I know
that something is wrong.
In Christ is hope not only of release and tearless eye,
but also that He’ll catch and hold us here beneath the sky.

suspension lament


I’m angry
at the pundits at the top that crush
the peasants down below them, at the
bent backs breaking beneath boots shod with blood –
when leading equals leaving,
equals bleeding “them” for what you love –
that green paper, power trails,
I’m seething, seeing justice fail
to act, seeing begging boomerang back
with rough rebuffs, lax and pegging
types in stereo v surround sound –
yes, you, sharpen your axes,
gather round, stone the poor,
wield the facts, stomp the floor –
clap clap clap for us, we’re so evolved,
we’re so resolved to make ourselves the victims,
when the system victimizes those sewn shut, eyes closed wide,
swaying from side to side to hide the shame spurting from the wound –
I have nothing. I am poor.
Yet you run to slam the door
for me, pray for me, send me some vibes
and donate a dollar with your latte for me.

See the first cause, the clauses running
deep in, steeped in, reaping sin, weeping thin –
sages suspended speak:
“This raging won’t end, no one will defend the widow, the orphan.”
Nope, let’s keep socializing endorphins,
checking notifications,
echoing status changes round padded mirrored rooms riddled
with fadded mirrored fools –
I’m seeing myself,
I’m being myself
And I’m broken. I’m broken.

I’m livid at You, Lord,
Who let’s us free to run our games –
to stun, to lame, to blame,
and see the efforts falling short forever.
Tether me fast against the blast of my lungs,
sin speaking from within, sleek sonnets of soot and ash –
I’m greedy, I’m rash –
for the justice I don’t see you wielding.
Can’t you remake your made people yielding?

I am seeing
in Your Word: wrath withheld
(Lord, have mercy)
and justice untouched by the All-Power,
all of us, flowers, much in need, born of seeds scattered,
(Christ, have mercy) –
We matter.
We all do,
we all of us, matter to You,
and that’s why the weight of justice waits on us, takes a slack pace –
– by suspension: redemption
by lack: grace –
I crave the Grand Injustice, yet
begrudge it to those I just don’t get.
(Spirit, have mercy)
In You we can live livid and grieve and salve our seeing,
and let justice fail a little while, long,
and lift the dying, failing, fleeing,
until we cease to hum along
and throaty, thrum in living Song.