when were you ever real?

when were you ever real:

when the wind mussed your hair;

when the egg birthed the chick;

when you coughed for the show;

when the sun smote the moon?

when were you ever real?

when did you live with your heart:

when your drink was tears;

when you fled  the pain?

are there stones in your shoes?

are your ears yet unglued?

is this the time of freedom?

is this the boiling time for tea?

sit and smell your odor.

lay naked in the swamp.

listen to the myna bird.

rest in another's tomb.

your real may then be real

and you in truth will reel

*Ecumenism will become truly worldwide only by rejecting calculation, through self-effacement.

-Jean Sulivan

*Every genuine spiritual renewal, however, arouses a spirit directed at the instant in which past and future are connected.  That's where tradition really is.

-Jean Sulivan

*...Christian faith is creative because it is a faith, not an imitation or a phantom of faith.

-Jean Sulivan

The graves of the saints 

Break the silence the pyramids hold.
Release the cry of the entombed.
The mummies know the smell of death
are wrapped in cloths covering truth.
The writings on the walls entrap.
It's hist'ry writ by victory's lies.

Where the bodies are laid acrosss the fields
like dominoes ready to fall at a shove
they speak the truth of the victims lost
to the power of might against the small.
Lean o'er their coffins, an ear to their lips;
hear the silent pleas seeping through their strips.
For Time will release the fuller tale
ignored by powers intent on death
till death is the bloodline of their life
and their immortals lay as victims under grass
prettied by the crosses saluting the fields
watched o'er by sentries pretending all is well.

One too many die, die the ignoble death
believing their cause was the last for humankind
that they were the greatest who marched the Earth
that evil would die through their heroed life
for Today's crosses salute the rising sun
spreading shadows across the graves of the saints.



*The true, universal Church is not the one that affirms its will to be so, but the one that, without being too interested in itself, communicates the faith in love to everyone.
-Jean Sulivan


*The Church exists everywhere there are communities that give testimony of universal love.
-Jean Sulivan

Thomas

Thomas

Thomas

you spent your blood believing

that the lords of life

were not equal

to the Lord of Life.

your head hung

 from a pole that we

might recognize who 

the cowards are.

we wag our tongues

relieved of words

in our dead ears.

our hands are smothered

in blood for the cause.

cowards, they say,

die in the grip of justice.

heroes stand

on the carcasses of the saints.

you are the wise one

we wish we'd walked with.

help us now.

we admire you

while throwing your bones

to the dogs.

God will find them

in ecclesial time.

*The true universality of the Church consists in its ability to root  itself in particular situations and to rise above them, arousing the effective love which shows itself without distinction among a certain number of men and women whose inner voice is in harmony with the Word and who appear as witnesses.

-Jean Sulivan

*The true, universal Church is not the one that affirms its will to be so, but the one that, without being too interested in itself, communicates the faith in love to everyone.....The Church exists everywhere there are communities that give testimony of universal love.

-Jean Sulivan

Circumcision

he thought to be circumcised:

a little skin, a little pain

a little while to rest

be off his feet and on again

about the normalcy of life.

but on a spur of inspiration

he gathered words of Paul to himself

who cursed mere cutting of flesh

as a MasterCard into the Pearly Gates.

he thought circumcision again 

of spilt blood o'er the Earth

drip-droppin' 'pon ev'ry human head

cutting through the sinews of hearts.

to retrieve his Three-Three-percent

and give his all-percent;

rip the veil from his past

and plunge again in the Bath:

stirred Paulish passions in his depths

visions of risings prodding him to rise

to herald like a megaphone-fire

a tongue whirling, full of Wind

and foolish fumings of evangelists

a confessional witness to Christ

with discarded skin and piddling pain

and lots of bloody sweat.

*Virginia at the Jordan

she washed 

the desert from her

and from the silver

in her hair

the dust of years--

those caravans of fear and longing

laden with Cenacle nights

alert for tongues of fire

for eyes unclouded

ears open

to a Voice so vast

beyond her yet within

 whose lead wove of her

a wonder child

whom silence taught

to read the Wind

and so answer her call

to leave darkened tents 

again and again

favored and sent

from the font of promise

to the river's edge

where beyond lay the land

of her desire--

the embrace of her Beloved--

the Rose of her

everlasting fire

-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

*Zoo Keeper's Note

"The female lost a wing.

The male an eye...

disabled by gunshot."

wings closed

we at them

stared and left

both eagles

to their cage

as we to ours

wounded went

-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

*Because of compromise Christianity doesn't appear in its truth-a truth that is often unacceptable.  It is revealed only in tension and debate, provided that it's not looking for power and prestige.

-Jean Sulivan

where's the spark

that washed upon you in the pool

that cleansed the scales from your eyes

and made a fuming Paul

to kill the traitors to grace?

open up!

don't hide Him from me!

I'm searching for meat

to feast my soul upon

light to guide me through my nights

of black-holes filt''ring my universe.

open wide your eyes to the blind ones

and lend what is blind in you

to lead the seeing to sight

peering the tunnel of your eyes

in search of Light

to find there some semblance of Jesus

some residue of the Big Bang

hit upon the earth when He was born.

*We go on trips, taking notes while passing through half-starving continents where cadavers are piled up each morning along with the garbage.  We no longer can put up with the parable of the good Samaritan. Faith becomes impossible, noting is what it used to be, but we go on cultivating the moral garden of the West!

It's obvious that the Church is not catholic but Western.

-Jean Sulivan

*Because of compromise Christianity doesn't appear in its truth - a truth that is often unacceptable.  It is revealed only in tension and debate, provided that it's not looking for power and prestige.

-Jean Sulivan  

jails we love

for bedding our lives

locked behind bars

of emotions held bound

preserving our soul

behind fake expectations

behind feelings unclaimed

within counterfeit selves

stamped with the okays

of a society gone captive

of a people boxed

in visions of status

packaged in cartons

enhanced for dispersal

of truths soaked in vinegar

preserving the semblance

of that which is real

of that which will kill

o, to smell the sunshine

touch the wind in one's throat

see light in the darkness

and laugh with the lark

share bread with the squirrels

and dance in the mud

the key would be ours

to unlock our precious gates

to loose us from bondage

and free us with Life

*We'll believe almost anything in order to justify harmony and serenity.

-Jean Sulivan

*...faith and humor go well together.

-Jean Sulivan

*The Gospel in its pure state was too great a danger.

-Jean Sulivan

stuck in our throats

are sounds of who we are

music that if sung

would cause flowers to grow

bring alive a dead life

shoot stars into our night

curb our courteous bowings

our groveling to be liked.

it's when tears slide free

round the curve of our jaw

with mem'ry as their guide

and accompanied by grief

we wistfully remember

the songs of our past

still lodged in our throat

and longing for home.

There's always someone smarter than you in someway.

Whenever death occurs, "whatever" doesn't matter.

We all pass our titles on to someone else.

can you not see?

the handwriting's on the wall.

your children will  

throw stones at you.

they will borrow

your pistols to kill.

you shall be their victims 

as they terrorize the land.

for they have learned well

the lessons of hatred.

they have practiced long 

in the armory of arcades

waiting for the  day

when the lessons learned 

will he applied.

Rachel shall weep

and be torn to bits

and you shall plead the buildings fall

than see the destruction

by your own.

*...faith and humor go well together.

-Jean Sulivan

*The Gospel in its pure state was too great a danger.

-Jean Sulivan

*The Church, I now believe, is invited to live a paradox - to break with the order of the world, to stop wanting to be a society complete in itself within the civil society - in other words, a competitor, yielding or resisting depending on circumstances.  It's impossible for the Church to make its message real unless its mode of presence is itself a sign.

-Jean Sulivan

i didn't raise the flag

when the corpse was lowered

and the body became seed

planted for another war.

i wept as the volleys rang

and the awesome silence revealed the truth.

for these dead are fodder

feeding the machines of revenge

raked into piles like dry leaves

to be burned on the funeral pyre.

there's a question i raise.

there's protest of this charade.

why aren't the marshals of this holocaust

the first ones in the grave?

*I mustn't have had much imagination. For a long time I believed that the Church could only exist the way secular societies did. After all, wasn't the essential thing to be able physically to pass on the Word and the    Eucharist?  It didn't matter if the visible Church was a party to inhumanity. It was a question of incarnation.     It was up to some of its children, who had been nourished by the Church, to live Christianity dangerously. But they'd better not expect the Church to run to their aid!  It's more apt to reject them - except for beatifying them after death has made them inoffensive and useful. The harsh law of necessity prevailed in all this, as when superpowers disown their own spies. For what society would endure if it glorified the faithless steward, the prodigal son, the worker of the eleventh hour, and didn't wage war against its enemies?  We'll believe almost anything in order to justify harmony and serenity.

-Jean Sulivan

our room looks empty
though full
yet we leave everything behind
staring into Death that has taken us home

sitting in our chair
lying upon our bed
running our run
walking our walk

but no longer living
stiff
as with concrete within
still
upon the soft bed

dead
in a room full of empty
to be shared
with the bearer of our dream



*...my experience also had taught me, contrary to the general opinion, that there was more freedom in the Church than anywhere else.
-Jean Sulivan


*...we never understand perfectly what influences us.
-Jean Sulivan

looking out at a new day
into a world seemingly the same day after day
i wonder "what's new?"
not about "it" but me

"who am i this day?"
"what's the refreshing about me?"
"what have i done besides departing night
staring into this day of sun or clouds                            
of rain or wind
blowing breezes about the edges of mama earth?"

this grey day invites rain
for sitting and staring above the weather line of water clouds
and wonder or decide who i am to be or
what i am to do with my porridge of empty thoughts
a bucket of tossed dreams and glazed quirks with carted curse                    
or simply rest in peace, a moment still
allowing day to be what it is
making choices as Life presents itself
and be content with the Now

tomorrow arrives when one can't view it
the only assurance being one is not dead

*It's hardly surprising that disciples all over the world seem no longer concerned with the Church but with poverty and  human freedom.  Every genuine community enlarges the Christian commonwealth.

-Jean Sulivan

*In the same way that Jesus' intention, clearly shown in the Gospels, was to lead each of us back to our center, it seems to me that the primary mission of Christianity is to rescue men and women who have been overcome by our present age and treated as mere consumers, and, whether they are politically active or not, to offer them a spiritual space.  Everything else is insignificant.

-Jean Sulivan

*"Holiness," they say - "if only there were more holiness, everything would be simple!"  They talk about sanctity the way other talk about oil.  That's their style, naive and cunning.  As if it were understood that holiness would leave everything the way it is.

How well-ordered and glorious the Church was in the days when popes and cardinals waged war and practiced various other vices!  Morality might receive a few setbacks but at least doctrine was never breached.  That proved God was somehow present in it.  When I was a boy apologetics I knew how to make use of anything.  How stupid!  The time soon came when people could perceive that this doctrinal fortress was the symptom of dead minds that were only interested in control.  The marvel was that the Word managed to make its way underneath all this, like a spring that is both protected and impeded by a large rock.
-Jean Sulivan

Rural-WHITE-heaveN

  

you rapturers b'lieve your heaven's greater than this wasted world:

white clouds and angels glist'ning bright in the air

hypocrites not included  'cept as workers on minimum wage

no migrants of the darker fare for care

while tan lines wrapped 'round your anklets bare

preach your sad and piss-poor state of affair

the ugly eyes of your exclusions shine bright red in hollywood-hell

satanic and sour like the green grass of monetary gloss

with your unmanaged soil in the hands of your ex-lazy slaves

chained to their plot of salvation since before The Historic War

yours is the taste of putrid gods not dwelling there

and demons gone blind, smelling like bowel-flares

take your smelly crap and float on the smoke from its flame

for it will lay dead with your bodies petrified in the glaze

with your American-dream grown foul like a hypo-sloth

     having crawled where you believe white-nations would never rest      

Whole

apart 

we come

to meet 

the never

abundant 

with nothing

entire

worlds

more than 

either is

no where 

else

*Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

At Death's Door

in front of 

you

without a word 

a clue

to you

to me

I 

move

through 

and 

through

also

*Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

*Why keep repeating "the Church of Christ, the Church of Christ"? Why are you so fearful? That Church doesn't exist, and that's a matter of joy - we're still en route to Jerusalem.  Let the Church become the Church of Christ; people will  notice. But let it leave publicity to the popular advertisers who spend millions to influence opinion.  To think that the Church could simply be illumination and light is absurd - fortunately! Otherwise, we'd already be in eternal life; admit you're not really keen on the idea.

Be suspicious of those who glory in belonging to the Church. It's not a matter of belonging. We are the Church on the march in all its diversity.

*Jean Sulivan

Basquiat
you poor dead man
played over and over with like a plate of glass
cracked and scattered upon the grass
where the non-touched fall
breaking their stride
striving toward a goal
that the boogaloos placed  upon their heads

you are them
peering through the eyes of monsters you shared
through the canvases you spread
o'er the thin entry ways of the seething world
wondering why you made these ugly screens
staring into their eyes their souls
wondering how you arrived as an heir to their stores

and I look at you hoping
hoping for another suck of weed or vice
another key to open your soul to the world
of acceptance of funds of fabulosity
that your daddy would know it's you
you
and no other than you
who etched a stretch of life
to free your inner gasp
formed in black and colored stripes
running loose and flowing free
toward a day then you'd be someone
before you're dead

but death grubbed you before your time
deformed your breath
before the day you thought you'd be walking the earth
famous
graced
without a stitch

yes you're dead
truly dead
while many rave the screens you slew and left behind
filled with stories they'd never hear
would never hear

sometimes
I march forward in fear
with the strings in my drawers struggling to hold me back
but I move on
forward
not sure if I'll remain where I'm heading
or slide back into the straight-jacket of my comforts
where uneasy is the norm

long have I lived with this fear
long in the chair of death
electrocuting me a thousand times
sharper than needles poked in my flesh

but this mornring I rise to something new it seems
a way of might
a way of bright
a new possibility of conquering
that which has held me back and down
o'er these numerous years

I rise and leave for the challenge
knowing not whether life or death will champion me
as I strive to be someone new
stretching to fly and taste the air

The Word

God words

great words

wild words

true words

few words

free words

heart words

The Word

I know you Black Boy

corn-rolled, 'froed or skinhead.

I know you when I spot you

shy-eyed and fiddling with somethin'

some thing to distract you

draw you from your insides

where ghosts stir pinwheels of questions.

You wonder if we notice

catch the girl eking from you

see you as cotton candy. 

I know you, Black Boy

when Fear, 'neath dungeon stairwells

chains and strangles your spirit

binding you to turmoil.

If Empathy would hung you

then, Springtime would be words, affirming

and sunshine, a beam from your mouth.

I know you, Black Boy

in your cautious steps toward homeland

to the door of Truth cracked open

setting your questions free.

*To pray is to confess. Confess what?  That we are empty, that we are hungry.  We all use our mouths to eat and to cry out.  A vital necessity, prayer is an act of poverty.  Damnation implies privation. Those who do not pray damn themselves - that is, they remain deprived, shut up in their private property.

-Jean Sulivan

*...prayer, like death, far from being a humiliation, bears witness that we can only attain our full human stature by opening ourselves to the absolute.

-Jean Sulivan

here  you are Woman

in this black night, glowing

a flame of hope burning

in your soul, your earth

awaiting the Light-Forever

the Ever-Before, the Ever-After

for the sake of children, Adam-darkened

for us children, Jesus-Brightened

words and pictures, pictures and words

use them conveying truth for freeing

minds and spirits, souls and life itself

for God and man and woman and child

for all that is and will be 

and can't be, imagine

imagine

 imagine 

imagine

your heart open

imagine

near mental's edge i sit
waiting
like an elongated thought
wanting its essence to fructify
and shape music with dry notes
hung with penultimate grace
wallowing in emotions
and hoping to be set free

Obama's at the helm.

we struggle to be ourselves
her and now
with our his'try of pain and loss
of joy and grace
of sin and evil
weaning
as we toil for the freedom to be
American
without barrage of spite and hate
neglect or death
that mothered us along the way
to where we stand
today

perhaps
we could not stand
with a curse on our lips
or joy in our heart
if the journey had not been ours
and we were running
forward
to the outside of our dilemma
to the inside of our dreams

but ran we can
hoping to break class
and caste
to set our toes an inch ahead
from where we stood
till the new tomorrow dawns
without wires or blood
or the bright new dreams
of those who'd hold us dead
beyond the spot our ancestors stood
pushing is to where we stand



*Naturally, God doesn't need prayers.  Let us stop turning him into a potentate anxious for homage.  It's you and I who need prayer so that we no longer be alone, in order to get out of our shells and rejoin the universal body of love.  We can't link up with others without passing through what is furthest away; to get there it's necessary to lose one's identity. It's in that loss that I can find you, that you can find yourself.  To pray is therefore to introduce love, humor, and death into every action and ideology.  Hence prayer is the revolutionary act par excellence, the very opposite of alienation.
-Jean Sulivan


*Politeness is the surest way of keeping one's distance.
-Jean Sulivan