Romans 8

       Personalized and Re-phrased

+++Because I am in Christ Jesus, I cannot fall under any condemnation; the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set me free from the law of sin and death. For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do: by sending His own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin, He condemned sin in the flesh, in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fulfilled in me as I walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit. For when I live according to the flesh, I set my mind on the things of the flesh, but when I live according to the Spirit, I set my mind on the things of the Spirit. For to set my mind on the flesh is death, but to set my mind on the Spirit is life and peace.

+++When my mind is set on the flesh, it is hostile to God, for it does not submit to God’s law — indeed, it cannot. Those who are in the flesh cannot please God. I, however, am not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if in fact the Spirit of God dwells in me. If I didn’t have the Spirit of Christ, I wouldn’t belong to Him. But since Christ is in me, although my body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. Since the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in me, He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to my mortal body through His Spirit who dwells in me.

+++So then, since I am a Christian indwelled by God’s Spirit, I am a debtor, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh. For if I live according to the flesh I will die, but if I walk in the Spirit and put to death the deeds of my body, I will live. For all who are led by the Spirit of God are sons and daughters of God. For I did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but I have received the Spirit of adoption as a child of God, by whom I cry, “Abba! Father!” The Spirit Himself bears witness with my spirit that I am indeed a child of God, and if I am a child, then I am an heir—an heir of God and a fellow heir with Christ, provided I temporarily suffer with Him now in order that I may also be glorified with Him in the future.

+++For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to me. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons and daughters of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it, in the hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.

+++For I know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but I myself, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as I wait eagerly for my completed adoption as a son or daughter and the redemption of my body. For in this hope I was saved.

+++Now, hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what they see? But if I hope for what I do not see, I wait for it with patience. Likewise the Spirit helps me in my weakness. For I do not know what to pray for as I ought, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for me with groaning too deep for words. And He who searches my heart knows what is the mind of the indwelling Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for me according to the will of God. And I know that, for me, as one who loves God, all things work together for good because I am called according to His purpose: because He foreknew me, He also predestined me to be conformed to the image of His Son, in order that He might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters. And those whom He predestined He also called, and those whom He called He also justified, and those whom He justified He also glorified.

+++What then shall I say to these things? If God is for me, who can be against me? He who did not spare His own Son but gave Him up for me, how will he not also with Him graciously give me all things? Who shall bring any charge against me? I am one of God’s elect! After all, it is God who justifies me. Who is to condemn me? Christ Jesus is the one who died for me—more than that, who was raised from the dead for me—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for me. Who shall separate me from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? As it is written,

++++++“For your sake we are being killed all the day long;
++++++we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.”

No, in all these things I am more than conqueror through Him who loves me. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Don Cadwallader

Getting Ready

Outside
in the schoolyard
I hear the bell
that ends
the half-hour lunch
but westward
winds seem to
shape the stones
in bright sunlight.

Two sparrows
flip a yogurt lid
back and forth
while, above,
a shiny black crow
mocks them with a
grating voice.
He raises and lowers
his head,
twitching his eyes
first left, then right.

For a moment
I stop to be with them,
dropping myself
on the bench,
sharing in their
coincidental world
of give and take

while inside
by now
my students
are alone
without me.

They are surely
fidgeting with their pencils,
looking at the clock,
feeling like
endless toilers
without a plan,
without a purpose
without me.

But I am still busy
outside
getting ready.

Don Cadwallader

Night Game

For the first three innings
he called the game
wrong.

The outside balls he called
strikes, the upper letters too
he called good,

and the parents heckled
from the aluminum seats.

At the end of the third
he trudged to the backstop,
swigged his water bottle
and mumbled

+++“They gotta learn to swing
+++at the hittable balls —
+++or else this game could go
+++all night.”

In the bottom of the fourth
he blew a call at first.
Amid howls of protest,
he trudged to the backstop,
leaned back, silently stared
at his plastic pitch counter

+++while I contemplated
+++the outfield
+++beyond the lights where,
+++in the dark beyond the fence,
+++some bearded stranger,
+++road a tractor mower,
+++lazily finishing his
+++day job.

The rest of the game
he called
a strike a strike,
and a ball a ball,

and after the final call,
and the lights shut down,
I passed him on the way,
tapped him on his
chest protector
and said, “Good game,
Blue.”

Don Cadwallader

Escape from L.A.

We left
the San Fernando
Valley at midnight,
my 10-year-old,
1951 soy-bean
black Mercury
fat with eight-
track tapes and
cigarettes.
We downshifted
to struggle up
the winding 5
towards Palmdale,
and finally,
when we arrived
at the full distance
where city lights
no longer dampened
darkness,
we slowed right
onto a nameless
low-desert road
where, with headlights
off, all around
the night revealed
itself alone.
Along the far horizons
the hazy, worldly glow:
the distant City of the
Angels, or was it really
a lone Exxon station
impressing itself
through the foggy mask
that, in our minds,
turned all light
into imagined places
from where we made
some brave escape,
fooled by eternity,
courageous, yet afraid
for ourselves
to be called home?

Don Cadwallader

Just a Little Cowboy

I love the land
where cattle dwell,
where dirt
is ground
and burned
to dust.

The air
is warm
and thick
and muffles up
the sage
that tricks
the nose
in gentle
waves.

The egrets
tick their heads
and follow fast
the horse’s hoofs,
while I ride
on leather hide
and turn
my back
to look at you
and chew on
stems of grass.

Don Cadwallader

Pursued

I saw the poem
in the rearview mirror.

It flashed
in the nighttime light,
at first as a white wall,
but, then, pursued
as a Ford Econoline van,
flashing out of one dark alleyway,
shifting from left to right,
crossing the streets
then disappearing

with nothing left
but me blinking,
gripping the wheel,
knuckles white,
and grasping.

Don Cadwallader

Potential Truths

Concerning the parts
of this world
that are
innocent,

I’ve tried to know them
where I have found them,

but only
in the world
of nature where,
in God’s lurking places,
potential truths
are concealed
by outward lies.

Yes, I have been
led astray
by those lies
high up in the trees:

caterpillars
cutting leaves
that fall
into a spider’s
webbed cocoon.

Don Cadwallader

Yesterday’s Poem

As I struggle to be free
from the cries
of yesterday’s poem,
the sirens in the distance
cut through the sounds
where I stand.

And now
the next poem is born
in what is heard,
it’s sounds
separated
and chorded
in their working.

Then,
pushing and pulling,
I remember
notes tempered
by invention,
then, singing them
in tune,
I give them a slap,
and turn them over
to you.

Don Cadwallader

After Reading Ezekiel 33, the Astrologer Writes to His Father

Santa Barbara, California
December 1970

Dear Father,
It’s midnight,
and I’ve been
walking alone
in a winter’s drizzle.
I can barely see the stars,
though I know their language
still speaks wonders.
Do they not mark
the eternal turning
of time?
Do they not tell
the stories and tales
of every lonely traveler?

Yet I must confess, Father,
when charting their endless turning,
I have never really known
how the center of the sun
burns as the heart of truth,
and today — well,
today, I tremble….

For today, Father,
I must ask you this:
Who has the right to prophesy
from the innocence
of a man’s beginnings
without tearing down the shield
that covers the mystery
of his ways?

They who embrace my tales
leave coins in the basket
and then walk away.
Did I not take silver to play
the Watchman in their lives?
Then, did I sound the warning right
before I broke the yoke
between them and me?
Was I but a dissonant horn
that never warned a soul
of a coming sword
upon their house?

So now, My Father,
I must close
the logbook of transits
and confounding signs
and unhinged degrees,
for, in the end, I have drawn
knots of divergent circles,
and I tremble.

I will return
to my home
where the sun arises
to begin again —
where I once opened
the nighttime windows
to listen for
the clean, clear sounds
of coyotes howling
at the ever-mysterious
moon
and the
bewildering stars.

Don Cadwallader