Interrupted by poetry

My class is going over the ancient and wise church fathers and mothers and the development of theology. This is not my beautiful cake; I’m having a tough time keeping up. There could be oodles of reasons for this. One think is that poetry seems to maybe express stuff better to my heart? Plus I like to have pictures in my mind’s eye, see outside the mere words. Thus all the doctrines and theories of atonement and nature of God and so on — it isn’t that they aren’t interesting, they are. They are wise too, I bet. The sheer history of it all, and tracing how the thoughts evolve over time — Christianity is a living, breathing thing yes? And Barth — there are not words for how hard to read he is, and yet when I read summaries or paraphrases I am just stunned with the fantastic thoughts this man brought to all of us.

But. Still. Jesus both fully God and fully human — Time for some Poetry — I thus offer this poem, very shyly and humbly —

 

Second Birth

 

In the stone-covered tomb, in the quiet

knitting himself back together

eyes, hands, heart, lungs,

was it like a nap?

Or was it being suddenly thrust back –

Out of heaven again, though not,

Thank God, into infant-shape this time

 

But whole, healed.

Don’t forget the guts and other inwards

re-sewing themselves, filling again with life.

He would eat and drink with the disciples, so

Did he wake up hungry, again?

 

The first time, there in the shed

with the warm animals, was he excited?

Or was the exit of the Virgin’s womb

into light, into gentle hands and soothing sounds

almost terrifying?

 

The second birth, before He rolled the stone back for us

did He pause an extra moment, just for Himself,

knowing already what He would find.

 

The second time He finally gave clear directions –

Meet him in Galilee, Feed his sheep.

The second birth was much less messy

than that dark night, that blessed girl, that sky

wild with angels.

 

 

copyrighted (revised June 2015)

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