Category Archives: Interrupted by poetry

Interrupted by poetry

More Words

 

Right now I only have is

Is this the start?

Or is this the middle?

It certainly is not the end

 

That would be has been

Were

Was

 

Is

That’s happening

We are

Right now happening

 

In the midst

Of the middle

Before the end

Let’s never end

 

Be now

Here with me

Be

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Interrupted by the Overwhelm and Poetry

So completely overwhelmed, my friends. This morning I went to a beautiful lecture/speech and the speaker said, to the effect anyway, “When we hurt the least of us, we are hurting God. God suffers when the hungry are not fed, when the thirsty do not have water….to help God is to help each other.”

I nearly cried right there and my eyes are suspiciously moist now.

Here’s a poem, written a while back initially that I have been working on for a while.

 

The Body of Christ

 

We remember Him by breaking bread or

Is that the way He remembers us? Either way

Breaking is messy – let’s be glad it isn’t glass

Imagine the shards

Stabbing us

The drops of inevitable blood

 

Instead, today, with each piece pulled free and given,

Tiny crumbs fell to the ground, creating an abundance of memory

Reminding us of dogs who also

Deserve salvation and the birds of the air

And even of mustard seeds

 

Close your eyes. Wonder about mysteries

Wonder about wholeness that is found

only in the beautiful broken mess and then open your sight

to the cross, to what we are remembering

to Whom was so messily broken for dusty us

 

Interrupted by Poetry

Afterword (a draft)

 

It feels more like Good Friday than Advent

More tenebrae less bells and songs

How can we sing of joy in the midst of hate?

Put your harps away, find the drums

 

Of course life is always thus someone

Somewhere is dying and someone else

Is grieving. One year, our rebirth only came with

Red Wings of a bird in a green fir tree.

 

Those left behind keep saying year after year

Remember our parades our feasts our holy days?

While others know the lynching tree could return,

The night could take back the day, rule of fear over law.

 

It could be worse. Is God helpless to help, bound

By some mysterious force that offers only myrrh?

Turn, see His small face, feel tiny fingers, hear the fragile beat.

Turn, He is nailed up there, bleeding for us.

Interrupted by Poetry

Wait for it

 

He’s going to come again, we can cling to that

But maybe not quite as expected after all

He didn’t come as we wanted the first time.

 

He should come this time with a kiss

Reverse the Judas moment, redeem with gentleness

The whole beautiful terrifying mess here.

 

We’ll hear a click that is a shout of pure joy as

The two realms snap back together

Ceasar’s coin remade, reunited, redeemed

 

The beginning, again, all family again, all

And it will be with a kiss, it will be

A moment a recreation a universe of tenderness

 

FTGOG

Interrupted by Poetry

The nameless

The violent quiet dead in Dallas, DC, Philly, Chicago

Anywhere, other years even,

The ones that we don’t know

Not names or ages or who

They loved or who loved them

Let our hearts ache for them too

since we now sit sunlit in dark uncertainties of grief

Yes, throw in all the nameless

Who weren’t the final straw

Who didn’t break or bless our hearts

Interrupted by poetry

The Body of Christ

 

We remember Him by breaking bread or

Is that the way He remembers us? Either way

Breaking is messy – let’s be glad it isn’t glass

Imagine the shards

Stabbing us

The drops of inevitable blood

 

Instead with each piece pulled free and given,

Tiny crumbs fall to the ground, an abundance of memory

Reminding us of dogs who also

Deserve salvation and the birds of the air

And even of mustard seeds

 

Close your eyes. Wonder about mysteries

Wonder about wholeness that is found

only in the beautiful broken mess and then open your sight

to the cross, to what we are remembering

to Whom was so messily broken for dusty us

 

(Remember please this is copyrighted; all rights reserved)

Interrupted by …. Luke, blindness, poetry, hope

Church today focused on the story of the Blind Beggar of Jericho …. Luke 18:35 – 43. And suddenly “….Jesus said to him: “Receive your sight….”

What if from then on the Beggar was shocked to see

hungry dogs at the edge of town, rough children fighting and bruised, hungry

people of all ages at the edges of banquets and by gates

sorrow in a widow’s face

fear in a mother’s eyes.

when he asked to see, did he imagine

that it would all be beautiful? or merely useful

so much better to see than to not to

yet the darkness might protect as well as conceal

He chose to see and to follow Jesus and thus

saw Him hanging on a cross, bloody, brusied

thirsty, suffering and offering, ever offering,

to those with eyes to see

forgiveness still, love with every ounce of blood

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)