Dare I ask…
…when I don’t expect an answer?
But sometimes...sometimes...
asking and knocking leads to unlocking
So I dare.
Here I am, Lord.
A heretical human engaged in honest prayer
Are you a divine creative essence
or are you a created being?
Are you the ageless mystery born of myth?
Or an imaginary thing?
Are you the cosmic ruler of all that is?
The heavenly parent who provides for all our needs?
Or are you an invisible collage of our developing ideals
called upon to justify our deeds?
Are you an anthropomorphic construct
of philosophers and theologians?
A personification of our conscience?
Are you hero to those who suffer…
who continually wait for the deliverance
that they believe you promised?
Are you the otherworldly overseer of golden streets and crystal seas
Supreme object of our eternal adoration
Exorcist of the demonic
Broker of conditional salvation
Director of otherworldly dramas
Shepherd of every bullet gone astray
Vengeful agent of bizarre justice
Puppeteer of nature’s dreadful ways
Are you the psychological patchwork
of projected prejudice and human fear?
Are you even there?
Can you even hear?
Creator, almighty and in control?
Did you make us in your image to till?
Or did we create an image of you
to fill this hole we feel?
We share a desire for security
To be certain of what it is that we can and cannot hold
Trying to make sense out of this life
Your silent shadow seems so cold
I don’t think that I can trust you
A restless soul, I walk this road
I don’t know what to believe
Suspicious of those who speak so bold
Not sure that my scattered thoughts can offer any consolation
to the faithful ones who grieve
For me, prayer feels more like a placebo
yet I pray that I am not deceived
I believe that honesty is holy
Unaware, we feel around and grope
Finding sacred meanings
in whatever helps us cope
I believe that honesty is holy
Unaware, we feel around and grope
I’m not sure that I believe in heaven
but I still believe in hope
# # #
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Reflection on "My Easy God is Gone," a poem by James Kavanaugh
Yesterday evening as I drove to pick up my daughter from daycare, I was listening to a podcast that cited “My Easy God is Gone,” a confessional poem written by former Catholic priest and renowned wordsmith James Kavanaugh. Before this point, I had never heard of Kavanaugh; but as his transparent sentiments were read aloud, I found many of his lyrical phrasings resonating with my own experience of disillusionment in regards to the personal God in which I used to believe. Kavanaugh’s powerful poem takes meticulous account of what he has lost in abandoning his earlier notions of God, expresses relief for having shed his former ideas and then proceeds to celebrate the reclaiming of his own sensitive humanity.
Kavanaugh notes that he has “lost” his “easy God” and has abandoned the constrictive dogma that too often rendered his own human experiences devoid of meaning and value. Kavanaugh grieves at how the “easy God” of his childhood “took all mystery away, corroded my imagination, controlled the stars and would not let them speak for themselves.” He boldly declares that, despite his childhood indoctrination into the creeds of his faith tradition, the “maxims memorized in boyhood do not make fruitless and pointless my experience.” He proclaims, “I am a boy again - I whose boyhood was turned to manhood in a brutal myth.” Kavanaugh seems to express a relieved sigh of freedom with honest lines like, “I walk alone, but not so terrified as when He held my hand.”
Yes, like Kavanaugh, I too feel that “some fierce umbilical is broken.” As my wife and I visit different churches (both liberal and conservative), I sit through worship services and feel jarringly distant and removed from what is going on- almost like a disinterested anthropologist sent from a foreign land to study the religious experiences of my fellow human beings. Yet, though I feel removed, I remain keenly aware of my own ignorance while also being appreciative and grateful for the myriad of meaningful experiences that have formed my personality and shaped my character.
I don’t know much about James Kavanaugh, but I sought to know more about the life that created such a moving piece. Somehow I sense a kindred spirit in Kavanaugh, one that belongs to a restless explorer whose thirst for inquiry refuses to settle for pat answers and outdated explanations. I appreciate that Kavanaugh’s poetry affirms the significance of mystery, human fallibility and adaptability, the wonders of love, the regenerative power of painful experiences and the creative resourcefulness with which we humans derive meaning from it all.
Like Kavanaugh, I am still willing to consider the idea that “God” may exist as some vague force or pulsating creative power that exists beyond the human capacity to understand or explain; However, I am more convinced than ever that “God” does not exist as a personal and tribal deity who picks favorites, conveys its crucial message to a handful of ordained spokespersons and intervenes in the physical world through supernatural and miraculous means.
In the Preface to his book, Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves, Kavanaugh says:
"My Easy God is Gone"
by James Kavanaugh
I have lost my easy God –
the one whose name I knew since childhood.
I knew his temper, his sullen outrage, his ritual forgiveness.
I knew the strength of his arm,
the sound of his insistent voice.
His beard bristling, his lips full and red
with moisture at the moustache,
His eyes clear and piercing,
too blue to understand all,
His face too unwrinkled to feel my child’s pain.
He was a good God - so he told me -
a long suffering and manageable one.
I knelt at his feet and kissed them.
I felt the smooth countenance of his forgiveness.
I never told him how he frightened me,
How he followed me as a child,
When I played with friends or begged
for candy on Halloween.
He was a predictable God,
I was the unpredictable one.
He was unchanging, omnipotent, all-seeing,
I was volatile and helpless.
He taught me to thank him for the concern
which gave me no chance to breathe,
For the love which demanded only love in
return - and obedience.
He made pain sensible and patience possible
and the future foreseeable.
He, the mysterious, took all mystery away,
corroded my imagination,
Controlled the stars and would not let
them speak for themselves.
Now he haunts me seldom:
some fierce umbilical is broken,
I live with my own fragile hopes and
sudden rising despair.
Now I do not weep for my sins;
I have learned to love them.
And to know that they are the wounds that
make love real.
His face eludes me; his voice, with all
its pity, does not ring in my ear.
His maxims memorized in boyhood do not
make fruitless and pointless my experience.
I walk alone,
but not so terrified as when he held my hand.
I do not splash in the blood of his son
nor hear the crunch of nails or thorns
piercing protesting flesh.
I am a boy again - I whose boyhood was
turned to manhood in a brutal myth.
Now wine is only wine
with drops that do not taste of blood.
The bread I eat has too much pride for transubstantiation,
I, too - and together the bread and I embrace,
Each grateful to be what we are,
each loving from our own reality.
Now the bread is warm in my mouth and
I am warm in its mouth as well.
Now my easy God is gone –
he knew too much to be real,
He talked too much to listen,
he knew my words before I spoke.
But I knew his answers as well –
computerized and turned to dogma.
His stamp was on my soul, his law locked
cross-like on my heart,
His imperatives tattooed on my breast, his
aloofness canonized in ritual.
Now he is gone - my easy, stuffy God - God,
the father - master, the mother - whiner, the
dull, whoring God who offered love bought
by an infant’s fear.
Now the world is mine with all its pain and
warmth, with its every color and sound;
The setting sun is my priest with the ocean for its altar.
The rising sun redeems me with rolling
waves warmed in its arms.
A dog barks and I weep to be alive, a
cat studies me and my job is boundless.
I lie on the grass and boy-like, search the sky.
The clouds do not turn to angels, the winds
do not whisper of heaven or hell.
Perhaps I have no God - what does it matter?
I have beauty and joy and transcending loneliness,
I have the beginning of love - as beautiful as it
is feeble - as free as it is human.
I have the mountains that whisper secrets
held before men could speak,
I have the oceans that belches life on
the beach and caresses it in the sand,
I have a friend who smiles when he sees me,
who weeps when he hears my pain,
I have a future of wonder.
I have no past - the steps have disappeared
the wind has blown them away.
I stand in the heavens and on earth, I feel the breeze in my hair,
I can drink to the North Star and shout on a bar stool,
I can feel the teeth of a hangover, the joy of laziness,
The flush of my own rudeness,
the surge of my own ineptitude.
And I can know my own gentleness
as well as my wonder, my nobility.
I sense the call of creation,
I feel its swelling in my hands.
I can lust and love, eat and drink, sleep and rise,
But my easy God is gone - and in his stead
The mystery of loneliness and love!
Kavanaugh notes that he has “lost” his “easy God” and has abandoned the constrictive dogma that too often rendered his own human experiences devoid of meaning and value. Kavanaugh grieves at how the “easy God” of his childhood “took all mystery away, corroded my imagination, controlled the stars and would not let them speak for themselves.” He boldly declares that, despite his childhood indoctrination into the creeds of his faith tradition, the “maxims memorized in boyhood do not make fruitless and pointless my experience.” He proclaims, “I am a boy again - I whose boyhood was turned to manhood in a brutal myth.” Kavanaugh seems to express a relieved sigh of freedom with honest lines like, “I walk alone, but not so terrified as when He held my hand.”
Yes, like Kavanaugh, I too feel that “some fierce umbilical is broken.” As my wife and I visit different churches (both liberal and conservative), I sit through worship services and feel jarringly distant and removed from what is going on- almost like a disinterested anthropologist sent from a foreign land to study the religious experiences of my fellow human beings. Yet, though I feel removed, I remain keenly aware of my own ignorance while also being appreciative and grateful for the myriad of meaningful experiences that have formed my personality and shaped my character.
I don’t know much about James Kavanaugh, but I sought to know more about the life that created such a moving piece. Somehow I sense a kindred spirit in Kavanaugh, one that belongs to a restless explorer whose thirst for inquiry refuses to settle for pat answers and outdated explanations. I appreciate that Kavanaugh’s poetry affirms the significance of mystery, human fallibility and adaptability, the wonders of love, the regenerative power of painful experiences and the creative resourcefulness with which we humans derive meaning from it all.
Like Kavanaugh, I am still willing to consider the idea that “God” may exist as some vague force or pulsating creative power that exists beyond the human capacity to understand or explain; However, I am more convinced than ever that “God” does not exist as a personal and tribal deity who picks favorites, conveys its crucial message to a handful of ordained spokespersons and intervenes in the physical world through supernatural and miraculous means.
In the Preface to his book, Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves, Kavanaugh says:
"I will probably be a searcher until I die and hopefully death itself will only be another adventure. To live any other way seems impossible. If anything has changed over the years, and it has, I only feel more confident now about what I wrote then. I am far more aware of the power that guides each of us along the way, and provides us with the insights and people we need for our journey. There are, indeed, men and women too gentle to live among wolves and only when joined with them will life offer the searcher, step by step, all that is good and beautiful. Life becomes not a confused struggle or pointless pain, but an evolving mosaic masterpiece of the person we were destined to become."Below is the complete version of James Kavanaugh's poem “My Easy God is Gone.”
"My Easy God is Gone"
by James Kavanaugh
I have lost my easy God –
the one whose name I knew since childhood.
I knew his temper, his sullen outrage, his ritual forgiveness.
I knew the strength of his arm,
the sound of his insistent voice.
His beard bristling, his lips full and red
with moisture at the moustache,
His eyes clear and piercing,
too blue to understand all,
His face too unwrinkled to feel my child’s pain.
He was a good God - so he told me -
a long suffering and manageable one.
I knelt at his feet and kissed them.
I felt the smooth countenance of his forgiveness.
I never told him how he frightened me,
How he followed me as a child,
When I played with friends or begged
for candy on Halloween.
He was a predictable God,
I was the unpredictable one.
He was unchanging, omnipotent, all-seeing,
I was volatile and helpless.
He taught me to thank him for the concern
which gave me no chance to breathe,
For the love which demanded only love in
return - and obedience.
He made pain sensible and patience possible
and the future foreseeable.
He, the mysterious, took all mystery away,
corroded my imagination,
Controlled the stars and would not let
them speak for themselves.
Now he haunts me seldom:
some fierce umbilical is broken,
I live with my own fragile hopes and
sudden rising despair.
Now I do not weep for my sins;
I have learned to love them.
And to know that they are the wounds that
make love real.
His face eludes me; his voice, with all
its pity, does not ring in my ear.
His maxims memorized in boyhood do not
make fruitless and pointless my experience.
I walk alone,
but not so terrified as when he held my hand.
I do not splash in the blood of his son
nor hear the crunch of nails or thorns
piercing protesting flesh.
I am a boy again - I whose boyhood was
turned to manhood in a brutal myth.
Now wine is only wine
with drops that do not taste of blood.
The bread I eat has too much pride for transubstantiation,
I, too - and together the bread and I embrace,
Each grateful to be what we are,
each loving from our own reality.
Now the bread is warm in my mouth and
I am warm in its mouth as well.
Now my easy God is gone –
he knew too much to be real,
He talked too much to listen,
he knew my words before I spoke.
But I knew his answers as well –
computerized and turned to dogma.
His stamp was on my soul, his law locked
cross-like on my heart,
His imperatives tattooed on my breast, his
aloofness canonized in ritual.
Now he is gone - my easy, stuffy God - God,
the father - master, the mother - whiner, the
dull, whoring God who offered love bought
by an infant’s fear.
Now the world is mine with all its pain and
warmth, with its every color and sound;
The setting sun is my priest with the ocean for its altar.
The rising sun redeems me with rolling
waves warmed in its arms.
A dog barks and I weep to be alive, a
cat studies me and my job is boundless.
I lie on the grass and boy-like, search the sky.
The clouds do not turn to angels, the winds
do not whisper of heaven or hell.
Perhaps I have no God - what does it matter?
I have beauty and joy and transcending loneliness,
I have the beginning of love - as beautiful as it
is feeble - as free as it is human.
I have the mountains that whisper secrets
held before men could speak,
I have the oceans that belches life on
the beach and caresses it in the sand,
I have a friend who smiles when he sees me,
who weeps when he hears my pain,
I have a future of wonder.
I have no past - the steps have disappeared
the wind has blown them away.
I stand in the heavens and on earth, I feel the breeze in my hair,
I can drink to the North Star and shout on a bar stool,
I can feel the teeth of a hangover, the joy of laziness,
The flush of my own rudeness,
the surge of my own ineptitude.
And I can know my own gentleness
as well as my wonder, my nobility.
I sense the call of creation,
I feel its swelling in my hands.
I can lust and love, eat and drink, sleep and rise,
But my easy God is gone - and in his stead
The mystery of loneliness and love!
Thursday, October 2, 2008
POEM: Dare I Ask?
Dare I Ask?
Dare I ask…
…when I don’t expect an answer?
But sometimes...sometimes... asking and knocking leads to unlocking
So I dare.
Here I am, Lord.
A heretical human engaged in honest prayer
Are you a divine creative essence
or are you a created being?
Are you the ageless mystery born of myth?
Or an imaginary thing?
Are you the cosmic ruler of all that is?
The heavenly parent who provides for all our needs?
Or are you an invisible collage of our developing ideals
called upon to justify our deeds?
Are you an anthropomorphic construct of philosophers and theologians?
A personification of our conscience?
Are you hero to those who suffer…
who continually wait for the deliverance that they believe you promised?
Are you the otherworldly overseer of golden streets and crystal seas
Supreme object of our eternal adoration
Exorcist of the demonic
Broker of conditional salvation
Director of otherworldly dramas
Shepherd of every bullet gone astray
Vengeful agent of bizarre justice
Puppeteer of nature’s dreadful ways
Are you the psychological patchwork
of projected prejudice and human fear?
Are you even there?
Can you even hear?
Creator, almighty and in control?
Did you make us in your image to till?
Or did we create an image of you
to fill this hole we feel?
We share a desire for security
To be certain of what it is that we can and cannot hold
Trying to make sense out of this life
Your silent shadow seems so cold
I don’t think that I can trust you
A restless soul, I walk this road
I don’t know what to believe
Suspicious of those who speak so bold
Not sure that my scattered thoughts can offer any consolation
to the faithful ones who grieve
For me, prayer feels more like a placebo
yet I pray that I am not deceived
I believe that honesty is holy
Unaware, we feel around and grope
Finding sacred meanings
in whatever helps us cope
I believe that honesty is holy
Unaware, we feel around and grope
I’m not sure that I believe in heaven
but I still believe in hope
# # #
Dare I ask…
…when I don’t expect an answer?
But sometimes...sometimes... asking and knocking leads to unlocking
So I dare.
Here I am, Lord.
A heretical human engaged in honest prayer
Are you a divine creative essence
or are you a created being?
Are you the ageless mystery born of myth?
Or an imaginary thing?
Are you the cosmic ruler of all that is?
The heavenly parent who provides for all our needs?
Or are you an invisible collage of our developing ideals
called upon to justify our deeds?
Are you an anthropomorphic construct of philosophers and theologians?
A personification of our conscience?
Are you hero to those who suffer…
who continually wait for the deliverance that they believe you promised?
Are you the otherworldly overseer of golden streets and crystal seas
Supreme object of our eternal adoration
Exorcist of the demonic
Broker of conditional salvation
Director of otherworldly dramas
Shepherd of every bullet gone astray
Vengeful agent of bizarre justice
Puppeteer of nature’s dreadful ways
Are you the psychological patchwork
of projected prejudice and human fear?
Are you even there?
Can you even hear?
Creator, almighty and in control?
Did you make us in your image to till?
Or did we create an image of you
to fill this hole we feel?
We share a desire for security
To be certain of what it is that we can and cannot hold
Trying to make sense out of this life
Your silent shadow seems so cold
I don’t think that I can trust you
A restless soul, I walk this road
I don’t know what to believe
Suspicious of those who speak so bold
Not sure that my scattered thoughts can offer any consolation
to the faithful ones who grieve
For me, prayer feels more like a placebo
yet I pray that I am not deceived
I believe that honesty is holy
Unaware, we feel around and grope
Finding sacred meanings
in whatever helps us cope
I believe that honesty is holy
Unaware, we feel around and grope
I’m not sure that I believe in heaven
but I still believe in hope
# # #
POEM: Seminary
Seminary
I was warned by those who love me
They pray for my salvation with concern
I misunderstood their apprehension
Yet hoped they’d understand my will to learn
Consumed by this passionate obsession
Suspicious of tradition’s claims
Trusting those who voice their doubts and live the questions
What force attracts me to the strange?
Convinced that vital work is taking place in these halls
Faith kept me strong when hope grew dim
I came to find ways to protect and understand
those I was taught we must condemn
Purify me from all fear and superstition!
I come only for the truth!
Reappraising the doctrines I was given
Until I find convincing proof
Would I know it when I find it?
Or is it too elusive to pin down?
Is it heresy to seek the truth…
or to deny it once it’s found?
Something compels me to keep pushing,
but is this pathway worth the risk?
Having bit the fruit there’s no return
to my previous state of bliss
Haunted by regrets, yet still believing
that life will yet unfold
ever-evolving revelation,
we investigate what is not known
I don’t pretend to read God’s mind
or detect any divine purpose or plan
And I don’t have a lot of confidence
In those that think they can
My native language now sounds foreign
Yet the strangeness seems sincere
I came searching for encounters
Believing something holy led me here
Exploring the depths of myself and others
Intrigued by undiscovered lands
But even the familiar contain mysteries
that would take lifetimes to understand
What hidden things exist beyond our knowing?
I feel like something grows within
Consumed by my restless searching
Knowing it will never end
I was warned by those who love me
They pray for my salvation with concern
I misunderstood their apprehension
Yet hoped they’d understand my will to learn
Consumed by this passionate obsession
Suspicious of tradition’s claims
Trusting those who voice their doubts and live the questions
What force attracts me to the strange?
Convinced that vital work is taking place in these halls
Faith kept me strong when hope grew dim
I came to find ways to protect and understand
those I was taught we must condemn
Purify me from all fear and superstition!
I come only for the truth!
Reappraising the doctrines I was given
Until I find convincing proof
Would I know it when I find it?
Or is it too elusive to pin down?
Is it heresy to seek the truth…
or to deny it once it’s found?
Something compels me to keep pushing,
but is this pathway worth the risk?
Having bit the fruit there’s no return
to my previous state of bliss
Haunted by regrets, yet still believing
that life will yet unfold
ever-evolving revelation,
we investigate what is not known
I don’t pretend to read God’s mind
or detect any divine purpose or plan
And I don’t have a lot of confidence
In those that think they can
My native language now sounds foreign
Yet the strangeness seems sincere
I came searching for encounters
Believing something holy led me here
Exploring the depths of myself and others
Intrigued by undiscovered lands
But even the familiar contain mysteries
that would take lifetimes to understand
What hidden things exist beyond our knowing?
I feel like something grows within
Consumed by my restless searching
Knowing it will never end
Monday, August 27, 2007
Writing our own psalms
The psalms of the Hebrew Bible are poetic expressions of faith (and lack of faith) that have comforted, encouraged and sustained billions of faith-filled people for thousands of years. They are a collection of 150 testimonies, praises, laments, odes, and poems. If anything, they are honest. That’s what I appreciate most about them. I don’t agree with many of the Hebrew psalmist’s beliefs about God (and I don’t think that I have to) but I appreciate the fact that these ancient poets were able to articulate their thoughts in such beautiful and often brutally unfiltered forms.
I often wonder what specific situations motivated the creation of these psalms. I wonder what kind of people wrote them. I wonder how they sounded when they were originally recited and sung. It’s amazing to think that these psalms (some of which were probably written in the spur of an emotional or traumatic moment) have been preserved and are still being used over two-thousand years after they were composed.
Sometimes I imagine what a collection of modern-day psalms would look and sound like. Would we include the lyrics of the Negro spirituals and the blues? Would we include copies of the jazz riffs and notes for John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme? Would we include the lyrics of gospel or contemporary Christian praise and worship songs? Would we include the lyrics of Africa’s travelling griots? Would we include the medieval hymns of Europe, the haikus of Asia, or the mystical poetry of the Arabic people? Native American chants? Would we include song lyrics and poetry from artists and 20th century prophets such as Nikki Giovanni, Maya Angelou, Bob Dylan, Billie Holliday, Nina Simone, Joan Baez, John Lennon, Curtis Mayfield, Marvin Gaye, Zach de la Rocha, Miguel Piñero, Ben Harper, Bob Marley, Gil-Scott Heron, Oscar Brown Jr., Tracy Chapman or U2?
I would be very interested to see how such a collection might serve people two-thousand years from now. Would future generations read them in ways we wouldn’t even recognize anymore? Would future faith communities strip them of all of their authenticity and sanitize them through translation, reinterpretation and litugical use?
Many faith-filled people read the biblical Psalms with the belief that reading them will draw them closer to the heart of God. But I dare to believe that we can draw even closer to “the divine” by being honest with ourselves and writing our own psalms. Here is a psalm I wrote on the back of a piece of notebook paper while I sat alone in an empty room last Friday getting ready to give a presentation for my day job. I was tired and my mind was flooded with an intense feeling of restlessness.
I am…
Wandering. Wondering. Wavering. Wrestling.
God, if you exist, do what you do.
I won’t ask you for favors on my behalf.
I won’t demand that you act.
I won’t ask you to justify my actions or to baptize my desires.
I find it difficult to ask you to forgive me.
I just know I need to be more faithful to the people around me.
I don’t pray so you will grant my wishes.
I don’t pray that you curse those who disagree with me.
I don’t pray for your presence because, if you exist, no one can escape you anyway.
I only pray for awareness and compassion.
Awareness of who I really am.
Awareness of the creatures that I’m connected to.
Awareness of the ways in which I have brought or can bring blessing or harm to others.
I often wonder what specific situations motivated the creation of these psalms. I wonder what kind of people wrote them. I wonder how they sounded when they were originally recited and sung. It’s amazing to think that these psalms (some of which were probably written in the spur of an emotional or traumatic moment) have been preserved and are still being used over two-thousand years after they were composed.
Sometimes I imagine what a collection of modern-day psalms would look and sound like. Would we include the lyrics of the Negro spirituals and the blues? Would we include copies of the jazz riffs and notes for John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme? Would we include the lyrics of gospel or contemporary Christian praise and worship songs? Would we include the lyrics of Africa’s travelling griots? Would we include the medieval hymns of Europe, the haikus of Asia, or the mystical poetry of the Arabic people? Native American chants? Would we include song lyrics and poetry from artists and 20th century prophets such as Nikki Giovanni, Maya Angelou, Bob Dylan, Billie Holliday, Nina Simone, Joan Baez, John Lennon, Curtis Mayfield, Marvin Gaye, Zach de la Rocha, Miguel Piñero, Ben Harper, Bob Marley, Gil-Scott Heron, Oscar Brown Jr., Tracy Chapman or U2?
I would be very interested to see how such a collection might serve people two-thousand years from now. Would future generations read them in ways we wouldn’t even recognize anymore? Would future faith communities strip them of all of their authenticity and sanitize them through translation, reinterpretation and litugical use?
Many faith-filled people read the biblical Psalms with the belief that reading them will draw them closer to the heart of God. But I dare to believe that we can draw even closer to “the divine” by being honest with ourselves and writing our own psalms. Here is a psalm I wrote on the back of a piece of notebook paper while I sat alone in an empty room last Friday getting ready to give a presentation for my day job. I was tired and my mind was flooded with an intense feeling of restlessness.
I am…
Wandering. Wondering. Wavering. Wrestling.
God, if you exist, do what you do.
I won’t ask you for favors on my behalf.
I won’t demand that you act.
I won’t ask you to justify my actions or to baptize my desires.
I find it difficult to ask you to forgive me.
I just know I need to be more faithful to the people around me.
I don’t pray so you will grant my wishes.
I don’t pray that you curse those who disagree with me.
I don’t pray for your presence because, if you exist, no one can escape you anyway.
I only pray for awareness and compassion.
Awareness of who I really am.
Awareness of the creatures that I’m connected to.
Awareness of the ways in which I have brought or can bring blessing or harm to others.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
POEM: "Witness"
I wrote this poem right before New Year Eve's 2007. It's one of the few poems I have written in the past few years so it contains alot of ideas that I wanted to "unpack." I've performed it a couple of times throughout my city at various coffee shops and churches. It was inspired by what I have come to see as one of the best witnesses to the world about the message of Jesus: a transformed life that is marked by compassion for those who suffer and struggle.
Behold and bear witness
to systems designed to victimize the blind.
What will it take to fix this?
Prayer, yes…
but prayer alone
is like living off air alone.
You see,
whether you’re conservative or liberal,
whether you read the Bible critical or take it literal
the hardest part is making it physical
Let the Gospel become flesh
and challenge the rulers who build their empires
with the blood of the same people they consider inferior and invisible
Pardon the interruption,
but the human heart is filled with so much corruption
we’ve got hearts of stone, even my own
I can feel that the war is on en mi corazón
Evil still sits on the throne.
No one’s good but God alone.
And that’s enough to make me suspicious.
We're like sheep sent to live with the wolves,
the vulnerable amongst the vicious
Not violent, but not silent when facing the evils of men
The dark side of imagination and free-will, the evil within
Who’s our worst enemy?
Is it really an invisible demon wearing a devilish grin,
or is it our own selfish and hard heart
willing to do whatever to win?
Look at Pharaoh
Now, who took an arrow, shot us and got us
willing to rape, kill and cheat for things we don't need
Exploiting our sisters and brothers,
selling our souls and sacrificing their lives
on the altar of greed.
Halt the stampede!
Where will this road lead?
And what kind of seed do we expect to start bloomin'
when we demonize God’s children
and treat them like they’re less than human?
When we raise our children to become mindless consumers,
mere cogs and gears, in a machine
that profits off of our insecurities, addictions and fears
Fears of each other and of the unknown
Take the cover off of this syndrome
and fight the temptation to become bitter and heartless
Lord, deliver us from the evil that haunts us
I pray that we never get too used to the darkness
or get so used to wickedness and injustice
that we eventually become their accomplice
If the Spirit of God blows where it wishes,
then I pray it breathes new life into my conscience
I'm just an artist trying my hardest
to plant my seeds of light for the harvest
Lord, make us wise as serpents,
so we can detect lies with discernment
Make us harmless as doves,
armed with Your love
On a rescue mission, fishin’ in these dark waters
on the lookout for
prodigal sons and fathers,
lost mothers and daughters
Little boys
living and dying by the weapons of violence
Little girls
believing the lie that they’re only good for their sexual talents
This world is off balance and it’s time to break silence
with a witness…that this is…
going to take a miracle
like feeding thousands
with a few loaves and fishes
when we've got people in need of housing
food, clothes and dishes
Victims with wounds so deep
that they need to be healed with more than stitches
People need hope, ya’ll…
more than four-leaf clover wishes
Because corrupt corporations and governments
aren’t run by monsters
They’re supported by everyday people, like us
just going about our everyday business
desensitized to the crimes that we witness
God forgive us,
for not asking questions
or investigating the fruits of our labor
Who does it effect?
Who does it hurt?
Who does it endanger?
God forgive us,
for being more concerned with a pay raise
and what looks good on our résumés
meanwhile we treat Your children and Your creations
like strays and throwaways
I pray for better days
Help us find a way out of this maze
where dreams can die in a child's head
because they’re malnutritious
because they’re not being fed,
hopelessness blinding their vision
where children idolize killers and criminal-minded magicians
who can take a pocket full of stones (drugs)
and turn them into bread,
then turn that bread into homes
and turn those same homes into haunted houses
where the living dead roam.
At midnight,
junkies and addicts turn into zombies and wicked witches
casting spells on themselves
and manipulating their own families to get their fixes
Imprisoned in their own personal hell,
like a prison cell
locked from the inside when the key is right in front of them
but their disease just keeps on numbing' them…
And we ask: “Jesus! What can be done for them?”
What can we do?
How can we help?
Well,
we can’t hide behind stained glass windows and white fences,
We’ve got to get in the trenches,
we can't just be critics that boo from the benches
We’ve got a choice, we can either build up walls or build bridges
Get involved or die with good intentions
Yes, we’re sinners but we don’t plan to surrender
Let’s bring the truth to the center
and tell the whole story so the people remember
A witness…that this is…not the Creator’s intent
but a witness…that this is…a call for us all to repent.
Behold and bear witness
to systems designed to victimize the blind.
What will it take to fix this?
Prayer, yes…
but prayer alone
is like living off air alone.
You see,
whether you’re conservative or liberal,
whether you read the Bible critical or take it literal
the hardest part is making it physical
Let the Gospel become flesh
and challenge the rulers who build their empires
with the blood of the same people they consider inferior and invisible
Pardon the interruption,
but the human heart is filled with so much corruption
we’ve got hearts of stone, even my own
I can feel that the war is on en mi corazón
Evil still sits on the throne.
No one’s good but God alone.
And that’s enough to make me suspicious.
We're like sheep sent to live with the wolves,
the vulnerable amongst the vicious
Not violent, but not silent when facing the evils of men
The dark side of imagination and free-will, the evil within
Who’s our worst enemy?
Is it really an invisible demon wearing a devilish grin,
or is it our own selfish and hard heart
willing to do whatever to win?
Look at Pharaoh
Now, who took an arrow, shot us and got us
willing to rape, kill and cheat for things we don't need
Exploiting our sisters and brothers,
selling our souls and sacrificing their lives
on the altar of greed.
Halt the stampede!
Where will this road lead?
And what kind of seed do we expect to start bloomin'
when we demonize God’s children
and treat them like they’re less than human?
When we raise our children to become mindless consumers,
mere cogs and gears, in a machine
that profits off of our insecurities, addictions and fears
Fears of each other and of the unknown
Take the cover off of this syndrome
and fight the temptation to become bitter and heartless
Lord, deliver us from the evil that haunts us
I pray that we never get too used to the darkness
or get so used to wickedness and injustice
that we eventually become their accomplice
If the Spirit of God blows where it wishes,
then I pray it breathes new life into my conscience
I'm just an artist trying my hardest
to plant my seeds of light for the harvest
Lord, make us wise as serpents,
so we can detect lies with discernment
Make us harmless as doves,
armed with Your love
On a rescue mission, fishin’ in these dark waters
on the lookout for
prodigal sons and fathers,
lost mothers and daughters
Little boys
living and dying by the weapons of violence
Little girls
believing the lie that they’re only good for their sexual talents
This world is off balance and it’s time to break silence
with a witness…that this is…
going to take a miracle
like feeding thousands
with a few loaves and fishes
when we've got people in need of housing
food, clothes and dishes
Victims with wounds so deep
that they need to be healed with more than stitches
People need hope, ya’ll…
more than four-leaf clover wishes
Because corrupt corporations and governments
aren’t run by monsters
They’re supported by everyday people, like us
just going about our everyday business
desensitized to the crimes that we witness
God forgive us,
for not asking questions
or investigating the fruits of our labor
Who does it effect?
Who does it hurt?
Who does it endanger?
God forgive us,
for being more concerned with a pay raise
and what looks good on our résumés
meanwhile we treat Your children and Your creations
like strays and throwaways
I pray for better days
Help us find a way out of this maze
where dreams can die in a child's head
because they’re malnutritious
because they’re not being fed,
hopelessness blinding their vision
where children idolize killers and criminal-minded magicians
who can take a pocket full of stones (drugs)
and turn them into bread,
then turn that bread into homes
and turn those same homes into haunted houses
where the living dead roam.
At midnight,
junkies and addicts turn into zombies and wicked witches
casting spells on themselves
and manipulating their own families to get their fixes
Imprisoned in their own personal hell,
like a prison cell
locked from the inside when the key is right in front of them
but their disease just keeps on numbing' them…
And we ask: “Jesus! What can be done for them?”
What can we do?
How can we help?
Well,
we can’t hide behind stained glass windows and white fences,
We’ve got to get in the trenches,
we can't just be critics that boo from the benches
We’ve got a choice, we can either build up walls or build bridges
Get involved or die with good intentions
Yes, we’re sinners but we don’t plan to surrender
Let’s bring the truth to the center
and tell the whole story so the people remember
A witness…that this is…not the Creator’s intent
but a witness…that this is…a call for us all to repent.
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