(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
Here’s one of my weird poems, a blurting out of thoughts I don’t yet fully understand.
For what it’s worth…. I’m reading (having a fierce argument with) a book that purports to be about theologically-correct social justice. Over and over, I find myself wondering if Jesus would rebuke the author in the same way he rebuked fine-sounding Pharisees.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This poem was inspired by one of the accounts of Jesus’ interaction with his disciples after the Resurrection. Let me quote that at length:
While they were still talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.”
They were startled and frightened, thinking they saw a ghost. He said to them, “Why are you troubled, and why do doubts rise in your minds? Look at my hands and my feet. It is I myself! Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have.”
When he had said this, he showed them his hands and feet. And while they still did not believe it because of joy and amazement, he asked them, “Do you have anything here to eat?” They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate it in their presence.
Luke 24:36-43 (NIV)
I’m not going to write the book that could be written about this passage. For that, let me refer you to an excellent book I was reading when I wrote the little poem:
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This is a poem in search of a theodicy. It asks, “How is God good if only a small percentage of the men and women he created are to be saved from destruction?”
Let me put that more personally… This poem is an actual prayer. I want God, the Potter, to answer. I trust his goodness, but I wish for him to verify that his goodness is displayed even in pots being made for destruction.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
Here’s a little perspective on my rate of physical decay and spiritual growth. It was prompted by one of those slightly worried self-examinations: “Am I making any progress in becoming more like Jesus, or am I just fooling myself?” The answer–my answer, for what it’s worth–was this comforting poem.
AN EXCHANGE WITH SOMEONE VERY CLOSE TO ME HINTS AT THE CONTEXT:
THEM (regarding the poem): “Gut wrenching and amazing.”
ME: “Thanks. There’s something I really want to explore from my crawl through Acts. In giving his audience a summary of God’s dealing with Israel (Acts 13), Paul refers to Jesus’ resurrection as the fulfillment of His promise of a Son, who—unlike the first “son,” Adam—is no longer subject to decay. That, and any number of other reversals is what I look forward to in Eternity for myself and those I love.”
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
By the end of his long life as a theologian, my father had concluded–like John Stott–that the Bible teaches what’s called “conditional immortality.” The comforting implication of conditional immortality is that men and women who do not accept God’s offer of salvation may suffer briefly at the Resurrection, but will not suffer for all Eternity. If you ask me, I’ll point you to his paper on the subject. I know how committed Dad was to the authority of Scripture, and to being intellectually honest. His paper on the subject is worth considering.
What Dad could not arrive at is Universalism–the eventual salvation of ALL people. That’s a position I and more than one of my best friends wish we could honestly arrive at. It’s what one of my main heroes in the faith, George MacDonald espoused.
This poem is an actual prayer. I have learned that poems in the form of prayer are read by God, if by nobody else. He knows how I struggle with this doctrine!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I wrote this poem as I was finally reading Anne Frank’s diary. This reading coincided with a time in my life when I was–am–very deliberately re-forming my theology. I am reading Scripture with the assumption that it is authoritative, but also with the assumption that everything I have grown up thinking may be wrong. I want desperately to understand how a God who loves people infinitely more than I do, and calls me to forgive… how this God will deal with feeble, fragile men and women in Eternity.
I have friends, beautifully kind and loving friends–oh, I wish you knew them–who are committed Calvinists. I know how hard they must work at honoring God as they understand Him. I have another friend, an elderly lady, who grew up in Bible churches. She recently sent me a letter stating her deep struggle with God’s wrath, and eternal punishment. So, I don’t write this poem lightly, or judgmentally.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Stephen, full of faith, The Spirit, grace, and power, Served the Lord one glorious hour.
When Freedmen apprehended him, He spoke to them of Moses, Sent by God to set his people free.
He recounted how the Jewish slaves Rebuffed their would-be liberator, But let him lead them out, eventually.
Short-lived, this being led…. They got it in their head A cow could rescue them instead.
It’s no surprise, this people unwise Would not heed Moses when he said, “Watch for another like me to rise.”
Angry, the list’ners let rocks fly. Like risen Jesus, Stephen would die, A loud “Forgive them!” his final cry.
— Brad Hepp, 8/17/2023
Commentary
In my crawl through Acts, I just arrived in chapter seven, and pitched my tent there. This poem is an early reflection on what I’m seeing as I look around my new camping spot.
(background image is a photograph of Rembrandt’s “The Stoning of Saint Stephen.” That is one of Rembrandt’s earliest paintings.)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I feel self-centered in the tears I shed at hearing of my friend’s death. I’m sad for his wife and children. But mainly, I’m sad for myself. Marco Ciavolino was one of my greatest, most faithful encouragers for over three decades. He knew how to point out my strengths, and downplay my weaknesses.
Back in seminary, Marco was recognized by students and professors as “Mr. Creativity.” I naturally attached myself to him, and spent many a long night working with him on his creative projects. While I was the beneficiary, he would never fail to recall our collaboration as though my self-interest were some kind of faithfulness.
Over the years, I could count on him calling me within minutes of my emailing or texting him with a question. From what I hear, that’s how he was with everyone (see Marco’s obituary).
So yeah…. I’m sad at my loss.
God, make me more like him.
ALSO THIS… Today, I was thinking of a crazy invention. There’s nobody who celebrated my crazy inventions quite like Marco. I WANT Eternity. I must have Eternity. Only in Eternity does Marco laugh approvingly. Only in Eternity does Jesus celebrate His little brother.
AND THIS: SURPRISED BY PIZZA (One of my many good Marco memories) Being stupid and forgetful has its charms. For instance, there was that Saturday afternoon many years ago….
I was working in my home office when the doorbell rang. I opened the front door, and there was the Domino’s guy, already removing a large pizza from his insulated delivery bag.
“Brad Hepp?” “That’s me.” “Here’s your pizza.” “I didn’t order pizza.” “Well, somebody ordered it for Brad Hepp and they already paid.” “Okay. Thanks!”
I set the pizza on the kitchen counter, wondering how this could have happened. Did I dare take a bite? What if someone was trying to poison me?
That’s when I remembered a phone call I’d had just 30 minutes before with my buddy Marco, who lives up in Maryland. Like me, he is a webmaster. He was calling to share the great news that he had just sold a domain name for $10,000.
“Wow!” I told Marco. “Congratulations!” Then I mindlessly added, “Pizza for everyone!”
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I remember like it was yesterday (it was) when I realized that Nicodemus joined Joseph of Arimathea in removing Jesus’ body from the cross, preparing it for burial, and interring him. This historical event is referred to as “The Deposition,” and it has been the subject of significant paintings and sculptures.
Being simple-minded, I read “deposition,” and think of a legal case. This poem plays with that confusion.
GOSPEL ALLUSIONS
They replied, “Are you [i.e., Nicodemus] from Galilee too? Search and see that no prophet arises from Galilee.”
John 7:52 ESV
Nicodemus also, who earlier had come to Jesus by night, came bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about seventy-five pounds in weight.
John 19:39 ESV
CARAVAGGIO See Caravaggio’s painting Deposition, and what is written about it at this site. [TIP: when you get there, click the expand icon to see the whole image]
A PERSONAL RESPONSE I can’t read the last stanza without tearing up. WE know what would happen within 72 hours. But Nicodemus didn’t. And neither do some of our friends.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
TODAY’S LUNCHTIME THOUGHTS I have been camping out in John 18 for about a week now. This is the chapter where Jesus is arrested and Peter denies him. John switches back and forth between Jesus and Peter. One is protecting others, the other is protecting himself. As I reflect on what Jesus would have me learn from this section, I naturally think about the spheres in which I can and should look out for others: in my family, church, at work, on boards…. Am I being a good shepherd?
HOW ABOUT GOD? The poem pushes on John’s claim that Jesus loved his disciples to the end, and that he did not fail in protecting them. I’m convinced that God does not mind us asking hard questions about his goodness. To do anything less is to not take him seriously. So, is God good?
What I have written in the poem is not a full answer to that question. Hah! But it’s part of the answer. His loving purpose for us is not accomplished in 70 years, or even 100.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I’m nearing the end of Michael Reeves’ “Delighting in the Trinity.” In the section I read this morning, he was trying to convince me that God’s love is not at odds with His wrath. I think Reeves might even say that God’s love and wrath are inseparable. I’ll have to keep thinking about this one, mainly by testing words in poetry.
To be honest, this is the sort of poem I might have written when I was young and thoughtless. The truth is that God’s wrath is something I don’t really understand. I think I understand his love, but not his wrath.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.
John 11:5-6 ESV
This morning, my crawl through John got me to chapter eleven. If it has been a while since you read that chapter, I urge you to read it now. You’ll realize that Jesus was about 20 miles (a good day’s walk) from Lazarus, and his sisters. That raises the question: why did Jesus stay where he was after being told that Lazarus was sick? John’s word choice is curious. He writes, “So he stayed two days longer.” You or I might have written “But he stayed two days longer.”
What I’m beginning to explore in this poem is the relationship between Jesus’ love for Lazarus and his staying away when he was summoned by Lazarus’ sisters. The question is an old one: “How does a loving God let his creation suffer?”
You’ll see that most of my poem is pure speculation, call it sanctified imagination. What was Lazarus experiencing as he neared death? What was actually happening?
I think I know where part two will land: On the shore of glory and love (then we’ll understand)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above
Commentary
Here’s how I posted this on Facebook:
WITH SINCERE APOLOGIES TO ALL This opaque poem is an attempt to capture how many of us—maybe all of us—think of the fleeting now as all that matters.
In my crawl through John, I’m repeatedly impressed that Jesus is more interested in his listeners’ eternal life than they are.
The preacher said that God sets eternity in our hearts (Ecclesiastes 3:11). More often than not, we chase it out.
PERHAPS APOLOGIES WERE NOT REQUIRED I’ll probably never understand how others respond to poetry. There are poems I think are really good, but I know in advance that nobody else will respond to them–and I don’t blame them! I also publish poems that I’m not especially proud of, and they get a lot of positive response. I couldn’t tell with this poem. It seemed rather opaque (thus the apology). But I was honoring my intuition about repetition and line breaks. Here’s an example of the latter: “By drop of rain” was originally a continuation of the preceding line. So it was “We stare, transfixed by drop of rain.” Then, I thought, “Creating a new line elevates what’s on that line.” And I wanted to elevate the disconnect between the transience of the thing–“drop of rain” and “momentarily” on the one hand–and our response to it–“celebrate” and “Momentous” on the other hand. If my intuition about line breaks is right, then others WILL respond positively, whether or not they stop to identify what’s happening.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above
Commentary
These days, whenever there’s a mass shooting, one of the more poignant things afterwards is hearing what the shooter’s parents or siblings have to say. Imagine being Judas Iscariot’s father. John gives us his name. It was Simon Iscariot. Why do we know that name? Did Simon end up following Jesus? I hope so!
Here’s the passage that prompted my flight of imagination (the poem), with a little of its context:
Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.” Jesus answered them, “Did I not choose you, the twelve? And yet one of you is a devil.” He spoke of Judas the son of Simon Iscariot, for he, one of the twelve, was going to betray him.
John 6:68-71 ESV
A friend of mine wrote this:
In Mark 3, when Jesus chooses the 12, it casually mentions that Judas would betray him. I always thought that was just a throw-in, some foreboding music to alert us about coming plot twists. But then it hit me: What if Jesus chose Judas BECAUSE he was going to betray Him? And what if he put Judas in charge of the money bag in order to keep him around, since he planned to use him as an important part of orchestrating His own death?
Bruce Beaty
“We’re on the same page,” I said, “Jesus was orchestrating events, not just responding to them. It’s amazing.”
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
As I try to get caught up with posting poems here on my blog, I’m encountering some poems written so long ago that I don’t recall what I was thinking! I do remember that this poem was an emotional response to Luke 7. One of the questions that’s often on my mind when I read the Gospels is “What did Jesus and his listeners think that salvation means?” Of course we can read the accounts with the benefit of systematic theology, but I’m uneasy about that process. A theological grid can obscure as much as it reveals.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
My commentary here is in two parts.
My Original Confusion (what I was thinking when I wrote the poem) In Luke 12, the tone of Jesus’ parables switches from reassuring to threatening. Just as the tone changes, Luke throws in a question from Peter:
Peter said, “Lord, are you telling this parable for us or for all?”
Luke 12:41
This is one of those seeming non-sequiturs that makes me sit up and ask, “What’s going on here!?” Luke doesn’t give us Jesus’ answer. Or does he? I don’t know yet. But I know that the passage makes me uncomfortable. Perhaps that’s exactly as it should be.
On Further Reflection (what I wrote on a subsequent day) You know, as I read through Luke 12 again this morning, I am getting a really different picture. How does Jesus describe the master (Himself) who returns at an unexpected hour and finds his servants being good to one another?
Blessed are those servants whom the master finds awake when he comes. Truly, I say to you, he will dress himself for service and have them recline at table, and he will come and serve them.
Luke 12:37 ESV
The picture is grim not for those good, Christ-like servants but for those who selfishly look out only for themselves.
Jesus doesn’t ask us to do anything more than He has done… or anything less.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
Inflection points in life can be very good… or very bad. I experienced a major inflection point back in 2017, when I became my own boss. The years since then have been years of remarkable spiritual growth. My new freedom afforded ample time for frequent long walks where I listened through the Bible repeatedly, along with other inspiring literature. I spent more time with people who influence me for good. My eyes were opened to beauty I had never noticed in the world around me. I began writing poetry, which means that I began listening more closely to my heart. I watched my responses to fellow human beings, and noticed some deep-seated problems in myself. God has been fixing those problems, changing my heart. So the inflection point in 2017 was very good.
Right now, I seem to be at another major inflection point in life. Once again, it has to do with a career change. As I move through the coming five years, will I continue growing more like Jesus? If so, it will have been a very good inflection point. If not, it will have been very bad.
(background adapted from an image by “domeckopol” on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
In my crawl through Luke, I have spent several days in chapter 22. It may just be my imagination, but it seems like Luke WANTS us to slow down here, like he has put a video in slow motion.
Verse 7 caught my attention, as though it were a title page in Luke’s video: “Then came the day of unleavened bread, on which the passover had to be sacrificed.” Since I have been watching for thoughts shared by Dr. Luke and his companion the Apostle Paul, I asked myself, “Is Luke consciously comparing Jesus to the sacrificial lamb of Passover?” I knew Paul does that.
I looked up the occurrences of “sacrifice” (θυω, thuo), that Luke used in verse 6. That led me to a passage in 1 Corinthians 5 where Paul is urging his readers to guard their moral purity:
Cleanse out the old leaven that you may be a new lump, as you really are unleavened. For Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed. Let us therefore celebrate the festival, not with the old leaven, the leaven of malice and evil, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.
1 Corinthians 5:7-8 ESV
Two things jumped out at me in the 1 Corinthians passage:
1) Luke’s friend Paul certainly thought of Jesus as the sacrificed Passover Lamb (I know that’s not news to most of my readers), and
2) There is a sense in which we are still celebrating the festival of Passover that Jesus and His disciples celebrated just before His death (“let us therefore celebrate”). That’s what prompted my poem.
So, I slow down in Luke 22. The story is still happening, monthly, weekly, daily. As long as it takes.
NOTE: I’m aware that the second-to-last line mixes pronoun case: “Him” and “they” can’t both be right here. So, do I fix it? For now I’ll let it go. Maybe there’s something to be gained by considering which case was correct!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary)(background photo adapted from one by “ilamag” on Pixabay)
Commentary
When I try to shock myself and others out of our complacency, I usually discover that we’re well insulated.
I get the impression that the Gospel author Luke wanted to shock his readers. In story after story, he illustrates Jesus’ absolute demands on his disciples… and the disciples’ absolute compliance. The central passage may be this one:
So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.
Luke 14:33
In Luke’s account of how the disciples followed Jesus, we see that renouncing of everything. For instance, when Jesus calls Simon, James and John away from their career as fishermen, here’s how they respond
And when they had brought their boats to land, they left everything and followed him.
Luke 5:11
“Everything” — that’s more than I have renounced. And that makes me uncomfortable. What also makes me uncomfortable is how quickly my mind tries to supply excuses. You know, stuff like decorum, not being a burden on others, being “wise.”
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary)Background picture by Andy Sa on Pixabay
Commentary
Having attended a funeral yesterday, listening to Barber’s “Adagio For Strings,” and reading a sweet post about a charming lady… That’s where I was when these two words struck a melancholy chord. Some things demand eternity. Actually, many things demand eternity, especially men, women, boys and girls made in the image of God.
This poem is about the “end” or purpose of life, and whether or not we can achieve that purpose when our numbered days are few.
We are not Jesus Christ. But God invites us to identify with Him very, very deeply. I suppose He’s pleased for us to compare ourselves with Jesus when pondering the very little time that remains to any of us.
Jesus began His public ministry around age 30, and lived another 3 or so years. So, he began his public ministry ten-elevenths through his earthly life. Imagine all the ways Jesus could have faithfully reflected God the Father, all the healing, preaching, and loving he could have done with a few more years! But I have to assume that three was enough.
How About Me? The amount of character development and spiritual growth that I have experienced over the last three years astounds me. That’s not bragging. In fact, it seems more a sad admission of how many decades I have wasted than anything else! This development leaves me suspecting–or hoping–that God has something surprising for me to do with the time that remains in my life. How could that be? How could anything a 61-year old man (62 this summer) do that matters in Eternity?
I don’t know. He loves me deeply. He wants the best for me. As old as I am, He’s still my older brother. He says that in one of my favorite passages:
For it was fitting that he, for whom and by whom all things exist, in bringing many sons to glory, should make the founder of their salvation perfect through suffering. For he who sanctifies and those who are sanctified all have one source. That is why he is not ashamed to call them brothers, saying, “I will tell of your name to my brothers; in the midst of the congregation I will sing your praise.
Hebrews 2:10-12
The Background Photo For several years now, my most profound thinking has happened while I was on long hikes, largely near or around White Rock Lake. The other day, I was thinking about what I have written in the poem just as my hike reached the area pictured in the background photo. I took the photo initially thinking of using it to say this:
Here’s the path That I in former days, On longer walks, Often saw And wondered ’bout.
It’s more familiar now Than what I knew When time and strength Had bound me To my former ways.
But then I wrote a better(?) poem about “The End of Life,” and needed a background photo!
I’m not going to beat up on a certain tourist attraction here in Dallas. My wife walks there most mornings. But when I join her there, I do sometimes wonder, “Where are the mosquitoes?” “Where are the bees, and the butterflies?” And, “How much pesticide are we breathing in here?”
Oh, the flowers there are gorgeous, all sterile in their fruitless prime. They’re a sea of brilliant colors. None of them is disfigured by caterpillars. None of them is dying off or producing those awful, unsightly things called seeds.
The place is designed to attract tourists, after all. Not pollinators.
This applies to more than plants…
Healthy, life-giving interactions occur when we care more about honoring God-given processes than we do about the honor of managed appearances. That’s dense, I know; think about it….
What’s true in cultivating gardens is also true in cultivating friendships. Be honest with flowers and with friends.
The Title Okay, okay…. I know that “may” should probably be “can.” But that wouldn’t rhyme with “say,” would it?! The title is a reminder that we should make the most of the relationships God gives us in this lifetime.
“Dispatch” Dad was a theologian, writer, and editor. During much of his life, he wrote Bible study courses that were used by people for whom English is a second language. So, he was keenly aware that he needed to practice what he preached as an editor: “Don’t use big words when little words will do.”
This morning, for some reason, this random memory popped in my head. When speaking of killing insects, Dad always used the big word “dispatch” when he could have used the little word “kill.” Why did he do that? I assumed it was a bit of humor. But I never asked him. In itself, this is not an important question. But my failure to ask him points to something that is important….
Uncharted Memories Lately, I have been working through painful memories throughout my life, but especially from the formative childhood years. I’m realizing that my parents tended to not discuss the emotional impact of tragic events. I’m told that wasn’t unusual for people of their generation. But it bled over to me in the way that I interact with loved ones to this very day. Often, I’m not curious — or don’t act on what curiosity I do have — about others’ emotional state. There’s much that I miss of all I could love, lament, or celebrate.
The photo in the background of this poem is of two stages in the full life of a thistle. On the right is the bloom that people admire. On the left is something less admired… what the same bloom will look like when it has gone to seed, and the wind begins tearing it apart.
This full life cycle is something I have been observing on my long walks. One late-summer day, I was lamenting that there were no more flowers to photograph. Then, I began looking more closely at the seeds that those flowers had produced. Their shapes, textures, even colors are every bit as fascinating as — and far more promising than — the blooms that preceded. Nowadays, while I enjoy walking with my wife at the Botanical Gardens, there’s something sad there about not seeing this great achievement of flowers: their seed.
Flourishing This poem arises from something I have been considering lately: the nature of flourishing. What does it mean to thrive, to prosper, to flourish? Here’s one hypothesis…. Flourishing is wrongly viewed as a short-term concentration of obvious vitality: the plant in bloom, never gone to seed; a dash, not the trek of a million miles; something exhausted in 80 years… or even less, in a life ‘cut short.’
I recently watched a conversation between Miroslav Volf and David Brooks. A friend had referred me to Volf’s “Joy and Human Flourishing,” in response to my question, “Who does a good job of tracing the concept of ‘flourishing’ through the Bible?” If I understood Brooks correctly, he objected that Volf needs to better account for suffering as a possible component of flourishing. That objection resonates with me.
In the Genesis 1 account, the first organisms are created on day three. Notice the prominence of “seed” in their description:
And God said, ‘Let the earth sprout vegetation, plants yielding seed, and fruit trees bearing fruit in which is their seed, each according to its kind, on the earth.’ And it was so.
Genesis 1:11
We tend to be so fixated on the blossom that we ignore what comes as a result: seed. But it was in reference to “plants yielding seed” that “God saw that it was good.” Who can seriously say that the thistle, gone to seed, then torn and scattered by the wind is not flourishing?
What’s Next? Where I seem to be going with this line of thought is that true flourishing requires eternity.
This poem is a companion to one I wrote almost a month ago. It arises from a growing recognition of what it means to continue serving in a ministry when a close partner in ministry has left. What’s true in this case is probably true whereverclose friends work together on something difficult and then one of them leaves. Picture soldiers in war, or parents in the child-rearing years. Even triumphs that follow that separation can feel hollow.
TWO INTERPRETATIONS From the introductory paragraph, and from the way that I recorded the poem, it should be clear that “as if” introduces a comparison to a death that has not actually occured. It just feels like death. Going separate ways feels especially like death when the friendship is deeply valued. I’d guess most of us experience only a handful of such friendships in our lifetimes.
But the simile gains its power from something we all experience: the loss of friends and families through actual death. So, if it helps you draw out an emotion, read the poem in that second way. Turn it on its head. Let the “as if” introduce a comparison of actual death to abandonment. When a loved one dies, do they leave us alone? It’s as if they do! They’re gone for now. We need to acknowledge that emotion, to be honest about it, even if we live in hope of the Resurrection. One comfort of that hope is this: if stories of what we experience while separated by death are worth remembering and relating, I imagine we’ll be able to share those stories hundreds — or billions — of years from now.
AN EXAMPLE OF THE SECOND INTERPRETATION Over the last two years, I have grown in the direction of kindness, something I pray for almost daily. God is using current events to soften my unkind heart. I have come to care for things that I didn’t care for in years past, and to not care for things that I cared for too much in years past. In this process, I often wonder how my father would have responded to the same current events. Would he have grown bitter, as I see some growing? He was making progress — looking more like Jesus — right up to his death in late 2016. Had he still been living, would we have seen together what I now see alone? I imagine so. But because he and I share another Friend, and because that Friend secures our eternal life, we may some day look back together on what we now see apart. Oh, the stories that — reunited — we’ll share!
THANKFUL FOR LEWIS (AND MACDONALD) One of the things C.S. Lewis does particularly well is to put things in perspective. As I write this reflection, I cannot name a particular text, but if you’ve read Lewis or his hero, MacDonald, you know that’s where I’ve been.
This poem is a bit of (hopefully) sanctified imagination. Please don’t take it as a theological statement! However, if it fires up some thoughts you’d like to discuss, let’s do so… either privately via my contact form, or more publicly, with the comments form below.
I jotted this down yesterday morning after a sleepless night, one where an admittedly minor ailment was reminding me of what took the lives of my parents. I’d have posted it yesterday, but ran out of time. Now, as I post this, it is Easter.
If you see ambivalence, mixed with annoyance, mixed with underlying hope, you see well. Hopefully, my reading of the poem (above) will reveal the negative side of my feelings.
The background photo is one I took up in the mountains last year on a similar morning, after a similar night.
Here is an exchange I had with a concerned friend, when he asked about the ailment. After describing the ailment, I wrote:
So, the poem was written out of fear and mild exhaustion, but with the realization that I was not acting in the full hope that often moves me. It’s full of double meaning.
Darol responded:
Yes, the middle of the night amplifies our fears and disappointments. I tell myself that the daylight will scatter them, and that they will end forever in that eternal morning.
Last Fall was a revelation. I thought, like a friend had said, that I had “…about covered it all.” I had been taking photographs of wild flowers around the lake for several months. Now, everything was beginning to die, to dry up and shrivel. What was left to photograph? Then I looked deeper. I decided to focus on what was becoming of the flowers I had photographed. That’s when I came to the realization voiced in the poem above.
Yesterday, I observed a photo someone recently posted for their parent, and a subsequent video. The aging that happened between the photo and the video was marked. Then I looked in the mirror, and the opening lines of this poem popped into my mind!
This scene, and the words I attached to it, is extremely moving to me. I guess that by my age, there is a lifetime of grief that will not go away in the short term. As a friend wrote, there are “So many missing springs.” Indeed. I can never see the daffodils, wild violets, and other spring flowers without thinking of my Mom. Ever since 2006, they have bloomed without her.
The scene is what I saw when I crossed the bridge where Rush Creek enters White Rock Lake. A few weeks before, I had taken the following photo, which I then captioned “Grow Old Along With Me” (an allusion to Dad’s favorite poem, Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning:
I’ll be hard-pressed to fully explain this one, but let me try by recounting the occasion:
I had been praying for a friend’s father for about a year. He was a brilliant man whose mind and health were failing. My repeated prayer was that God would give him enough clarity of mind and grace to respond in faith to the Savior — if he had not already done so (my friend wasn’t sure). He was on my list of “People I Want to See in Heaven!” God knew all about it.
On Saturday morning, after months in hospice, the father passed away a little before noon. My wife and I heard the sad news shortly after.
A couple of hours later, I was taking my afternoon nap. To help me sleep, I placed a piece of dark, heavy clothing over my face. As I lay there in that artificial darkness, it was as though the sun had gone down. I thought of my friend, and I began to sob. Some of this was fresh grief for my friend. Some was the mounting grief of a lifetime of deaths. I’ve been here before — three years ago, when my own father died.
I thought of how convenient it was that I could press the artificial darkness to my face and express my feelings without alarming my family. How I’d like to stay there, not remove the darkening cloth — now wet — from my face. But this day had many more hours to go.
Yet to Explore
How does the sun relate to the father? How does that sun both create and respond to the reality of “newborn day”? I have been thinking lately about Romans 8, where creation is depicted as groaning as it awaits freedom from corruption at the “the revealing of the sons of God.” That figures in to my inchoate thoughts. Here’s one of those embarrassing things about poetry: I don’t yet know the meaning of my own words, but firmly believe there IS meaning.
He filled his pack with bubble wrap
And set off on the trail.
Thus equipped, the carefree sap
Was sure he could not fail.
So light his step,
Straight his back,
His shoulders fresh and strong…
Up steepest trail he fairly floated
Warbling his song:
“For times like these I was set free,
So tell me not that I must care
For all your drudgery.
La di da, twiddle dee!
Like all the birds that sing above
For this I was set free!”
Just as the sun
Behind the mountain
Took her cooling plunge,
Approaching alpine glade he sang, “So high and far I’ve come;
Dee dum, dee dum, dee dum!”
Feasting eyes on matted grass
The clever lad observed,
“Here the elk bed down to sleep,
And therefore, so shall I.”
Lying there, in bubbles wrapped,
The lad soon fell asleep.
But wasn’t long into the night
That hunger pains began to gnaw,
Bitter cold to creep.
He reached into his empty pack
In search of something, any? thing?
Of all he did not bring
To serve as food and warmth.
Somewhere
In that frigid night
His soul above him floated,
Warbling her song:
“For times like these I was set free
So tell me not that I must care
For all your drudgery.
La di da, twiddle dee!
Like all the birds that sing above
For this I was set free!”
Then, looking down from whence she’d come, “Die dumb, die dumb, die dumb!
On matted grass, eternal bed,
La he died — twiddle dead.”
– Brad Hepp (2019)
This silly poem was inspired by Psalm 16:2: “I say to the LORD, ‘You are my LORD; I have no good apart from you.'” How much of my day is spent pursuing “good” apart from the Lord, doing things that seem pleasant, but which He has not given me to do? Such folly invites the fate of a mountain climber who chooses to pack only what lightens his load.
As much as he’d probably prefer to deny it, Don Regier helped me with a few of the lines.
This is a sad time for many I love. The pain is shared and felt deeply, but need not be without purpose.
The poem was a response to what I observed in myself as I contemplated the tragic drowning of a friend’s 4-year-old son. For over a week, I — along with thousands across the globe — was praying for this child to recover. When God did not grant our prayer, I didn’t know quite what to do with my own response. To act as if I didn’t have disappointment was surely not healthy. Elephants in the rooms I share with ever-present God are silly creatures. Some response — if merely a poem of lament — was necessary.
