(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
My recent writing probably makes it obvious: I’m struggling with disappointment and irritability. I’ll not bore you with the many, many irritants that swirl around me. Just know they are there, and some of them are even real!
Anyway, I thought I’d better have a little chat with my boss, the library manager. When I’m struggling internally, paranoia kicks in and I falsely assume that any smart observer can see right through me. What a relief to learn that my boss completely understands–and sympathizes with–my stress. In fact, he himself had recently published a blog post specifically dealing with holiday stress. That doesn’t mean I’m free to be a Grinch. I still have to be polite to patrons and coworkers. But if I’m feeling irritated, at least I’m not afraid of a secret and powerful judge of “mere” FEELINGS.
(background image is AI-generated and submitted to Pixabay by Jeanette Atherton)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This poem is not about mountain climbing,* or litter, or relief maps. Rather, it is an indirect way of expressing the anger and disappointment that chatters persistently in my thoughts. While I do have much to be thankful for–it IS Thanksgiving morning as I write–I’m finding it hard to escape or ignore disappointments and annoyances. But let me explain the imagery in the poem….
I started climbing mountains over forty years ago. Back then, we didn’t have the Internet to help us plan routes. In the weeks before a climb, I’d take trips down to the Dallas Public Library and spend time with topo maps prepared by the U.S. Geological Survey. I’d spread several maps on the big tables, stand to the side, and view them together to familiarize myself with the general contours of the land surrounding my destination and chosen route. I’d pick out likely camping spots, based on the terrain and water supply. Then I’d mark up my own copies of the maps, circling key points, including landmarks I could use on the trail for triangulating my approximate location.
Climbing mountains was an exciting adventure. There was mystery and danger, even though I prepared in advance. When I got to the mountains–generally with two or three companions–there was also solitude. We’d find evidence of prospectors and hunters who preceded us there by many decades. But we generally had the place to ourselves. The few fellow climbers we did encounter–particularly at higher elevations–were immediately recognizable as kindred spirits. They were honest, hard-working fellow climbers.
As the years passed, the Internet, and GPS, and smart phones opened up the mountains to a whole new group of casual adventurers. When we reached the summit of mountains in latter years, it was not uncommon to encounter a gaggle of college girls in yoga gear, doing yoga poses… bless their hearts. While man–including precious young ladies–is the height of God’s creation, it was vistas of another sort I had climbed the mountain to admire.
Nowadays, the closest I get to mountain climbing is taking long hikes through neighborhoods, fording a busy stream of traffic, and cutting across the fields around White Rock Lake. Bad hearing isolates me from the few birds, but not from the ridiculous rumble and roar of traffic. A terrible floater in one eye and cataracts in both eyes have robbed me of the clear eyesight I have always treasured. Addressing these annoyances is delayed by tight finances. Maybe next year I’ll be a bionic man, but for now I am an active mind shackled in a deteriorating body.
The annoyances I complained about above may be the most manageable of all my annoyances. Last week, I wrote a short poem of complaint about the direction our country seems to be taking: “Recall the Future.” The recent presidential election was extremely disappointing.
BUT BRAD… ISN’T IT THANKSGIVING?! As I mentioned above, it is Thanksgiving morning as I write this. I feel the pressure to end this lament like most of David’s Psalms, with an answer to all my complaining. But right now, I think it’s best to acknowledge where I’m “at”. Perhaps I can consider and even take consolation from a paradox that occurred to me on one of my long walks:
To be increasingly content in this world is a virtue. To be increasingly satisfied with this world, not so.
*[To understand how mountains form the backdrop of my thinking, check out some of my other poems in the category “MOUNTAINS”.]
(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 bit of conflation, and I’m not going to apologize for that. It’s what we poets do.
[NOTE: I am truly sorry that the following will likely offend some of my friends. If it helps, let me say that this post is NOT about Democrats versus Republicans, or even about Liberals versus Conservatives. Both sides have serious problems!]
I am extremely disappointed that the United States just elected Donald Trump for a second time. The man is a narcissist, rapist,* felon, and shameless liar with fascistic tendencies. I cannot erase the picture of him twiddling his thumbs for three hours while his violent minions brutalized police and ransacked our nation’s Capitol on January 6, 2021. I cannot forget his juvenile insults of everyone who opposes him. I cannot forget how he claims that everything is rigged against him unless he prevails. I cannot forget how he denigrates immigrants (especially if they are people of color), always appealing to our latent racism. I cannot forget the number of times he has claimed that he knows more about any number of things than anyone else. I cannot forget how many cabinet members from his first administration warned us that the man does not belong in the White House. But we know better, right?!
The Poem He’s a bully, and a wannabe “strong man” like those who ruled Germany, Italy, and the Soviet Union in the 1930s. But what percentage of our population know even the basics of pre-World War II history? What percentage of our population recognize how history is repeating itself as we give up freedom and pave the way for tyranny?
I suspect many, if not most politicians DO know the relevant history. But they turn a blind eye to how history is repeating itself. It is their duty to stand up for the rule of law, to uphold the Constitution. But how can they stand up when they are spineless in their self-seeking exercise of power?
*While he was convicted of “sexual abuse,” Federal Judge Lewis Kaplan ruled that E. Jean Carroll’s rape allegation was “substantially true.”
(background image from a photo by Ron Porter on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
Isolation and alienation have probably affected my outlook on life far more than I consciously understand. Consider the following from my youth:
My first ten years, I was a gringo living in Mexico; I connected with the handful of other Anglo missionary kids far more than with the surrounding culture
When we moved to a little East Texas town, I didn’t connect with that culture either; my different life experience, religious and academic orientations were off-putting to others and a barrier to fitting in
In the advanced English course in my first semester of college, there were only three of us guys in a classroom of young ladies; that may sound wonderful for the guys, but it continued my theme of not fitting in (to this day, I find few men who appreciate poetry; even fewer who write poetry)
In the decades since, I got along fairly comfortably in white evangelical culture… until my late 50s. Beginning in 2016, and then rapidly accelerating in 2020, I began to distance myself from that culture. Now, I once again feel the isolation and alienation of my youth.
Here’s how that came about…. At the very time I began to recognize selfishness and racism in my own heart, a large majority of white evangelicals began to embrace and trumpet these sins.* When terrible events of 2020 and 2021 afforded opportunities to inspect our hearts and to repent and reform, too many doubled down instead on their love of power and privilege. Their hard hearts led them to hate good men and to love evil men. (Here’s a poignant poem I wrote at that time: “Lord’s Day Vision.”)
Am I blameless in all this? NO! I played a small part in promoting the drive for power and privilege until I saw what I had been doing. Even now, I keep having to bury my former affections, to douse the flame of former loves.
Does this poem make more sense to you now if you read it again with that background? I’d love to know! Comment below (click the poem title if you’re seeing this on email; there’s a comment form on the blog).
A related poem, especially with regard to God’s mercy in reforming us is “To A Misguided Cedar.“
__________
*I say “began to embrace and trumpet….” A better word may be “revealed.”
(background image cropped and tinted from a photograph by Peter Balog on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I don’t have the energy right now for yet another essay on the frustrations stemming from my leaky memory. But here are some bullet points. Is there a pattern?
One or another of my very good friends will occasionally astound me by quoting something I said to them twenty or thirty years ago
Of the 400+ poems that I have published on this website, I could quote only one or two from memory; generally, I forget my poems within 5 minutes of writing them
I tend to remember names of people and flowers
I tend not to learn or remember things unless I think they’re true
I remember ideas, not their specific formulation
Sometimes I’m glad that I forget things that aren’t necessarily true; I suspect some people consider anything they remember ipso facto true
How about you? I’d love to hear your bullet points!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
When I posted this on social media, more than one of my really bright Facebook friends responded with a laughter emoji. One of them even wrote, “You have a sense of humor.”
Honestly… I wasn’t feeling very humorous. My sarcasm was dark humor at best, and I was mainly feeling the darkness. It’s the darkness of a fear I’ll never find my audience in this lifetime.
Artists, including musicians, painters, and poets, are candles burning in the night. We try to shed light on beauty and truth, but feel snuffed out instead by those who are content with darkness.
I HAVE THIS COMING TO ME I confess habitual laziness of my own when it comes to art I don’t understand. For instance, I’m woefully ignorant of meaning in great paintings. But when someone explains a Caravaggio, or a Rembrandt, or a Bruegel, I listen in humble appreciation. Then I realize how much of beauty and truth I’ve been missing.
(background image is cropped from a photograph by Perlinator on Pixabay of Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
With our limitations of time, intelligence, and memory, each of us must choose carefully from the smorgasbord of information that is laid out for us daily.
I originally titled this poem “Why This Smattering?” It is a thinking out loud about my tendency to dabble idly in what’s likely too many areas of knowledge. Why do I do this? I could easily offer virtuous-sounding self-justification. But is there an unhealthy side to this?
(background image by LensPulse on Pixabay)
NOTE: While I have you here, let me invite you to check out some significant improvements on my website:
1) I created a page of my FAVORITE POEMS 2) I tagged most of the poems with themes so that you can find poems in that way
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
You might think from the odd first line that I’m experiencing synesthesia. Who LISTENS to a painting? Who can HEAR the scene it depicts? Not me. And that’s just the point!
I long to be IN the scene, for tight-in frames to fall away from a panoramic view. To hear. To feel. To be out there. To be UP there! To waken sleeping sympathies.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
For several weeks now, I have been camping out in the last several chapters of Acts and 1 Peter (before breakfast and on my lunch walk, respectively). Meanwhile, I am suffering some trials. This poem/prayer is a response to what I’m reading and thinking and living.
Here’s an exchange I had about this poem with someone I deeply respect:
Debbie Johnson: There is so much chaos, so much pain littering a landscape made for beauty & wonder.
Me: Well-put! And yet the suffering that results is—inscrutable to me—a major part of restoring that landscape.
Debbie Johnson: Yes! And as CS Lewis would add, recognizing the unsoothable ache is a reminder we were made for something beyond even our best here.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
One of the things I value about social media is that it has put me in touch with kindred spirits in far-flung places. I had a couple of them in mind as I wrote this poem. Both of them are ex-pastors who are rethinking aspects of Christianity–as am I. We don’t know each other personally and we seem to have different parameters for our respective examinations of faith. But we do share faith in a Savior who guarantees eternity and the expectation of satisfying friendships forever.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
The poem above is not an endorsement of evil. Rather, it is a pondering of what it must have been like to be Adam, to not have known anything but good. But then the serpent suggests that God is withholding something…. This is our daily experience: Satan whispering that God cannot be trusted to give us all that’s good, that our current circumstances indicate that we can’t really trust Him.
More about that…. For some time now, I have been testing this definition of faith: grateful reliance on God. It is depending on God to provide what is good for us. Conversely, a failure of faith resents that God is withholding something good from us.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
OOF. I took a long walk with a wise friend yesterday. I tried out my interpretations of the world on him. Some of them he found wanting. For his intelligent honesty and other reasons he remains a VERY GOOD FRIEND.
On the other hand…. It is sometimes essential for me to strip away the excuses and alternate explanations for what strikes me as evil. I’m a poet, after all, not an apologist or diplomat.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I often think of Stephen Crane’s poem that goes like this:
A man said to the universe: “Sir, I exist!” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation.”
A Man Said to the Universe by Stephen Crane
I have read this about Stephen Crane:
influenced by the Darwinism of the times, Crane viewed individuals as victims of purposeless forces and believed that they encountered only hostility in their relationships with other individuals, with society, with nature, and with God.
You can see that sense of hostility in Crane’s poem about a man addressing the universe. Perhaps you see it in my poem as well.
I’ll admit: I’m expressing a sense of isolation or alienation–perhaps even hostility–that I feel all too often these days. It’s akin to what Stephen Crane expressed. My sweet Christian friends will be quick to remind me of our shared faith in a loving, embracing God. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t express my occasional dark thoughts in poetry. Otherwise, how many Psalms would we have in the Old Testament?
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This poem is my sour grapes version of the philosophical thought experiment “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
Why sour grapes? Somewhere in this big world, there’s an audience for my poetry. But aside from a handful of kind family and friends, I haven’t found that audience. Moreover, my potential audience keeps getting smaller and smaller as my thinking about this world gets more and more idiosyncratic.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
For now, I’ll just copy what I wrote on Facebook:
Susan tells me she’s glad I find comfort in writing. I think it’s called lament.
I don’t know about that last line. How can death be a disease? I tossed down this whole poem almost intuitively, not thinking deeply about my word choice. When that happens, I tend to trust my subconscious. There may be more there than meets the eye.
#changeordie #resistingchange #preferringdeath
(background image by Fernando Zhiminaicela on Pixabay)
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Commentary
There’s a Price to Passion
I respond powerfully when music is performed well. God bless good musicians!
Unfortunately, my response is equally powerful when music is performed poorly.
If you don’t share this powerful response to music, you may not understand or sympathize with the following….
Sometimes when I’m at church, I find it hard to worship. My body wants to move with the music, but doesn’t feel a groove. It may be a drummer who’s drumming to the beat of a different march. Or it may be guitarists and pianists who are stepping on each other rhythmically. My voice wants to harmonize, but harmony’s made practically impossible by off-pitch musicians or bad accompaniment. It’s a real struggle then to maintain my equanimity, much less worship.
You know who I really pity? Those with perfect pitch. How miserable is their journey through life?
(background image is Rembrandt’s “Saul and David”)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This poem comes out of reading Acts 19 (the riot in Ephesus), and contemplating what 21st-century white evangelical Christians could glean from the story.
Wouldn’t it be something if the Way actually threatened OUR comforts and privilege as it did the pagans in first-century Ephesus!
Consider this last paragraph from a 2019 piece by Washington Post columnist Michael Gerson:
Many white evangelical Christians hold a faith that appeals to the comfortable rather than siding with the afflicted. They have allied themselves with bigots and nativists, risking the reputation of the gospel itself. And, in some very public ways, they are difficult to recognize as Christians at all.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
Susan sometimes urges me to be patient with people who have not evolved in their thinking over the last few years. After all, I was in my late fifties before I even started examining and adjusting some major facets of my life….
But is that fair? Have the past few years really not shown us enough selfishness, inhospitality, and bigotry in ourselves and our neighbors that DEMANDS reformation?
(Background image: the trail above Norbuck Park. I took many a contemplative walk on this trail after being introduced to it by a man who wouldn’t change his ways.)
(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.
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Commentary
My blood pressure was elevated this morning after the fitful sleep of a poet interpreting his world through metaphor. How fitting that I landed on a medical diagnosis.
THE IDEAL THAT IS SHORTCHANGED BY AUTOIMMUNE DISEASE:
So Christ himself gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the pastors and teachers, to equip his people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up until we all reach unity in the faith and in the knowledge of the Son of God and become mature, attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This poem may sound playful, but it really is a lament.
I listen to the podcasts of an Evangelical pastor who is working through his former allegiance to Evangelical beliefs and practice. He, like many of us, is distressed by the behavior of Evangelicals–make that White Evangelicals–in the past few years. Since our behavior has been so horrible, we’re forced to question our beliefs. One of his recent podcasts examined a belief that I still hold somewhat dear. Somewhat. Frankly, I am conflicted. The image of a leaky bucket came to mind as I considered my loss of confidence in this cherished belief.
I’m not going to go into details about the particular belief. Nor am I going to argue with anyone about what I perceive as horrible behavior by White Evangelicals. I’ll leave arguing for people who are good at it. The Holy Spirit is probably more convincing than I am. Right?
(background image is a mashup of the pail, by omnigrapher2016, and the stream, by lalami78, both on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This morning, after I awoke, and long before I got out of bed, I began imagining a travel guide for people visiting my island. In this guide, I would introduce travelers to three groups of people they’re likely to encounter: God-deniers, God-fearers, and God-danglers.
You’ve probably never heard of God-danglers. These people may or may not utter the curse “God dangle it!” In fact, many of them would be far too proper for something so close to profanity. The term “God-dangler” originally* referred to people who wear a chain with some form of religious pendant. And—this is important—they wear it AS a talisman. In other words, they think of God as their magic charm.
But a pendant is close to the heart, and it’s important to understand that God isn’t really close to the heart of God-danglers. That’s when it occurred to me that God-danglers sometimes dangle swords at their sides. Swords, like talismans, are something people rely on to get their way.
So there you have the complete history of the term “God-danglers.” These are people who don’t technically DENY God. They also don’t really FEAR God. Rather, they see God as someone they’d better dangle along to insure they get their way while getting’s to be got.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This is one of those poems that seemed pretty good in the morning, but not so good later in the day. Oh well. I think its goodness–if any–is felt most keenly when you’re seriously contemplating the long wait for Jesus’ return. Below is what I wrote when I had just penned the poem:
In my crawl through Acts, I got to chapter 14. Here, Luke surprised me with one of his occasional references to Jesus’ direct participation in the “Acts of the Apostles.” The fact that I registered surprise got me thinking about this long period now where we’re waiting for Jesus’ return. How are we to think of his seeming absence? I know the usual answer; is there more?
Please notice something…. I don’t usually capitalize “divine pronouns.” In this poem, it seemed useful for exploring relationships.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
These days, I’m trying to get my head around Paul’s letter to the Romans. In the process, I’m trying to figure out how seeking glory is appropriate. What is glory? And what’s it like to attain glory? Is it “merely” God’s approval? It seems that would fall short of what we think of as glory. Or would it?
I know how horrible it feels to be accused, reproved, rejected. Can I imagine the opposite? This poem explores that notion. In short, I’m wondering if perhaps we all have a deep yearning for approval, and those who seek to satisfy that yearning by obtaining God’s approval are the ones Paul speaks of as seeking glory.
Consider these three verses from Romans 2:
To those who by persistence in doing good seek glory, honor and immortality, he will give eternal life.
Romans 2:7
[there will be] glory, honor and peace for everyone who does good: first for the Jew, then for the Gentile.
Romans 2:10
No, a person is a Jew who is one inwardly; and circumcision is circumcision of the heart, by the Spirit, not by the written code. Such a person’s praise is not from other people, but from God.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I read somewhere that mental health experts have noticed a pandemic of loneliness in 2023. What happens in society happens to us. We’re not exempt. I certainly feel a sharp loneliness at times. Where does this come from? Can I fix it in my own life?
As I look around for answers, I am determined to be more strategic about friendships. There is just so much energy and time. I must work on what’s valuable, and resist what merely sucks.
(background image adapted from a photo by Peter H on Pixabay)
(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
The idea behind this poem still needs a lot of work. In the meantime, maybe it will make sense to you and even resonate….
When I was young, I sometimes dreamed of being a mountaineering guide. And I had definite ideas about how kind and understanding a guide should be to the slowest and weakest of his clients.
Just now, I had a vision (not literal, but almost so) of myself as that slowest and weakest one on the trail. Is there comfort in my perception of the Good Guide?
The trail is real, and physical, and hard. But there is a reality just out of sight, a realm of rest and realization. It parallels the trail, but is permanent, and more real than the trail. The Good Guide will transfer me to that realm at the perfect time. Not too soon, and not too late.
(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)
Commentary
Well, this is embarrassing! This is probably a lousy poem. I wrote it as flow of consciousness while studying Romans. And now, I don’t recall what I was thinking. Wow. That’s lame.
I do recognize a perennial lament of mine: that there’s always someone out there interpreting our efforts in the worst possible light.
Here, for what it’s worth, is what I wrote when I first posted the poem:
Sometime it would be nice to ask of Jesus, “Are we really friends? When you look straight through me, do you see anything of yourself?”
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
Some conversations serve as a warning: “Make sure you’re not on this path!”
This poem was inspired by a conversation I had with an elderly patron at the library where I work. Ever since that conversation, I have avoided him. Otherwise, I’d have to deflect his political jibes, misogyny, and racism. It would be terrible if other patrons thought I agree with him!
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SERMON TO SELF
This morning, I was writing a preachy little piece about how many of us think of judges only in terms of punishment, and not in terms of protection. I was exploring what this may say about us.
Then I turned from cleverness to the mirror. If I don’t grieve for the oppressed, what does that make me?
You save the humble but bring low those whose eyes are haughty.
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Commentary
I’m finally reading Anne Frank’s diary. I’m a slow reader, so Sadness will hang around the next few days. She’s not my most welcome guest, but surely as wise as they come.
Almost every time I walk with Anger, I realize that Sadness would conduct me to a better place.
Note: I should use the following image as a background, if and when I get a copy with enough resolution:
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This evening, I texted what some might consider a disturbingly simple theological question to a trusted friend. He and I have talked about the good and necessary process of questioning a lifetime of assumptions. Sometimes, when you get old, you finally have the courage and wisdom to say, “WHY did I always make this assumption?” But then you realize there’s little time to come to new and settled conclusions. That’s why I wrote this poem. It doesn’t necessarily make sense. Actually, like the Preacher concluded, it doesn’t make sense at all apart from the prospect of eternal life.
