Momma I've got two strong hands.
And they're fine as far as hands go.
I can shoulder the future I can face the wind
For the dream that I must follow.
It's a dream that can kill with its beauty,
It's a hurt that can heal with its pain,
And with all of these miles that lie before me
I may never get home again.
-- I'll carry on, song by Rich Mullins
In the Spring of 2002, I remember walking through the campus of the University of North Carolina, at Chapel Hill with my older sister. I was 10-years-old, and preparing to move, with my parents and one of my brothers, to Paris, France. While the move sounded exciting and exotic to many I knew, it sounded more like a punishment to me. I'd lived in North Carolina for half of my life, and as far as I was concerned, I could've spent the rest of it there without issue.
My sister herself had experienced a difficult move at a young age, and while sympathizing with me, tried to convince me to see the ordeal in another light. She reminded me of J. R. R. Tolkien's The Hobbit, of how little Bilbo Baggins was the unwilling subject of an adventure which has chosen him, an adventure for which he had no intention of leaving his comfortable little hobbit hole for. She called me Esbo. More than a couple times, that first year, I wished for my prospective nice hole by the fire and kettle just beginning to sing.
And France was an adventure, and I returned not the same hobbit I had been before. Reverse culture shock was terrible, of course, but even recovering from that, gradually, I discovered a new restlessness that I had not known before. Over the past five years, my dreams have alternated between a number of final destinations far from the Shire (which, conveniently, is now a nickname for my family's homestead). I've dreamed of Europe, and I'm now I'm set on Africa, but Asia was never on the agenda.
True to form, though, after coming back to the Shire not the same hobbit as before, I cannot I stay. I'm setting off again, less discretely than my literary predecessor, at the end of the month. Like any true adventure, Asia chose me, I did not choose it. I chose to help my family, and my oldest brother and his family felt called to the continent. I'm not kicking and screaming now. Now I pack my own bags.
But my attitude towards the change is not the only difference. While I am going with some of family, I am not going with the same company as before. My parents have settled down. I am old enough, now, for my adventures to be my own. I've lived away from home, but I could always visit for the weekends, and I've never had a Christmas without them. My mother is a strong woman, and she has taught me how to work, and how to take care of myself, and now I put it into practice. I don't know if I will be homesick, after so much upheaval throughout my life, it's a strange concept to even have a home to be sick for. But I do have a home. My home is my family.
So I watch autumn creep up on North Carolina. I feed the animals, build fires, and prepare for the winder I will never see. For the past five years my family has been spoiled, it seems, all living within driving distance of eachother. Soon we will be as far away as we can. I'm old enough to take myself, without my parents, but should I be taking care of them?
Sunday Sonnet XXVI
Fall gently greets September rain against
Slate-covered roofs. The promise of a winter
Beacons subtly, repeats, relents.
If leaves don’t fall, the very bark will splinter.
I will not see the snow arrive until
I view the other faces of this world.
And Momma, I’ve got two strong hands that will
Sustain me still where fate has hurled.
I won’t forget this last hiver that I
Missed in my time away. But you have kept
Me safe thus far, so seasons worth a try.
And tired winds may rest where once I slept.
So as the tree must watch her leaves depart
Thus exodus is not the end or start.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
I should be glad of another death.
Signs are taken for wonders. “We would see a sign!”
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger
In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;
By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fräulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door.
- From Geronition, by T. S. Eliot
A few weeks ago, I accompanied my mother and sister-in-law to the Womens Bible Study at our Church. Though I had not done the homework, my mother has the entire Bible recorded on her iPhone, and I listened to the birth narratives in Matthew and Luke on our 45-minute drive to church.
I have read them many times before. I have heard sermons preached on the tired passages, and a hundred movies and Christmas plays. I used to play with the plastic nativity set my parents bought specifically to be used by the children. Growing up with an advent birthday, these stories were nothing new.
Traditionally we celebrate the birth of Christ in December. I have heard arguments for a Christmas in July. For whatever reason, the women's bible study decided to discuss it here, in the fall. In the hot, North Carolina September, when all my friends are off at their respective universities, I am to turn my mind eastward to the most dysfunctional family. To two fathers with a mother who never knew either, and the smelly audience of strangers.
"Do you think the baby, nursing at His mothers breast knew that He was God?" We were asked. It's a part of the story I am unaccustomed to considering. But in a room full of mothers, the question was pertinent.
"Did Jesus, as a baby, continue crying when His mother shushed Him?" My own mother, to whom disobedience is undoubtable a sin, needed to know. Despite experiencing my nephews Christmas birth two years ago, such questions had never carried particular importance to me.
If that kind of disobedience is (as my mother so adamantly holds) a sin, should we not, as parents, think very carefuly about the commands we give to our young ones? Is not giving constant orders to children who barely have self-awareness, who could barely know if they were the God of the universe, spurring them into sin?
I suppose as someone who requires so much forgiveness myself, I've been over concerned about condemning others. I've long regarded Saint Peter's keys to the kingdom ("I will give you mthe keys of the kingdom of heaven, and nwhatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.") as an exciting opportunity to leave a great deal unbound on earth, and, therefore, in Heaven.
To me though, I have always viewed Jesus, as man and child, as Love incarnate. Something important happened when Christ was baptized, to be sure, (He was given the Holy Spirit, whatever that means) but I must believe that the Father spoke to Him before this.
Many women brought up the Anne Rice novel that I have not read, in which the Boychild slowly realized His divinity. But I cannot see it that way. To me it is always God. God Himself, lowly and vulnerable. In need to warm blankets, and a mothers milk, and the muscle memory to form words, and friendship. But of course, as my pastors wife reminded us, in this discussion, we are always on the fringe of heresy.
In the end, though, the conversation dropped back to the horror of the entire situation. Most women in the room knew the terror of labor, but it was more than that. Following His birth, they fled to Egypt. Saint Mary seemingly did not tell Saint Luke much about that trip, only that it happened. What went on in those years in a foreign land? And Saint Joseph labored for the rest of his life for a wife who, according to Catholic theology, he was to take care of without ever taking. Sure, there were angels to instruct them, from time to time, but in the end, if that child had not been Love, could they have sacrificed themselves so completely for Him?
The tune of the conversation turned my mind towards T. S. Eliot's Journey of the Magi . Which you can hear him read here.
And here were my reflections, shamelessly stole from Mr. Eliot, as usual.
Sunday Sonnet XXV
A hard and bitter coming they all had of it:
The evidence of birth, and yet the death.
The baby made adults seem counterfeit
As deity and mortal shared each breath.
And Joseph’s wife, whom he could never touch
Could not refrain from calling herself blessed
Through Egypt’s desert days, and swords, and such
As even thinking, mothers are distressed.
The word within a word Who could not speak
Let angels help the man who was not Dad.
Let angels speak the bitter for the meek
And mild Who took the peace they never had.
And yet we read their tales with jealous eyes
Though blessing breeds her trails in disguise.
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger
In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;
By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fräulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door.
- From Geronition, by T. S. Eliot
A few weeks ago, I accompanied my mother and sister-in-law to the Womens Bible Study at our Church. Though I had not done the homework, my mother has the entire Bible recorded on her iPhone, and I listened to the birth narratives in Matthew and Luke on our 45-minute drive to church.
I have read them many times before. I have heard sermons preached on the tired passages, and a hundred movies and Christmas plays. I used to play with the plastic nativity set my parents bought specifically to be used by the children. Growing up with an advent birthday, these stories were nothing new.
Traditionally we celebrate the birth of Christ in December. I have heard arguments for a Christmas in July. For whatever reason, the women's bible study decided to discuss it here, in the fall. In the hot, North Carolina September, when all my friends are off at their respective universities, I am to turn my mind eastward to the most dysfunctional family. To two fathers with a mother who never knew either, and the smelly audience of strangers.
"Do you think the baby, nursing at His mothers breast knew that He was God?" We were asked. It's a part of the story I am unaccustomed to considering. But in a room full of mothers, the question was pertinent.
"Did Jesus, as a baby, continue crying when His mother shushed Him?" My own mother, to whom disobedience is undoubtable a sin, needed to know. Despite experiencing my nephews Christmas birth two years ago, such questions had never carried particular importance to me.
If that kind of disobedience is (as my mother so adamantly holds) a sin, should we not, as parents, think very carefuly about the commands we give to our young ones? Is not giving constant orders to children who barely have self-awareness, who could barely know if they were the God of the universe, spurring them into sin?
I suppose as someone who requires so much forgiveness myself, I've been over concerned about condemning others. I've long regarded Saint Peter's keys to the kingdom ("I will give you mthe keys of the kingdom of heaven, and nwhatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.") as an exciting opportunity to leave a great deal unbound on earth, and, therefore, in Heaven.
To me though, I have always viewed Jesus, as man and child, as Love incarnate. Something important happened when Christ was baptized, to be sure, (He was given the Holy Spirit, whatever that means) but I must believe that the Father spoke to Him before this.
Many women brought up the Anne Rice novel that I have not read, in which the Boychild slowly realized His divinity. But I cannot see it that way. To me it is always God. God Himself, lowly and vulnerable. In need to warm blankets, and a mothers milk, and the muscle memory to form words, and friendship. But of course, as my pastors wife reminded us, in this discussion, we are always on the fringe of heresy.
In the end, though, the conversation dropped back to the horror of the entire situation. Most women in the room knew the terror of labor, but it was more than that. Following His birth, they fled to Egypt. Saint Mary seemingly did not tell Saint Luke much about that trip, only that it happened. What went on in those years in a foreign land? And Saint Joseph labored for the rest of his life for a wife who, according to Catholic theology, he was to take care of without ever taking. Sure, there were angels to instruct them, from time to time, but in the end, if that child had not been Love, could they have sacrificed themselves so completely for Him?
The tune of the conversation turned my mind towards T. S. Eliot's Journey of the Magi . Which you can hear him read here.
And here were my reflections, shamelessly stole from Mr. Eliot, as usual.
Sunday Sonnet XXV
A hard and bitter coming they all had of it:
The evidence of birth, and yet the death.
The baby made adults seem counterfeit
As deity and mortal shared each breath.
And Joseph’s wife, whom he could never touch
Could not refrain from calling herself blessed
Through Egypt’s desert days, and swords, and such
As even thinking, mothers are distressed.
The word within a word Who could not speak
Let angels help the man who was not Dad.
Let angels speak the bitter for the meek
And mild Who took the peace they never had.
And yet we read their tales with jealous eyes
Though blessing breeds her trails in disguise.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
There be dirt
When I was meandering my way through Orson Scott Card's 'Ender' series, I was warned beforehand that 'Xenocide' was really no good, compared to the others. I should read it, I heard, to continue the story, but should not expect the qualities I had loved in the first two books.
But stumbling my way through the book, little bits and pieces and concepts would stick in my head. One thing, amidst my self-disgust and trouble with forgiveness was the trials of the godspoken. When the concept of the godspoken (which turns out to be a human-created strain of OCD, neutralizing the point that could have been made) was first introduced, the reader was told that "the first message of the Gods was the unspeakable filthiness of the one they spoke to."
The sentence paints a harsher picture than I would have painted with the concept, but the concept itself is the same. We are unwell, we are filthy. We are aware of it because we understand that there is such a thing as well, as clean. Those who hear the voices of the gods would know.
Reading over my high school year book earlier this week, people flattered me with assertions of my free spirit, or of the beauty I see in everything. But if I am free, it is only because I first realized I was a slave. If I see beauty in anything, it is only because I have dug my way through the atrocity that is on the surface.
I still have problems forgiveness. There is a paradox in that we recognize horror only in contrast beauty, and our beauty only through coming to terms with our filth. In the same book Card described "the decency to be appalled by my own brutality." We are not beasts, we are self aware enough to be ashamed. Our shame is not a result of punishment. Our shame is a result of goodness.
All this in mind, last week my sonnet, number XXIV, was on the terrible frustration of both the desire to be pure, and the inability.
Sunday Sonnet XXIV
Because my hands aren’t clean I cannot touch
The broken body of True Purity.
Because my hands aren’t clean I want this much
The body broken for scum such as me.
Because a beauty beats amidst this bone
I will not end this battle with defeat.
Because a beauty beats but isn’t shown
The twisted glory makes darkness complete.
And I am wrought with half hope, half despair
United both with Christ and prostitute.
Yet even shadows light in open air
And we are fully saved, but destitute.
Yet once God claimed that He’d make all things new,
So promptly Christ was born, and prompt withdrew.
But stumbling my way through the book, little bits and pieces and concepts would stick in my head. One thing, amidst my self-disgust and trouble with forgiveness was the trials of the godspoken. When the concept of the godspoken (which turns out to be a human-created strain of OCD, neutralizing the point that could have been made) was first introduced, the reader was told that "the first message of the Gods was the unspeakable filthiness of the one they spoke to."
The sentence paints a harsher picture than I would have painted with the concept, but the concept itself is the same. We are unwell, we are filthy. We are aware of it because we understand that there is such a thing as well, as clean. Those who hear the voices of the gods would know.
Reading over my high school year book earlier this week, people flattered me with assertions of my free spirit, or of the beauty I see in everything. But if I am free, it is only because I first realized I was a slave. If I see beauty in anything, it is only because I have dug my way through the atrocity that is on the surface.
I still have problems forgiveness. There is a paradox in that we recognize horror only in contrast beauty, and our beauty only through coming to terms with our filth. In the same book Card described "the decency to be appalled by my own brutality." We are not beasts, we are self aware enough to be ashamed. Our shame is not a result of punishment. Our shame is a result of goodness.
All this in mind, last week my sonnet, number XXIV, was on the terrible frustration of both the desire to be pure, and the inability.
Sunday Sonnet XXIV
Because my hands aren’t clean I cannot touch
The broken body of True Purity.
Because my hands aren’t clean I want this much
The body broken for scum such as me.
Because a beauty beats amidst this bone
I will not end this battle with defeat.
Because a beauty beats but isn’t shown
The twisted glory makes darkness complete.
And I am wrought with half hope, half despair
United both with Christ and prostitute.
Yet even shadows light in open air
And we are fully saved, but destitute.
Yet once God claimed that He’d make all things new,
So promptly Christ was born, and prompt withdrew.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Sunday Sonnets Part II
I'm still not so good at posting these every week, as implied by my last post, months ago. However, I had another installment of several. Really, I'd like to post them every week, as poetry binges can be exhausting to read, but we do what needs must.
Sunday Sonnet XIV
This is but the beginning of the nights
Which were never lonely till he came and
Went again. Yet with no end in sight,
It's worth the nights to fin'ly understand
That wer were never meant to be alone.
Like crim'nals fin'ly comprehending crime
Who'd not know mercy without horror done -
So I endure the drought for harvest time.
Even in our mortal ways of being
Whole, there is an echo of the feast to
Come, when marriage takes a truer meaning
And love is always fresher and more new.
So I'll love the night in all her terror
Because she shows the truth behind her error.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XV
Theres some forgotten Latin mys’try
Which I might humbly enter in to share
Yet reaching out t’interact with his’try
I find my grasping hands but clasp the air.
“It’s not about you.” They will interject
“We come to worship wholly through but one.”
Yet then behind the scenes I might suspect
My presence but a candle in the sun.
Yet burn we all a fire just the same.
And candles find their use when earth is turned
Away from light, like lovers in their shame.
And we receive the lack of faith we earned.
So come together as you break your bread
But know we do the same through song instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVI
WE are the broken, sickly world who beg
A doctor of our fellow invalids.
We see them hobble and request a leg,
Like parents leaning wholly on their kids.
For we fulfill love by its own destruction,
Creating Superman out of the ants
Who were not made for lonely production
But to hobble, where e’er the Master grants.
We might find moments wholeness exhaled
Like the air, then fall again through time and
Atmosphere, and all else we ever hailed
Before we turn, like seashells into sand.
So let me be a patient now, at last
And lead not forever towards the past.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVII
We’re building up our castles in the sand
With crushed up bones of shells from years before
Whose very fall’s the reason why they stand.
The final tide’s the glory of the shore.
Our beauty is no less for breaking down
With every wave that laps against our walls.
That foam which wounds us makes for us a crown
When bodies finally bend to ocean’s calls.
For there is something moving in the blue
That smooths us with a soft brutality
And something half forgotten but full true
Will make our very death a victory.
And so we’ll fall again, though we’re afraid
For we, like sand, unravel as we’re made.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVIII
“Lord, heal me of the pain,” we say with hearts
Still shattered, still ripping the binding from
Our wounds. Addicted to the poison darts
Until the poison’s all we have become.
For if we lost an arm it’d n’er grow back
(Though some might argue that perhaps it would)
And we’d define ourselves as handicap
(Though some might argue that perhaps it could).
And should it? Maybe some not distant day
When scars are a flash of decoration –
If they are there at all (I cannot say).
Though One let fingers trace His laceration.
So take not from me pain, but sorrows jive.
Which names the pain as proof that I survive.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XIX
And when you hear the voice of God speaking
Turn not your tearing tender heart to stone.
For though you’ve all you need you’re still seeking
Some small solution that might build those bones.
Be not as faithless as your fathers were
Demanding answers when they couldn’t see
The way. For He who makes a stone thirts cure
Fulfils his spoken word eventually.
Call not his voice imagination’s sway
And claim a doubt of God a doubt of self.
For magic does exist in wide array –
Physics, faith, hope and love – it’s called instead.
You’ll hear the ordination in your head
Call not the Word insanity instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XX
So He who bade us not sew mixed-seed fields
Still bade young Esther leave her native breed
And Ruth converted despite pagan yield,
So even Joseph bore a tainted seed.
So those who kick against a weighted yolk
May yet redeem a less-than righteous spouse.
For it was he who’d never marry spoke
The inconsistency, he with no house
To warm his feet, or soothe his sun-sore eyes.
And yet, young Esther might argue his case.
Necessity can still torment the wise
And even back bruised cattle keep some grace.
So Love is like the Irish with this rule
Who wills it break before He’s made a fool.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXI
There is a land that’s void of shopping malls
Where women balance water on their heads
Because the wild is the way, not call,
Their diamonds build the suburbs here, instead.
There is a place where straw and mud keep out
The rain, they say, though hunger still seeps through,
Yet there’s a wholesomeness in dirt. Without
A safety net, it’s God they look unto.
There is a land I’d like to meet, and stay
With for some time. My roots could grow along
The farms it holds in less time-centered days.
We travel far to find where we belong.
Yet lest I call fantasy ordination
I’ll wait until I’m asked to join the nation.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXII
I hope to see you ne’r again, for my
Sake and for yours. For old heart-strong grow weak
With strain and snap when played so out awrey.
Because I do not hope. I seek
To satisfy with longing, what longing
Cannot forget. This world is not our home,
So our hearts yet search for some belonging.
It’s chasing wind. Through vanity they roam.
And so I hope you’re warm, and well, and fed,
And find fulfillment in your journey.
I dare to hope you won’t have time ahead
To let your heart linger on memory.
For I could hurt afresh for all your woes
But past is near enough the way it goes.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXIII
Because I do not hope to turn again
To memories I’ve over worn in time.
Because I do not hope for foe or friend,
I linger on the or’gin of the rhyme.
Now fantasies have surpassed memory
And you no longer must needs to exist.
If you were ever more than words to me
Then is it man or myth that yet persists?
I do not hope for reconciliation
Because I do not hope, lest I despair.
And through I once grasped dreams of recreation
They over ran the truth behind my err’r.
But I’ve heard echos of a hope someday
When all my false idols will start decay.
Sunday Sonnet XIV
This is but the beginning of the nights
Which were never lonely till he came and
Went again. Yet with no end in sight,
It's worth the nights to fin'ly understand
That wer were never meant to be alone.
Like crim'nals fin'ly comprehending crime
Who'd not know mercy without horror done -
So I endure the drought for harvest time.
Even in our mortal ways of being
Whole, there is an echo of the feast to
Come, when marriage takes a truer meaning
And love is always fresher and more new.
So I'll love the night in all her terror
Because she shows the truth behind her error.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XV
Theres some forgotten Latin mys’try
Which I might humbly enter in to share
Yet reaching out t’interact with his’try
I find my grasping hands but clasp the air.
“It’s not about you.” They will interject
“We come to worship wholly through but one.”
Yet then behind the scenes I might suspect
My presence but a candle in the sun.
Yet burn we all a fire just the same.
And candles find their use when earth is turned
Away from light, like lovers in their shame.
And we receive the lack of faith we earned.
So come together as you break your bread
But know we do the same through song instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVI
WE are the broken, sickly world who beg
A doctor of our fellow invalids.
We see them hobble and request a leg,
Like parents leaning wholly on their kids.
For we fulfill love by its own destruction,
Creating Superman out of the ants
Who were not made for lonely production
But to hobble, where e’er the Master grants.
We might find moments wholeness exhaled
Like the air, then fall again through time and
Atmosphere, and all else we ever hailed
Before we turn, like seashells into sand.
So let me be a patient now, at last
And lead not forever towards the past.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVII
We’re building up our castles in the sand
With crushed up bones of shells from years before
Whose very fall’s the reason why they stand.
The final tide’s the glory of the shore.
Our beauty is no less for breaking down
With every wave that laps against our walls.
That foam which wounds us makes for us a crown
When bodies finally bend to ocean’s calls.
For there is something moving in the blue
That smooths us with a soft brutality
And something half forgotten but full true
Will make our very death a victory.
And so we’ll fall again, though we’re afraid
For we, like sand, unravel as we’re made.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVIII
“Lord, heal me of the pain,” we say with hearts
Still shattered, still ripping the binding from
Our wounds. Addicted to the poison darts
Until the poison’s all we have become.
For if we lost an arm it’d n’er grow back
(Though some might argue that perhaps it would)
And we’d define ourselves as handicap
(Though some might argue that perhaps it could).
And should it? Maybe some not distant day
When scars are a flash of decoration –
If they are there at all (I cannot say).
Though One let fingers trace His laceration.
So take not from me pain, but sorrows jive.
Which names the pain as proof that I survive.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XIX
And when you hear the voice of God speaking
Turn not your tearing tender heart to stone.
For though you’ve all you need you’re still seeking
Some small solution that might build those bones.
Be not as faithless as your fathers were
Demanding answers when they couldn’t see
The way. For He who makes a stone thirts cure
Fulfils his spoken word eventually.
Call not his voice imagination’s sway
And claim a doubt of God a doubt of self.
For magic does exist in wide array –
Physics, faith, hope and love – it’s called instead.
You’ll hear the ordination in your head
Call not the Word insanity instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XX
So He who bade us not sew mixed-seed fields
Still bade young Esther leave her native breed
And Ruth converted despite pagan yield,
So even Joseph bore a tainted seed.
So those who kick against a weighted yolk
May yet redeem a less-than righteous spouse.
For it was he who’d never marry spoke
The inconsistency, he with no house
To warm his feet, or soothe his sun-sore eyes.
And yet, young Esther might argue his case.
Necessity can still torment the wise
And even back bruised cattle keep some grace.
So Love is like the Irish with this rule
Who wills it break before He’s made a fool.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXI
There is a land that’s void of shopping malls
Where women balance water on their heads
Because the wild is the way, not call,
Their diamonds build the suburbs here, instead.
There is a place where straw and mud keep out
The rain, they say, though hunger still seeps through,
Yet there’s a wholesomeness in dirt. Without
A safety net, it’s God they look unto.
There is a land I’d like to meet, and stay
With for some time. My roots could grow along
The farms it holds in less time-centered days.
We travel far to find where we belong.
Yet lest I call fantasy ordination
I’ll wait until I’m asked to join the nation.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXII
I hope to see you ne’r again, for my
Sake and for yours. For old heart-strong grow weak
With strain and snap when played so out awrey.
Because I do not hope. I seek
To satisfy with longing, what longing
Cannot forget. This world is not our home,
So our hearts yet search for some belonging.
It’s chasing wind. Through vanity they roam.
And so I hope you’re warm, and well, and fed,
And find fulfillment in your journey.
I dare to hope you won’t have time ahead
To let your heart linger on memory.
For I could hurt afresh for all your woes
But past is near enough the way it goes.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXIII
Because I do not hope to turn again
To memories I’ve over worn in time.
Because I do not hope for foe or friend,
I linger on the or’gin of the rhyme.
Now fantasies have surpassed memory
And you no longer must needs to exist.
If you were ever more than words to me
Then is it man or myth that yet persists?
I do not hope for reconciliation
Because I do not hope, lest I despair.
And through I once grasped dreams of recreation
They over ran the truth behind my err’r.
But I’ve heard echos of a hope someday
When all my false idols will start decay.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Sunday Sonnets
I once heard that, as Christians, if we are to give something up for Lent, we should also pick something up for Easter. As someone who has only barely ever even done one Lent fast, I probably wasn't the best candidate for such a task. This Easter I didn't do that, precisely. Instead I decided to pick something up for the whole year after Easter: one Easter to the next. While during Lent I fasted during the weak and feasted on Sunday, so for this Easter celebration I have celebrated only on Sundays.
As an amateur poet (in the truest sense, as I do it for love) I've always loved composing poetry, but a good deal of my initial poetry was throughly pierced with teen angst and disappointed love. Most of that is nothing I would call good. The older I get, I find myself taking a sort of romantic turn and more and more I am about some Truth hidden in Nature. The Sunday Sonnets intentionally have a religious tinge. As such, this is no doubt the only place they will ever be published.
While I have neglected my blog for sometime now (during Lent I gave up non-academic computer use, and I never seemed to pick this site in particular back up afterwards) I thought it time to revive it at the very least for this sonnet series. I'll divulge all I have since Easter now, and then update every Monday or so until it is impossible for me to do so.
Sunday Sonnet I
Here’s my first unrighteous sonnet,
Official sonnet of self-righteousness,
Where virtue’s greater had my pen not drawn it
But swollen hands could argue little less.
For worked upon a heap of self are ash,
Or else, are termites to infest and rot.
And westward Easters elongate the gash
Which mutilated love songs first begot.
Let me arch back towards the highway where
Depths of oceans trip on their own crests.
Let humble, selfish lines betray my care
Of wading through the shorelines where I rest.
Where ten beats scrape to pardon seven days
And fourteen lines pay in’fite virtue praise.
Sunday Sonnet II
When Mary grappled with Your open tomb
Heaven itself did not delay Your voice.
And You bid peace while dishing out the doom
Of these, Your fish, who falter in their choice.
Yet I seek not Your grave, I search Your feet
For fear of my reflection in Your eyes.
I’d like to travel footworn trails, and meet
You coming home to newly foreign skies.
But while I’d get a blessing for my doubt
And justice for my restless persistence
My bread seems rather firm to me, without.
And I still crumble in a wayward glance.
Lord, be not silent, and be ever near
For prayers, unlike a scar, won’t disappear.
Sunday Sonnet III
Perhaps it is appropriate that I
Should blunder now. I won’t deny – forget.
For fish do not mend memory, but a lie,
And mem’ry falters more than I’d admit.
For we who vomit, laugh and cry and sweat
May seem quite large in our patheticness
And as we etch our epics in regret
We think divinely love must be but less.
But there’s a rumor of a splinter cross
And I have heard a dwarfing of the stars,
A sort of moral gain and mortal loss
And watery grace against these prison bars.
When floods make mountains kneel, a voice will say
A sonnet may be writ on any day.
Sunday Sonnet IV
Did the forest speak to thee, when thou walked
The earth? And the winds disrupts thy hair
Some years ago, when even oceans talked?
Or was it thou who bid’st the shaking air?
And did’st thou bless the first light bulb? Was
It thy intent? Dos’t thou speak through the internet?
I cannot rest until I ask because
This tool can’t be quite what thou meant.
See, we who grasp and get and guess grow dull
Of stringing lives like beads upon a plug.
And microchips don’t grow like trees, and pull
Our heartstring roots, yet there is still a tug.
I cannot fathom answers to binary tests
And I can fathom Truth but little less.
Sunday Sonnet V
In the end, that most bold beginning
When twelve men welcome, and twelve more uphold,
Is there refuge, at last for the sinning?
Or is such adamant mercy too bold?
Are our bodies spread out like a city
When Jerusalem is finally your bride?
Is condemnation a form of pity
For those who’d bar the walls of cities wide?
Though it’s within your ability
To wipe the tears from tears. To save all you
Desire to free – all, quite objectively.
He said: “Behold I’m making all things new.”
Confirm your will for yet the least of these
And then, they who will not surrender – seize.
Sunday Sonnet VI
Two roads did not diverge, no, they converged
Where it became clear they were never separate.
And all that duality’s fin’lly purged
When we enter a physical gate.
And the connections we make are like nerves
In the skin of a self we are only
A part of. Let’s give each the value deserved.
For a fingertip is never lonely.
So may my feet still know the ground when I
Return. And may the trees always bear more.
May my inklings never even scrape the sky
Which curtains always covered up before.
And so we’ll meet when forks become a knife
And I will enter in my one, but only life.
Sunday Sonnet VII
Here’s to something physical, the human
In the heart of God. Here’s to the bone and
Flesh. For clouds may lead where ever they can.
Sometimes we need, instead, a helping hand.
Here’s to the Spirit that remains, as we
Would seek to understand. Here’s to a Guide.
For though our eyes may wither we shall see
Him leading strangely, entering inside.
Here’s to a gentle breeze and ruffling leaf
Who’s coded in a million willow cells.
Who cannot yet forsake, despite His grief,
A nation full of frightened rebels.
And here’s to something else, I cannot quite
Perceive, who beckons louder every night.
Sunday Sonnet VIII
He said, “it’s better that I now should go,”
To leave 12 friends and countless broken bones.
With so much warning, flew away. And so
Bacteria penetrates deeper stones.
Like raindrops falling on a startled skin
We might hear battle ravaging the skies.
‘Tis better,’ He knew, ‘to enter within,’
To bind our hearts to Him like tired eyes.
For He shed blood to quench our therapy
To block the moon from a heart race of waves
And calm poor Suna’s ever-bitter sea.
What kind of Truth, by sacrificing, saves?
‘Tis better,’ He though, knowing winters fruit.
For his’try runs like veins in an Oaks root.
Sunday Sonnet IX
I’ve grasped my courage here to reconcile,
To spout my faceless ramblings to the dark,
To you, whose voice grows softer all the while
To tempt electrons with a sudden spark.
I’ve heard the sacrament when they confess
Is that repentance finally is true.
But I’m no Cath’lic, so is mine the less,
With promises to heal that never do?
If I could have one gift in all of space
It’d be for this to be the gift that I
Would ask. That maybe change could come apace.
And I would never make deny.
For sorry as I am, as I repent,
There’s still a piece to see her penny spent.
Sunday Sonnet X
And so twelve years have come to this, have come
To tired eyes and promises of love.
An maybe now my journey has begun,
Or maybe I but barely rise above
The she I was five years ago. Any yet,
I’ve overgrown those fences I once climbed,
Of history to reconcile regret.
And I’ve re-sought what I can’t hope to find.
Yet here’s my new diploma, and here’s my
Mortarboard – a little more than dress-down
Clothes. They are the secret passcode, and I
Am little apt to resist such a crown.
And perhaps now my real life, at last, will start:
Adulthood like a hatching of the heart.
Sunday Sonnet XI
Grant me a spirit like an Irish folk song,
That I may be cheerful in my distress,
Ad a happy sorrow for ages long
May, at last, redeem that spirit once depressed.
And if my heart must beat beyond my chest
May it drum to the rhythm of their pipes
With something like a reckless hobbit, blest.
Growing clover where were sown the stripes.
May I turn highways into dusty roads
That hide beneath a canopy of green
And find the rain refreshes, not erodes.
And see, at last, in mud, a somethin’ clean.
And grant me only half the joys they claim
And a jig that boasts both pride and shame.
Sunday Sonnet XII
When we’re finally rid of our legions
And worthy just enough to beg to go
Sacrifice our lives for new allegiance
With purity barely budding through the glow,
Then restless hearts may find a peaceful calling
Like clear skies slowing down the pace of days.
And though our instincts onward charging,
There is a mission some less “sexy” way.
So would I follow even to the suburbs,
Where ease is yet a harder burden borne?
Like Abraham, it may be testing, absurd,
But relativity breeds varied storms.
So even if my trek abroad’s begun,
Enforce that not my will, but Yours be done.
Sunday Sonnet XIII
Wash over all our Bloody Sundays with
The blood and water You so freely gave.
And if our aims or temperance should then shift
We beg, remind us what we might have saved.
A war-torn city and some painted walls
May serve as a “P.S. Remember me.”
So new youth grow t’inherit parents’ cause
As child Joseph learned of slavery.
And May, at least, we learn from our mistakes
When we can’t learn from them who went before.
Let’s not nail abstract “freedom” to our stakes,
At least allow our broken “Nevermore!”
And may our Sunday’s be called days of rest
When we can’t find the heart to call them blessed.
As an amateur poet (in the truest sense, as I do it for love) I've always loved composing poetry, but a good deal of my initial poetry was throughly pierced with teen angst and disappointed love. Most of that is nothing I would call good. The older I get, I find myself taking a sort of romantic turn and more and more I am about some Truth hidden in Nature. The Sunday Sonnets intentionally have a religious tinge. As such, this is no doubt the only place they will ever be published.
While I have neglected my blog for sometime now (during Lent I gave up non-academic computer use, and I never seemed to pick this site in particular back up afterwards) I thought it time to revive it at the very least for this sonnet series. I'll divulge all I have since Easter now, and then update every Monday or so until it is impossible for me to do so.
Sunday Sonnet I
Here’s my first unrighteous sonnet,
Official sonnet of self-righteousness,
Where virtue’s greater had my pen not drawn it
But swollen hands could argue little less.
For worked upon a heap of self are ash,
Or else, are termites to infest and rot.
And westward Easters elongate the gash
Which mutilated love songs first begot.
Let me arch back towards the highway where
Depths of oceans trip on their own crests.
Let humble, selfish lines betray my care
Of wading through the shorelines where I rest.
Where ten beats scrape to pardon seven days
And fourteen lines pay in’fite virtue praise.
Sunday Sonnet II
When Mary grappled with Your open tomb
Heaven itself did not delay Your voice.
And You bid peace while dishing out the doom
Of these, Your fish, who falter in their choice.
Yet I seek not Your grave, I search Your feet
For fear of my reflection in Your eyes.
I’d like to travel footworn trails, and meet
You coming home to newly foreign skies.
But while I’d get a blessing for my doubt
And justice for my restless persistence
My bread seems rather firm to me, without.
And I still crumble in a wayward glance.
Lord, be not silent, and be ever near
For prayers, unlike a scar, won’t disappear.
Sunday Sonnet III
Perhaps it is appropriate that I
Should blunder now. I won’t deny – forget.
For fish do not mend memory, but a lie,
And mem’ry falters more than I’d admit.
For we who vomit, laugh and cry and sweat
May seem quite large in our patheticness
And as we etch our epics in regret
We think divinely love must be but less.
But there’s a rumor of a splinter cross
And I have heard a dwarfing of the stars,
A sort of moral gain and mortal loss
And watery grace against these prison bars.
When floods make mountains kneel, a voice will say
A sonnet may be writ on any day.
Sunday Sonnet IV
Did the forest speak to thee, when thou walked
The earth? And the winds disrupts thy hair
Some years ago, when even oceans talked?
Or was it thou who bid’st the shaking air?
And did’st thou bless the first light bulb? Was
It thy intent? Dos’t thou speak through the internet?
I cannot rest until I ask because
This tool can’t be quite what thou meant.
See, we who grasp and get and guess grow dull
Of stringing lives like beads upon a plug.
And microchips don’t grow like trees, and pull
Our heartstring roots, yet there is still a tug.
I cannot fathom answers to binary tests
And I can fathom Truth but little less.
Sunday Sonnet V
In the end, that most bold beginning
When twelve men welcome, and twelve more uphold,
Is there refuge, at last for the sinning?
Or is such adamant mercy too bold?
Are our bodies spread out like a city
When Jerusalem is finally your bride?
Is condemnation a form of pity
For those who’d bar the walls of cities wide?
Though it’s within your ability
To wipe the tears from tears. To save all you
Desire to free – all, quite objectively.
He said: “Behold I’m making all things new.”
Confirm your will for yet the least of these
And then, they who will not surrender – seize.
Sunday Sonnet VI
Two roads did not diverge, no, they converged
Where it became clear they were never separate.
And all that duality’s fin’lly purged
When we enter a physical gate.
And the connections we make are like nerves
In the skin of a self we are only
A part of. Let’s give each the value deserved.
For a fingertip is never lonely.
So may my feet still know the ground when I
Return. And may the trees always bear more.
May my inklings never even scrape the sky
Which curtains always covered up before.
And so we’ll meet when forks become a knife
And I will enter in my one, but only life.
Sunday Sonnet VII
Here’s to something physical, the human
In the heart of God. Here’s to the bone and
Flesh. For clouds may lead where ever they can.
Sometimes we need, instead, a helping hand.
Here’s to the Spirit that remains, as we
Would seek to understand. Here’s to a Guide.
For though our eyes may wither we shall see
Him leading strangely, entering inside.
Here’s to a gentle breeze and ruffling leaf
Who’s coded in a million willow cells.
Who cannot yet forsake, despite His grief,
A nation full of frightened rebels.
And here’s to something else, I cannot quite
Perceive, who beckons louder every night.
Sunday Sonnet VIII
He said, “it’s better that I now should go,”
To leave 12 friends and countless broken bones.
With so much warning, flew away. And so
Bacteria penetrates deeper stones.
Like raindrops falling on a startled skin
We might hear battle ravaging the skies.
‘Tis better,’ He knew, ‘to enter within,’
To bind our hearts to Him like tired eyes.
For He shed blood to quench our therapy
To block the moon from a heart race of waves
And calm poor Suna’s ever-bitter sea.
What kind of Truth, by sacrificing, saves?
‘Tis better,’ He though, knowing winters fruit.
For his’try runs like veins in an Oaks root.
Sunday Sonnet IX
I’ve grasped my courage here to reconcile,
To spout my faceless ramblings to the dark,
To you, whose voice grows softer all the while
To tempt electrons with a sudden spark.
I’ve heard the sacrament when they confess
Is that repentance finally is true.
But I’m no Cath’lic, so is mine the less,
With promises to heal that never do?
If I could have one gift in all of space
It’d be for this to be the gift that I
Would ask. That maybe change could come apace.
And I would never make deny.
For sorry as I am, as I repent,
There’s still a piece to see her penny spent.
Sunday Sonnet X
And so twelve years have come to this, have come
To tired eyes and promises of love.
An maybe now my journey has begun,
Or maybe I but barely rise above
The she I was five years ago. Any yet,
I’ve overgrown those fences I once climbed,
Of history to reconcile regret.
And I’ve re-sought what I can’t hope to find.
Yet here’s my new diploma, and here’s my
Mortarboard – a little more than dress-down
Clothes. They are the secret passcode, and I
Am little apt to resist such a crown.
And perhaps now my real life, at last, will start:
Adulthood like a hatching of the heart.
Sunday Sonnet XI
Grant me a spirit like an Irish folk song,
That I may be cheerful in my distress,
Ad a happy sorrow for ages long
May, at last, redeem that spirit once depressed.
And if my heart must beat beyond my chest
May it drum to the rhythm of their pipes
With something like a reckless hobbit, blest.
Growing clover where were sown the stripes.
May I turn highways into dusty roads
That hide beneath a canopy of green
And find the rain refreshes, not erodes.
And see, at last, in mud, a somethin’ clean.
And grant me only half the joys they claim
And a jig that boasts both pride and shame.
Sunday Sonnet XII
When we’re finally rid of our legions
And worthy just enough to beg to go
Sacrifice our lives for new allegiance
With purity barely budding through the glow,
Then restless hearts may find a peaceful calling
Like clear skies slowing down the pace of days.
And though our instincts onward charging,
There is a mission some less “sexy” way.
So would I follow even to the suburbs,
Where ease is yet a harder burden borne?
Like Abraham, it may be testing, absurd,
But relativity breeds varied storms.
So even if my trek abroad’s begun,
Enforce that not my will, but Yours be done.
Sunday Sonnet XIII
Wash over all our Bloody Sundays with
The blood and water You so freely gave.
And if our aims or temperance should then shift
We beg, remind us what we might have saved.
A war-torn city and some painted walls
May serve as a “P.S. Remember me.”
So new youth grow t’inherit parents’ cause
As child Joseph learned of slavery.
And May, at least, we learn from our mistakes
When we can’t learn from them who went before.
Let’s not nail abstract “freedom” to our stakes,
At least allow our broken “Nevermore!”
And may our Sunday’s be called days of rest
When we can’t find the heart to call them blessed.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
"The Kingdom of Heaven is like..."
I once read somewhere that, statistically speaking, there are more suicides in winter than any other time of the year. It's cold, it's barren. Nature goes from being a declaration of life to that of destruction. The caress of the sun, Summer's fire, Springs vivacity, Fall into emptiness. They are replace by frost in your lungs. Your bones freeze overnight.
Death is everywhere. Most anything annual dies with first frost, and even the perennials seem to be mere skeletons of what they once were. If we are to take Winter as an image of Life, of God, we have much to fear indeed. For even when Spring is inevitable, those flowers will also meet their winters. Sure, Spring comes after ever winter, but it's the Spring for different flowers, the heirs live on, but the parents must die. I have all but fallen in love with Spring, Winter seems almost to be a necessary evil, exciting only in that in drives me more often than ordinary to my fireplace. Winter makes a moth of me.
But, Oh! The snow! How could I have missed the gospel story? How much more blatant could it be tha tin the midst of senescence, the sky itself would clothe the world in white; for lingering nights to become the Blanche Nuit? For white is the color of purity. So, the flowers, the young and the lovely, in dying, yield to purity. The old, the strong, well rooted tree attains purity losing it's temporary garments, but containing on it the world. The exchange is having to undergo purification again. Sound familiar?
Shall we have further justification for white snow? What is more visually noticeable en l'hiver than the lack of color? Spring sets a thousand colors against the backdrop of a hundred greens. Even Autumn provides every color of a flame upon her dying members, emebers of the Great Fall. But Winter? Oh the monotone! Oh the dull neutrality! But wait! White! Have you forgotten white light? White light - every color in the spectrum combined! White light, the light, has come into the world...
But even snow can be tainted, can it not? Has pollution not played her part? Have we diluted and mutilated our redemption?
Hating to end upon a doubtful note an experience that was wonderful in general (wonderful -- filled with wonder, what else could the reaction to such beautiful white flakes be?), what shall I say? The snow falls, regardless of what we try to do to it. Perhaps it turns brown, and perhaps mothers tell their children it's no longer safe to eat, but Spring still comes, does it not?
Death is everywhere. Most anything annual dies with first frost, and even the perennials seem to be mere skeletons of what they once were. If we are to take Winter as an image of Life, of God, we have much to fear indeed. For even when Spring is inevitable, those flowers will also meet their winters. Sure, Spring comes after ever winter, but it's the Spring for different flowers, the heirs live on, but the parents must die. I have all but fallen in love with Spring, Winter seems almost to be a necessary evil, exciting only in that in drives me more often than ordinary to my fireplace. Winter makes a moth of me.
But, Oh! The snow! How could I have missed the gospel story? How much more blatant could it be tha tin the midst of senescence, the sky itself would clothe the world in white; for lingering nights to become the Blanche Nuit? For white is the color of purity. So, the flowers, the young and the lovely, in dying, yield to purity. The old, the strong, well rooted tree attains purity losing it's temporary garments, but containing on it the world. The exchange is having to undergo purification again. Sound familiar?
Shall we have further justification for white snow? What is more visually noticeable en l'hiver than the lack of color? Spring sets a thousand colors against the backdrop of a hundred greens. Even Autumn provides every color of a flame upon her dying members, emebers of the Great Fall. But Winter? Oh the monotone! Oh the dull neutrality! But wait! White! Have you forgotten white light? White light - every color in the spectrum combined! White light, the light, has come into the world...
But even snow can be tainted, can it not? Has pollution not played her part? Have we diluted and mutilated our redemption?
Hating to end upon a doubtful note an experience that was wonderful in general (wonderful -- filled with wonder, what else could the reaction to such beautiful white flakes be?), what shall I say? The snow falls, regardless of what we try to do to it. Perhaps it turns brown, and perhaps mothers tell their children it's no longer safe to eat, but Spring still comes, does it not?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Walking the Weak
This fall has reminded me so much of fire. We built fires, the fall leaves resemble fire, I've even been more apt to smoke from time to time. Sometimes the fire makes more sense than anything. Somewhere, beneath its burning sweet addiction and the way it melts our eyes.
And so I go to it, the fire. I crave it. I arch the back of my tongue to it. I breathe.
I breathe, and so does the fire.
Samantha liked fire too, you could tell. You could tell by the odor of smoke that hung about her after the service. It might have been there before the service too, I had never been close enough to tell, then. Em had invited her to sit with us after she finished her Bo-Jangles, and Samantha had accepted. She didn't sit through the service, more than a couple times she ducked out and returned a few minutes later. But she stayed. I didn't know why at first, even when she was in the service, she seemed to be nodding off.
Afterwards I knew why. She needed a ride to north Durham. I couldn't give her one, I didn't have a car. I stood with her as she tried to find one though. I learned some things about her, bits an pieces. Obviously she was fond if cigarettes, but there was more. She loved Prince, and her family didn't want her...
Her family didn't want her, and neither did we, it seems. What has the church come to? Is Jesus crying up in Heaven? Has the father turned his face away? It is merely stuck in our direction like the smiles on people's faces when they're eager to help the soul, but not the body? Everyone was eager to ask about how she liked the service, but then she mentioned that she needed a ride, and they'd say "Hm.. I can't think of anyone going that direction.." never thinking that they might deviate from their path a little to show compassion on this woman. That didn't seem to really acknowledge her need, really. It made them uncomfortable.
But in America we're supposed to treat everyone equal right?
No, I finally understand. At some point, treating people equally is an insult.
And then my mind switches back to fire.
Perhaps the fire burns all, but it treats everything with distinction. It devours newspaper. Wood takes some time to catch. It squeezes the moisture out of wet logs.
Separate is not equal, no, but, hell, sometimes equal is not even equal.
But the Church, our mission is to love. God is love, right? We're the manifestation of God on earth, right?
Even without that, Jesus gave us the parable rather directly: Matthew 25:42-45
"For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.' Then they also will answer, saying, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?' Then he will answer them, saying, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me."
So what's the problem, are we just too damn afraid of being taken advantage of?
Perhaps it's a relevant fear, but I feel as though it's putting the focus in the wrong place. Maybe they'll use all the money for drugs, or alcohol or cigarettes. Maybe we're just giving them a ride to their dealer or pimp. Maybe every bit of assistance we give won't directly save their soul, or even their body, but shouldn't the charity be the focus, not the fear? I'd prefer to take the risk of not being completely helpful, than not helping when I could.
And so I go to it, the fire. I crave it. I arch the back of my tongue to it. I breathe.
I breathe, and so does the fire.
Samantha liked fire too, you could tell. You could tell by the odor of smoke that hung about her after the service. It might have been there before the service too, I had never been close enough to tell, then. Em had invited her to sit with us after she finished her Bo-Jangles, and Samantha had accepted. She didn't sit through the service, more than a couple times she ducked out and returned a few minutes later. But she stayed. I didn't know why at first, even when she was in the service, she seemed to be nodding off.
Afterwards I knew why. She needed a ride to north Durham. I couldn't give her one, I didn't have a car. I stood with her as she tried to find one though. I learned some things about her, bits an pieces. Obviously she was fond if cigarettes, but there was more. She loved Prince, and her family didn't want her...
Her family didn't want her, and neither did we, it seems. What has the church come to? Is Jesus crying up in Heaven? Has the father turned his face away? It is merely stuck in our direction like the smiles on people's faces when they're eager to help the soul, but not the body? Everyone was eager to ask about how she liked the service, but then she mentioned that she needed a ride, and they'd say "Hm.. I can't think of anyone going that direction.." never thinking that they might deviate from their path a little to show compassion on this woman. That didn't seem to really acknowledge her need, really. It made them uncomfortable.
But in America we're supposed to treat everyone equal right?
No, I finally understand. At some point, treating people equally is an insult.
And then my mind switches back to fire.
Perhaps the fire burns all, but it treats everything with distinction. It devours newspaper. Wood takes some time to catch. It squeezes the moisture out of wet logs.
Separate is not equal, no, but, hell, sometimes equal is not even equal.
But the Church, our mission is to love. God is love, right? We're the manifestation of God on earth, right?
Even without that, Jesus gave us the parable rather directly: Matthew 25:42-45
"For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.' Then they also will answer, saying, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?' Then he will answer them, saying, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me."
So what's the problem, are we just too damn afraid of being taken advantage of?
Perhaps it's a relevant fear, but I feel as though it's putting the focus in the wrong place. Maybe they'll use all the money for drugs, or alcohol or cigarettes. Maybe we're just giving them a ride to their dealer or pimp. Maybe every bit of assistance we give won't directly save their soul, or even their body, but shouldn't the charity be the focus, not the fear? I'd prefer to take the risk of not being completely helpful, than not helping when I could.
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