Poems of Doubtful Hope

My people sit, broken, In the wreck and ruin of the shattered remains Of a life they were convinced  Was what I had planned for their future.  Speak words of comfort to them. Wrap my children in your arms And weep with them for a future that can never be. Run your fingers through their hair, Squeeze them tight,  And let them know everything is going to be okay.  Now is not the time for "I told you so" Or to remind them of their debts still owed.  God says that whatever balance might have remained Is officially paid in full.  They'll hear my cries of preparation, Not in the high rises and seats of power and influence, But in the wild places, barren and unruly,  Where most people wouldn't bother to go. Those are the places God loves to show up most often.  Let the people know that God is going to level the playing field: The powerful will be brought down,  The lowly will be lifted up, And every obstacle that might keep you from me Is going to b...

"Ignorance is strength" may be The most powerful line Orwell wrote.  I've certainly seen it play out in my own religious life.  The people who have no idea about textual criticism, Source theories, and issues with translation Are some of the happiest Christians I know With a faith that seems strong enough to move mountains.  So long as everything continues to work out the way they want,  They drift through life in blissful ignorance Convinced that God's will for us in the world Is nothing but a simple lists of dos and dont's That are as plain as the nose on your face.  I've seen the strength of beliefs built on fear and hate Rather than knowledge or experience.  People are filled with a terrifying strength When given an enemy to hate and a foe to conquer.  Any casualties caught in the friendly fire of the "culture war" Can be chalked up to a lack of faith  Or the dreaded backslide into oblivion Where the only "real" Christians  Are the ones...

More often than not, It feels like freedom is a lie we tell ourselves To convince us that the things we endure Serve some greater "common good" Instead of being thrust upon us By the cruel whims of fate and chance.  In America especially  Freedom is a word that barely means anything anymore.  We know from cliches and platitudes That it isn't free, But despite our supposed commitment To life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness For all our citizens, Some of us wind up more free than others.  Freedom is slavery.  Slavish devotion to the idea That some things are worth fighting for; A willingness to risk our very lives Fighting for ideals that we may never enjoy.  Enslavement to corporations  Who have bought and paid for our leaders Who sell us out in turn, Lining the pockets of the wealthy And keeping power in the hands of the powerful.  Is freedom just propaganda? Is it actually available for the likes of you and me? Who knows for sure; All we ca...

In my 37 years of life, America has been at war for over twenty of them. And that doesn't even count cold wars or The war on drugs or terror. It's easy to forget because it all happens "over there;" At least until we see the ribbons or celebrate our patriotic holidays. The eventual goal (at least nominally) is peace. But, we've been "at peace" for the last four years, And nothing about it has felt particularly peaceful. We don't even speak softly and carry a big stick anymore; We yell and threaten while we wave our stick around, Convincing ourselves we're spreading freedom Instead of protecting our vested interest in cheap foreign products and oil to consume. The rich and the powerful plan and benefit While the poor and the powerless fight and die. We feel the need to show strength while conveniently forgetting What Homer said in The Odyssey: "The blade itself incites to deeds of violence." But, every empire needs an enemy Lest it turn ...

There's a well that's full of living water. It can never run dry. It gives strength to the weary, Hope to the hopeless, Healing to the wounded, And grace to the broken. It takes root in those who drink deeply, Turning them into lesser sources Full of that same living water. From it come the words of life, Connecting you to the source of all goodness. It's available for any who seek it; It is desperate for you to drink. But there's another well, One that's full of poison; It doesn't run dry either. It holds down the broken, Infects the wounded, Offers false hope, And gives strength to those willing to take it from the hands of others. It, too, takes root in those who drink deeply, Turning them into brooks That do nothing but babble words dripping with venom. They are condescending hypocrites Convinced of nothing more than their own righteousness. Blinded to their own toxicity, They think themselves a boon rather than a burden. Worst of all? If you saw these two ...

My own personal Jesus Is conveniently shaped to fit exactly where I want him to, Free of any rough edges that might rub up against The walls of the box where I've placed him and cause discomfort. He only judges the people I want him to, Only denounces the things I don't like, And bends his own words to whatever shape is needed to keep me from having to change. He's not much into evangelism. He looks and sounds enough like the real Jesus it's easy to mistake them for one another at a glance. He's as comfortable as your favorite well-worn recliner, And equally hard to get away from. He says and does the right things often enough It's easy to forget he's not the real Jesus, And he's so likeable it's hard to make him go away once he's moved in. My own personal Jesus Goes along anywhere I want to take him, And he'll never complain about the places you stay longer than you should. He's a warm blanket you can wrap around yourself and feel righte...

When he'd spent a week wallowing  In the shattered remains of a broken life, Job finally opened his mouth To speak to the friends who had sat Silent vigil with him for seven days straight. Job wasn't angry with God; He was angry that he was even alive To experience anything so painful and cruel. Even death would bring no comfort or relief. The only solution Job could see Was completely blotting his name From the annals of history. He wondered why the brokenhearted Even have to exist in the first place. Wouldn't it be better to leave them in the dark; Let them avoid the pain and suffering Of a world full of such misery? A soul in pain cries out in pain. No sin is committed, No offense against God recorded. Job longs for answers in the midst of pain. His friends try to give them to him, But the only comfort Job finds Is in knowing God reigns sovereign above our pain, And his cries of misery do not fall on deaf ears. Job encounters God face-to-face, ...

Is it worth it to endure life's hardships?  That was Hamlet's question. Whether there is a quiet nobility in trudging Through the misfortunes and heartaches of existence, Or to fight back against the coming darkness by turning out the lights ourselves. Dying. Sleeping. Ending all the pain and sorrow of our relentless existential angst. Dying. Sleeping. Dreaming. But we are unsure of what dreams may come in the sleep of death, So we persist. Hamlet calls this cowardice. And the brokenhearted and dispossessed of a poetic nature Have ascribed a mystique to suicide, But it has no beauty or poetry: only tragedy. The end result is selfish pain. Pain for the people who loved you That you wouldn't let in to help Because you were so wrapped up in your own pain You couldn't see the love that binds you to the world. If conscience makes you a coward by refusing to let you shuffle off this mortal coil, Then live as a coward. So long as you live.