Poems of Doubtful Hope

Depression is like walking through an infinite parking lot.  You have no idea where to turn because it all looks the same. Even if you could remember where you parked (Or did I walk here?) There's no exit in sight.  You pick a direction (one's as good as another), Walk until your legs won't carry you any further. Hopefully something will eventually look familiar.  Anxiety is like an itchy scab. You know you shouldn't pick at it. You understand that opening the wound back up Is going to slow down the healing process, Undo weeks or even months of progress. You try to distract yourself, try to think about something else.  Maybe you succeed, maybe you don't: Even if you do, the scab will still be there tomorrow.  PTSD is like a fog that surrounds you, Leaving only a few feet of visibility in any direction.  You try to ignore the fog, focus on the here and now, But occasionally the fog lifts and you see glimpses. Bits and pieces of the thing that traumatized you...

Come, my darling child; Swim with me through an ocean As deep as the pain of loss. Or splash with me through puddles Brimming with rainbows reflecting Light and bright days of joy and summer. Climb with me to dizzying heights Where snow-capped peaks whisper about Our very nature and what it means to be human Or else run with me through bright and shiny Meadows that fill your heart with laughter. Brave with me the lair of the book wyrm, Where treasure untold awaits. A book is a friend. Comforting us when we cry, Exulting with us when we triumph. It reaches down and lifts us up, Reminding us of the power of imagination, Teaching us about how to find ourselves In the thoughts and rituals of others, Uniting us across the barriers of Language, culture, gender, and time itself. A book is a tool. When we read we are empowered To learn and think and do things We'd never understand on our own. It is the whetstone that sharpens The iron of our minds, The fuel that powers our ability To push ...

Do I really believe? Have I fully committed my trust? Or am I just going through motions I'm too obstinate to abandon? I don't pray a lot Because I don't feel the same connection And I don't read the Bible much For the same bullshit reason. I come to you on behalf of others. I beseech you to show your love to strangers. Do I believe there is a balm in Gilead for me? Have I given up on feeling hope, Or do I merely soldier on in hope? Stumbling through the darkness, Yearning for the light of grace to find me. Am I too blind to see the truth? I want to feel your presence. I want to see your goodness. Like John the Baptist, I find myself wondering: Are you the answer or am I wasting my time? The meds are working, I'm getting better But I keep my depression and anxiety Wrapped around me like a favorite sweater. Banish these demons, I pray.

Like Jonah outside the gates of Nineveh, I hear a desperate sinner cry out for mercy.  Like Jonah, I'd rather he not be forgiven.  A white supremacist,  Spouting bigotry and misogyny, Swastikas and confederate flags on arms gone frail. A body dying, slowly, Flesh wasting away alongside his dignity.  He was scared. I was scared, too.  Scared what it might mean To walk him down the Romans road Or teach him his ABCs. He'd already admitted he was a sinner needing a savior; He was struggling to believe. He needed to confess. He felt the weight of his sins and his hate, Buckling under the burden of his guilt.  Just like Jonah I was struggling to find mercy. Is God's grace big enough even for this? Before I could refuse to bear witness to him,  He bore witness to me.  I saw the face of Christ, emaciated and terrified.  I felt the warmth of his love radiating From behind sunken eyes. Damascus.  I fell to my knees and declared myself unworthy....

I want to tell the world about Jesus, But not the one who has hurt them. Not the Jesus who condemns the gays Or the one who demands you "turn or burn." Not the Prosperity Gospel Jesus Who blesses the billionaires Or the one who upholds the patriarchy. I'm sick of gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Infantilized as a forever child.  Give me the Jesus who drives out moneychangers With arms open wide to sinners and strangers. I want to talk about the Jesus who loves the poor, But you've already slammed the door Because a pastor told you once you were going to hell For sins he'd probably committed as well.  Jesus is heralded by people he doesn't recognize Who are afraid of hell or need to feel superior To all the poor, lost sinners worse than them. God so loved the world he sent his only Son Not to condemn, but to save.  To preach forgiveness, grace, and love of neighbor.  To condemn the hypocrites desperate for power.  To trust us with spreading the message far and wide...

I am called to bear witness to the pain and suffering of others. My vocation is to break with the broken, To mourn with the mourners,  To serve as a reminder of God's presence in the midst of it all.  I stand in the gap between the divine and the downtrodden, Offering a kind and listening ear, Sometimes saying little and doing less. A flickering light of hope shining into the darkness. I bear witness to the anguish of the grieving mother, Wailing for a son who lies limp and lifeless in her arms.  I bear witness to the aftermath of a lifechanging diagnosis, Comforting the shellshocked who know the hour draws near.  I absorb the tears of the devastated, Listen to the laments of the hopeless, Hold the hands of the helpless, Praying for God to show up and be the savior of the sufferers. Through car wrecks and cancers, Devastation and questions without answers, Pandemics and God's looming silence I stand with the victims of circumstance, fate, and violence. I let it roll...

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a vineyard Where right doesn't mean fair. Right means no one goes home hungry. Where the true vine brings forth fruit With the help of the gardener's skilled hands. Where the owner's son's life Is worth sacrificing for the very people who killed him. The Kingdom of Heaven is the pearl of immeasurable value.  The Kingdom of Heaven is light that cannot be hidden. The Kingdom of Heaven is something new; It cannot be adapted and subsumed into what came before. The kingdom comes. His will will be done.  Earth and heaven draw closer.  With daily bread The hungry are fed, And forgiveness is always available.  For the lost, the broken, the sufferers and the meek.  For the hurting, the dying, the defiant and the weak.    Kings and paupers, oppressors and oppressed.  The undeserving, all who need rest.  Come to the king and lay down your crown: Forgive others (even yourself) and be forgiven now. 

  Sometimes we're the prodigal, longing for respite, Seeking and never finding, wandering through the night In the hopes that we'll come upon a place to rest our weary flesh Found by a gracious father, ringed, feasted, and dressed In finery that reminds us of our shame. We rest on the shoulder of a father who never forgot our name.  Sometimes we're the older brother, grudgingly compliant. Lacking in love, but never rude or defiant Until we see the love our father has for the undeserving And fly into a rage, finding it unnerving That grace would permit sinners like them To come and drink, filling their cups beyond the brim.  Hopefully someday we can learn to be like the father.   Eyes on the horizon, longing for the ones who couldn't bother To treat us with compassion before they can grovel, Handing out mansions when asked for a hovel.  Oh, that we all could live with such grace! Longing for the day that we'll see him face to face.