Suffering: A Poem To Joel Osteen

Joel Osteen you are a Champion.
Even your name sounds like
esteem.  You are reassuring,
unable to offend, and I cannot
help but like you.  Yet I wonder,
where do you put pain?  You
manage headaches and American
depression, but what about big
suffering, like that mentioned in
Hebrews five, verse seven?  Are
people who obey God happy and
content?  Sinless Jesus learned
obedience by what he underwent.

Well meant are your admonitions.
You believe in good decisions and in
Jesus by whom promises are given.
Don’t forget, as Christians, we
confess best intentions as hankerings
to be a mannequin or a magician.
Listen, one pastor said, you’ll know
you’ve encountered God when
you limp.  We are inexorable.
Happiness feels foreign.  Oh, to be
sleek like plastic, to live with
faith-expectant.  If only our ragged,
souls were not so bent.

Words are power, but
we don’t hear them.  Coaxing
can’t turn us, we must be caught!
We have a worship problem.
We won’t receive a gift until
our hands are shaking.
Ask the poet, ask Bob Dylan—
behind every beautiful thing
there is persistent aching.
Where are your sick, your sad,
your malcontents?  We read
your books to become smooth and
stiff.  Prop us up behind plate glass.
We want to be convinced.  But
we must

ask ourselves, do we love the poor;
do we pay attention?  Imagine
you visit the slums of Kolkata with
Mother Teresa.  You are
both smiling.  She sees
the people, you look at them.
You stand straight, full of promise.
She is crooked from leaning into
their faces.  You want to
help them, but you’re stuck in that
position.  The masses are borne up by
her cracks and creases.
Gleaming teeth shame them.  So

let’s close our mouths for a season.
You’ve built an empire on
your congenial smile.  Swap it
every so often, for a look of
desperation.  Do you want people to
be like you or be forgiven?
If the idol fell you would
get bruised, but you might
stop encouraging belief in
a god who gives his best only
to those who follow the rules.
That god is ruthless and his
face is never at rest.

On The Early Miscarriages Of Two Children

Death, you feckless enemy.
In vain, you took two children.
You cannot hold them
anymore than I can grip

the wind.  We are good parents.
We will endure miscarriages
and family absences.
We long for the ones taken,

but you are defeated.
Their names—Speck,
and Pickle—were given before,
given because, given, and

you cannot claim them.
You were uninvited, but we
still took our seats for dinner,
with our living kin,

to pray, to see another’s face,
to consider life in a womb
and form a space
between our digits—About

this big?  Yes!  Can you believe
it!?—We do not want for grief.
O Death, you made us weep.
But here, beneath the Wing,

you may not reach.  You’ll never
grasp the strength that forms
the frailest tiny living
human beings.

The Enabler’s Lament

If I should ever stand, it is to
Quick back-over bend.
I say I’m fine, but bear the
marks of torture-from-a-friend.

I want to be courageous, but
I melt like snow in May.
I pray to yet be faithful, then
I fade into the fray.

There is no me, no wall, no tree
To climb above the harm.
There is no time when I will
Reach to shut off the alarm.

This god that I still fashion is
A chain of paper dolls.
This love that I imagine
Holds my hand to let me fall.

Faith, Hope, Love

Faith, awaking from a dream,
Calms the wind and stills our screams. It
Stands, rebuking raging waves and
Speaks that we may be freed slaves.

We stay here in crumbling haunts and
Crumple ‘neath desire’s taunts. We’re
Offered playground swings on chains, but
From the window watch the rains.

Hope, a hungry fire starts.
Sparks fly up and burn our hearts. We
Long for heritage and glory; to be
Great heroes in the story.

Our pallid lips quaff bitter brews. We
Search the dregs for any clues. The
Vestige of our stumbling path
Reveals a way that leads to wrath.

Wearing bold and wild colors,
Setting blazing wild fires,
Love, though we may never say it,
Bests our fine and whited harlot.

Yet we, our remedy, resist. We
Turn away our lover’s kiss. We
Hesitate before the altar,
Scorning freedom’s final offer.