Faith, Hope, Love

Faith awakes from ancient dreams,
Calms the winds, hears our screams,
Stands to reprimand the waves,
Speaks—you need not live as slaves.

     But we reside in holes and haunts
     And crumble ‘neath desire’s taunts. 
     Offered playground swings on chains,
     We close the sash and wait for rain.

Hope, a hungry fire starts.
Sparks fly to light our hearts. 
We long for heritage and glory,
To be the hero of our story.

     But pallid lips quaff bitter brews;
     We search the dregs for any clues. 
     The vestige of our stumbled path
     Winds through weeds and down to wrath.

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

     Yet we, our remedy, resist;
     We wipe away our Lover’s kiss. 
     We hesitate before the altar
     Scorning freedom’s final offer.

Letter To Joel Osteen

A revision of my poem previously titled Suffering: A Poem To Joel Osteen.

Joel Osteen, you are a champion.
Even your name is like esteem.
You are reassuring, unable to offend,
and I cannot help but like you.
Yet I wonder,
where do you put pain?
You seem to manage headaches
and American depression,
but what about big suffering,
like that mentioned
in Hebrews five, verse seven?
Are people who obey God always 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 we visit the slums of Kolkata
with Mother Theresa.
All of us are smiling.
She sees the people.
We look at them.
We stand straight, full of promise.
She is crooked
from leaning into their faces.
We want to help them,
but we’re stuck in our 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 may have built an empire
on your congenial smile,
but what we really need
is to put on desperation.
Do you want us to be like you
or be forgiven?
Idols fall.  People get bruised.
But that can help us
to 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.

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.