Elegy For An Uncle

Your second death, this.  The first you cheated—
buried alive, then resurrected to describe
paralysis beneath a cave-in.

They dug you out, but no hands reach you now.
Your story is complete.  The tumor pressed you
down in ways no one could defeat and

I despise it.  You would have wanted to
assure me that you’re in a better place;
I want that for you.  But here,

I fight the enemy of your absence.
I can’t get another handshake or hardy laugh.
There is no father, no husband,

no uncle who donned an apron and cooked
chicken halves at picnics on a giant barbecue
he welded in the garage;

no quick joke or story to bring a smile;
no soft voice—the sound of a Vermonter—asking,
well hi John, what’s going on with you?

I have an early memory: you’re on Grandma’s sofa,
snoring loudly; I am only five or six and
a bit afraid of the great rasp.  Now,

I just hurt—God gave you for my Uncle;
I’ve known some love through you—I miss you,
but I’m willing to believe that is good news.

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.

Help My Unbelief by John Newton

Albert Finney as John Newton in Amazing Grace

I know the Lord is nigh,
and would but cannot pray,
For Satan meets me when I try,
and frights my soul away.
And frights my soul away.

I would but can’t repent,
though I endeavor oft;
This stony heart can ne’er relent
till Jesus makes it soft.
Till Jesus make it soft.

Help my unbelief.
Help my unbelief
Help my unbelief.
My help must come from Thee.

I would but cannot love,
though wooed by love divine;
No arguments have power to move
a soul as base as mine.
A soul so base as mine.

I would but cannot rest,
in God’s most holy will;
I know what He appoints is best,
and murmur at it still.
I murmur at it still.