This poem sits somewhere at the intersection of Jesus’ crucifixion on Good Friday, and George Floyd’s murder at the hands of Derek Chauvin, and the reflective wilderness-themed space currently set up in the sanctuary at my church.
Place of Manna, Place of Silence
take a rock
it in the river
and now it’s gone.
And some are murdered
by the state
in broad daylight
Many want to help
but are not able.
And some double down
on their excuses
for the inexcusable
in their pain.
And the “if only”s
are too much.
How could they not be?
at the cross
pour like blood
from the sides
we hardly dare
they’ve been so
Did you want
to be an object
subject of our art
subject to our
And which parts
of all that
So many questions.
This is the place
this is the site
where what has
gone to waste
may someday sigh
and struggle shivering
This is the time
This, the place
not too much.
And though I hunger
for a feast
tonight I’ll settle for
through my soul
that you were not alone
neither am I.
So see the river
in the distance
so stop and listen
stay a while
let it flow
A prayer for mercy as the news of Trump’s acquittal in his second impeachment trial sinks in.
God, have mercy on everyone who grieves this.
Have mercy on everyone who rejoices.
Have mercy on everyone who is oblivious.
Have mercy on everyone who is numb.
Have mercy on everyone who carries disillusionment
like weight within their eyes
that weighs still heavier each day
as justice is, again, again,
Have mercy on those who were, somehow,
Have mercy on the ones who find no revelation
of American depravity
in any way surprising,
Have mercy on the ones for whom the scales
are finally falling from their eyes,
and on the ones whose eyes are weary
from the witnessing of yet another round
of scales falling, utterly exhausting.
Have mercy on the ones to whom America
has not been merciful.
Have mercy on everyone wrongly convicted,
often racistly convicted,
and on all who love them,
as we watch the rich white criminals go free.
Have mercy on us in our wounds that fester
through the generations
and have not been aired to heal.
How can we go forward, stumbling, lurching
when half would leave the other half to die,
and laugh at all the stuff that makes
Because I wanted to be cool like Nadia Bolz-Weber (just kidding―I’ll never be as cool as Nadia!) and write some blessings of my own. (Check out Nadia’s beautiful “Blessed are the Agnostics” piece here, if you like. It’s really lovely.)
These words are loosely inspired by the beatitudes (Matthew 5:3-12), and much less loosely inspired by a bunch of different pieces of news I’ve seen recently that relate to this week’s election.
Election Week Blessing
Blessed are those who stand and wait for hours
in lines that wrap around buildings and stretch into the street.
Blessed are those who take selfies at the ballot drop box
and do a little dance.
Blessed are the elderly whose bodies no longer move as they once did,
but who are determined to make it to the polls.
Blessed are those who receive death threats
and vote anyway.
Blessed are those who grit their teeth and vote for a candidate
they did not choose and do not like.
Blessed are those who staff the polls and count the ballots.
Blessed are the postal workers.
Blessed are the employers who give people the day off to go and vote.
Blessed are the lawyers fighting legal battles for every vote to be counted.
Blessed are those who refuse to manipulate statistics
to make themselves look better, or to give false hope.
Blessed are those not too consumed by hubris
to admit when they have lost a contest.
Blessed are those who march to the polls,
stop and take a knee for eight minutes and forty six seconds,
and are tear gassed by police.
Blessed are the Black Lives Matter organizers.
Blessed are those who hold vigil for lives taken violently before their time.
Blessed are those still in the streets after a hundred and fifty days,
who are desperate and will not stop knocking at the door of justice.
Blessed are those whose blood boils and hearts sink
at the sight of Austin police officers posing with Proud Boys for a photo.
Blessed are those who have tried and failed to reform police departments.
Blessed are those who feared for their lives on that Biden campaign bus,
and those who felt sad and angry watching the video of the trucks surrounding it and trying to force it off the road.
Blessed are the white people who consider themselves recovering racists,
and who know the journey is a life-long one.
Blessed are the immigrants maligned as murderers and rapists,
called animals and hunted by a system that does not care about them.
Blessed are those who tremble at the thought of the results of this election,
because it might mean life or death for them or those they love.
Blessed are those who live among a violent people, in a violent nation,
and refuse to take up arms.
Blessed are the pastors willing to preach justice and hold out for real shalom,
though their congregants want to hear them say “peace, peace.”
Blessed are the church leaders driven out of their jobs and their communities
because they refuse to toe the Republican party line.
Blessed are those less concerned with saving disembodied souls
and more concerned with living in a way that values every whole and complex person.
Blessed are those who sit in church pews and want to mourn the state of everything,
while everyone around them smiles and claps their hands to upbeat praise songs.
Blessed are the ones who know how to wail in lament.
Blessed are those who still have hope,
and those whose hope is gone.
Blessed are those who have been gaslighted over and over again
and now know how to resist it,
and those who have not been able to resist.
Blessed are those who are not afraid to look at all these hard things.
Blessed are those who crave righteousness and truth and goodness
more than power.
Blessed are the poor, the mourners, the weak,
the hungry and thirsty for justice,
the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers,
the ones persecuted for their pursuit of justice.
Blessed are you.
What Does Such a Moment Ask?
What does such a moment
ask of us?
but not the kind that cowers
in a corner and will not articulate
the jarring, rage-inducing,
healing, liberating truth.
but not the kind that circles
wagons, covers up injustice
and provides protection for abusers
to continue their abuse.
but not the kind invoked
to excuse horrors as if
they’re nothing but mistakes
that every human makes.
but not the kind that clutches
to tranquility at any cost
and throws the rabble-rousers under buses
rather than make reparations.
but not the kind that calls on
the oppressed to bear the burdens of injustice
just a little longer, silently,
lest they provoke unease in their oppressors.
but not the kind that minimizes
damage done, that takes
the easy route to placate
but not satisfy demands for justice.
What does such a moment
Perhaps the same things
God has always asked:
act justly―with the one
who brings things done
in secret into light;
love mercy―with the one
who hears the prayers
of the oppressed and does not
hesitate to take a side;
walk humbly―with the one
who offers us the staff of Moses
when we need it,
helping us to speak.
Women, I Would Like to Call Forth
I would like to call forth
your holy anger.
Let it rattle the sidings
of your churches―the ones
that keep telling you to serve,
but do not serve you well.
Let it be no longer
held constrained within your bones
in bonds unspoken, swept
beneath the doormat to your soul―
the one they wanted you to be
as they kept telling you to sweep
Let it rise like yeast
through sixty pounds of dough.
Let it boil and spill
over the edges of respectability,
over the steaming rims
of pots and pans
that do not hold you.
Let it fly forth until they can
no longer put a cover on your head
like cloth over your face
to stifle your unruly sounds.
Let there be words, so many
words for every time they
tried to shame you into silence.
Let there be tears, so many
tears for every time they
said they needed you to smile.
Let there be open confrontation,
exposed wounds for every time they
turned to you, like Absalom, and said
don’t take this thing to heart―
for every time they wanted you to bow
and place your fierce God-given power
in their grasping hands.
Let there be squalls,
and Jesus in the boat
who says with kindness,
you of little faith,
I made you for much more.
Won’t you turn and own the power
I breathed into you.
Won’t you join me
as I flip over the tables they
have closed to you and
make a whip and drive them out.
I would like to call forth
your holy anger.
How Far We Were
I did not know
how far we were
from one another
til 2020 blasted into light
the light years that had always
been between us,
like a looking glass
intent on showing
where we expected to
I wish I did not know
how much we do not hold
when we were younger,
and the world was, too,
we felt we could afford
to talk of high and lofty love
as though it were a concept
academic and abstract.
It was a more naive
and happy time when I
had no idea what shape
these thoughts would take
incarnate in your hands.
we could agree
on pleasant-sounding thoughts
in inoffensive-sounding words,
but this year’s traumas
tipped our hands
and pushed us toward specifics.
Yet, it must be better, still,
to know, to see
can survive these storms
and which were always built
on something sinking.
It must be better, still,
to learn to speak
the things we really think,
to learn to talk about
the things we see
and where we cannot talk,
perhaps to let our journeys drift,
for now, apart.
We could not live forever, anyway,
in blind denial of the things
each other’s souls
It must be better to reveal,
it may all feel,
I’m thinking of all the evangelical leaders who say ridiculous and harmful things, and wondering if all the ordinary Christians who listen to them know that they don’t have to – that just because someone is a pastor or has a big following (or a lot of media attention) and claims the Christian name doesn’t mean that what they are saying is true or good or helpful.
Drawing on my last post, about God empowering ordinary people, I think God wants us to be empowered to use our brains and hearts and human compassion and empathy – and our own reading of Scripture with all these things in mind – to determine what kinds of leaders we choose to follow.
I’d like to know
what kind of god you answer to
behind that smile
you grab to coat your face
before you leave the house,
your real thoughts locked away
beyond my reach―
and all of this, you say,
I’d like to know, because
if he is not a god
who shares himself in humbleness,
who gives himself in tenderness
and sees the ones
who cry to him for justice,
then I want nothing
to do with him.
If he, like you, knows only
how to smile and not to weep,
and if he laughs at things that
make me want to turn the tables
on their heads in holy anger―
if he does not bleed a screaming
river from his side
as you wield scripture like a knife,
I’d like to know―
because, if so,
this god you answer to
is not a god I want to know.
And, surely, with the sureness
in my soul,
I do not answer to you.
We the People (American Lament)
Take a needle,
poke a hole in the
American pipe dream,
and watch it all
We the people
never knew how to
care for ourselves,
let alone the ones that we
We grasp with cowardice
to table scraps
of life, liberty, happiness,
like broken records
that keep screeching
“we are winning.”
We drench our dreams
in destiny, like creamy
white ranch sauce,
and love the hero’s journey
like it’s ours.
We look, like children,
for faith healers at the river
who can disappear our issues,
trip and fall
in existential frantic rush
to save our souls.
We have our pick of saviors,
to choose false ones,
while real ones we
twist violently to make them
what they never meant to be.
We hold free speech
as we shout down all
the voices that might teach us,
ride our sacred cows
up to the ghost town
on the hill
that never was a beacon
to the watching world.
We pile our things
around us in a huddle
as though they could
And if a rag-clothed rabbi
spit, made mud,
and offered it
to put upon our eyes,
might we be brave enough
to open them?
God is Calling Her Children
God is calling
her children to the garden,
to walk through wildflowers
in the place where life
grows slowly and unveils itself
in its own time,
to let soil slip through fingers
in the place where we
do not need to be
conquerors and colonizers,
chairpeople and board members,
but, rather, midwives:
those who care and watch
and move to catch
the world that is to come.
So God is calling,
listen as she calls forth
the kind that runs with Spirit wind behind
and does not lose its breath
until its tiny corner of the world
bursts with divine love,
until our eyes see God in every person
and our hands have done the good
that they could do
and let that be
A poem inspired by awesome parents like my friend Sarah Suarez, who put so much thought and intention daily into the ways they raise their daughters, and by Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’ recent speech in response to Rep. Ted Yoho’s disrespectful comments and subsequent non-apology.
If you haven’t watched the full video of AOC’s speech (included in the link above), it’s well worth the ten minutes. One line (among many!) that I appreciated is “I am here because I have to show my parents…that they did not raise me to accept abuse from men.”
She Raises Her Daughters
She raises her daughters to negotiate,
push back, articulate their needs,
to know that those who love them
will respect them, hear them out, will not
lash back in anger.
She raises her daughters to say “thank you”
and “no, thank you,” to assert autonomy,
embrace their agency, be willing to refuse
demands upon their time, their bodies, souls,
and see authority as something not unbendable
by strong and stubborn wills.
She raises her daughters to make choices,
to direct the courses of their lives, to not
accept in coerced blindness
all the things the world will tell them
about who they are
and what they cannot be.
She raises her daughters to stand tall
when men try to demolish them with words,
to see right through pretend apologies,
to speak truth to deaf ears until they hear,
and not back down upon intimidation.
She raises her daughters to know that they
and all their sisters are worth more
So praise her, praise the mothers like her,
praise the parents like her―each the kind
of hero our world does not know it needs.
They walk against the wind
and swim up all the streams
to teach our little girls to live as fully human,
teach our little girls to live what will not be
an easy life.