On Earth As It Is In Heaven

On Earth As It Is In Heaven

Some people pray
That He would come and take us away
So we can all eat pie in the sky
Except some of us won't be there
For them, there will only be fire

I struggle to pray
To make sense out of speaking to the air
While being told He already knows what I'm going to ask
But one prayer does make sense to me
On earth as it is in heaven

If we all prayed:
On earth as it is in heaven
Would there be war?
Would there be poverty?
Would we hate over differences
Like religion,
Or skin tone,
Or whom we choose to love,
Or pronouns,
Or anything?

Letters to God

Well, I'm not...you know the routine.

 

I say "I'm not a poet", and then sometimes people say "but you keep writing poems - you seem like a poet to me." And then I come in and say something like "I don't know much about how to do meter or rhyme - I just try to bare my soul and write what's on my heart."

 

Poetry has been a way for me to turn off the filters and be raw and honest. And before you read my latest poem, I wanted you to know that this is what I'm trying to do here. I'm trying to show the most honest thoughts I've had about God and prayer and faith (whether recent thoughts or thoughts I've had in my past) - without filter, and without worrying what people will think or how they'll judge me for having had those thoughts. And I think about how, according to Matthew, Jesus said you must become like a little child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. So maybe that's what I'm doing here. I dunno, it's my best guess at what he might have meant by that - and isn't that all any of us can do?

 

Letters to God

Dear God:
Are you really listening?
And does it matter what I say?
A certain writer wrote
That a certain son of yours said
That you know what I need before I ask.
And if that's so, what's the point in asking?
Is it just to stroke your ego?

Dear God:
They tell me you really care about who has sex with whom.
Why is that so important to you?
And if men on men or women on women make you so mad,
why do you let them come out that way?
Why not just make them all with hetero desire?
But really, who is it hurting?
Are you really like us - grossed out by anything different or unique?

Dear God:
They tell me Jesus is you.
They also said you couldn't forgive our sins without blood.
They said this was because you were so Holy.
Why does "Holy" sound like "bloodthirsty"?
And if Jesus is you, how does sacrificing yourself to yourself help anything?
And if Jesus said to forgive without demanding payment,
Why can't you?

Dear God:
Do you actually have a penis?
And if not, why does occasionally saying "She" make you so mad?
Or is all of that nonsense written by men with small imaginations?
Are you more like the Force?
Or consciousness itself, saturating and permeating everything in the Universe?
Or are you the Universe itself?
Or something else entirely?

Dear God:
Why won't you talk to me?
Or give me a clear sign?
They say you talked to a lot of people in the Bible,
And you even did some cool magic tricks.
I'd like to see that.
Call me doubting Thomas if you want,
But even he got to touch the holes.

Dear God:
If you really made everything,
And if you really know everything,
And if you really are Love,
Why does it hurt so much?
I don't have that power and I don't know everything,
And my love isn't perfect like they say yours is.
But when I see someone I care about hurting, it makes me mad.
It makes me want to do something about it.
Where are you when it hurts?
Why aren't you flipping tables right now?

Dear God:
How am I doing? 
Did I get any of it right?
I know when I've messed up.
I hope you have more patience with me than some of your followers.
Do you really love me?
And if so, why?
And if so, how do I know?
And if so, won't you please visit?

Dear God:
Say hi to my Dad.
Tell him I miss him.
So much.
Sometimes I'm not sure if I believe in you.
But I believe in him.
I know he was good.
And I know he loved me.
And whether you're what he thought you were or not,
He loved you.
Maybe that's why I keep trying to.

Dear Dad:
I love you.

Deconstruction

Well, I'm not a poet. But I felt like writing this: 

Deconstruction

I was born totally depraved
Or so they say
My own mind could not be trusted
I must bend and accept the word of authority

My soul was sick
Or so they said
And while I had no symptoms then
They poured their fear into me and ill I became

But you showed me what love was
Taught me it was supreme
You showed me what it meant to accept someone
Even when "heretical" they might be

My sins, so great, demanded blood

Hell's flames licked at my heels with every step

For I knew, I feared God but did not love

How could I love one who would torment endlessly?

 

I simulated worship and adoration

Scanning to see if my performance satisfied

My friendships were skin-deep

I couldn't share my deepest self

 

When I fled, I knew I was lost

Knowing not who I was nor how to find "me"

You loved me just as I was - I was "son"

A constant reassuring truth

 

Who am I? Am I what they said about me?

Am I only the things I say and do?

Am I only the things I know and believe?

I was lost, restless, grieving my absent sense of self

 

And then I saw her - her face shone like the sun

I loved her and she loved me

And I hurt her and she hurt me

But you had taught me - love never fails - and we prevailed

 

And then came the day my son was born

I held his tiny body in my arms 

And when I looked at his face I knew you better - I was "father"

I knew what it meant to love someone who couldn't give anything in return

 

"God is love" and "perfect love casts out fear"

These became my creed

Love was all I wanted to be

Love, the name of my innermost being

 

Love was the only true thing in my past

Love, the only truth in my future

Love behind me, love before me

And all I can say to you is: thank you Dad

 

Heretic

When my father passed a month ago, writing poetry became an avenue through which I processed my thoughts and feelings. I don't claim to be a good poet - I just try to write what's on my heart. And I've been thinking a lot about how Dad actually triggered my own deconstruction when he taught me that love was what was most important to God, because God is love (I John 4:8 and 16). So I've been ruminating on this one for a while.

Heretic 

Grandma was the kindest woman you could ever know
Welcoming and compassionate to everyone she met
She went to a church with a woman preacher
Did you know I once thought she might be a heretic?

Jesus said to love your neighbor as yourself
"Who is my neighbor?" "Let me tell you about a Samaritan"
A Samaritan was like someone from a whole other religion
Did you know he was sent to be crucified for being a heretic?

What if we missed the whole point?
The Church says you can't be "Christian" without Trinity
Some churches say you must have the right ideas about Bible and atonement
Jesus said "they will know you are my disciples if you love"

The Devil is always in someone else
Never in your own heart
And don't you ever think about how his name is "Accuser"
Or how the Holy Spirit's is "Advocate"

George MacDonald taught that God's love was limitless
He wrote "Phantastes" and C.S. Lewis converted because of it
MacDonald called eternal torment a "loathsome lie"
Did you know he lost his pulpit because he was a heretic?

Jesus said "I and the Father are one"
They picked up stones to kill him
He said "let them be one, Father, as you and I are one"
Did you know he was sent to be crucified for being a heretic?

Heretic is a word we use to shut down dialogue
When authority fails and reason is an obstacle
We condemn people for having the wrong ideas about Jesus
But Jesus made it a question - "who do you say that I am?"

The Devil is always in someone else
Never in your own heart
And don't you ever think about how his name is "Accuser"
Or how the Holy Spirit's is "Advocate"

The Devil is "Accuser"
Jesus is a heretic
Holy Spirit, "Advocate"
Jesus died a heretic

Echoes

 Well, I'm not a poet. But I felt like writing this:

Echoes

In the early morning light

I look for you

When I'm alone, I strain my ear

listening for your echoes

 

But ghosts are elusive

Like a mist

They blow away with the wind

Only seen in the peripherals

 

"You look like him", he said to me

On the day of your mourning

While I search the earth for your echo

He saw you when he looked at me

 

You came to me one night

One night only

You visited me in the haze of a dream

Just one last embrace was all I got

 

Maybe your echoes can't be found by looking

Like a shadow that disappears in the light

These reminders only come as a surprise

In an embrace or a song I hear in the distance

 

"Your voice sounds like his", she said to me

She heard your echo

While I searched for you in the fog

I reminded her of you when I spoke

 

I am your strongest echo

When I speak of love

Your warmth, your presence, felt

When I hug tightly

 

I can't find you by searching through the mist

Only by sharing my own presence

Your visage isn't perceived in a direct glance

Your echoes are only heard when I give what you gave me

 

A Good Life?

 Well, I'm not a poet, but I felt like writing this:

A Good Life?

Saturday morning, sitting in that pew
I watch - one by one they stand there
A daughter, a son, a choir member, a camp counselor
"He laughed, he made beautiful music, and he loved"

You were never famous, and you weren't rich
You didn't star in movies, or give your music to sold out crowds
You didn't live in a mansion, no one wore merchandise with your name on it
But you laughed, you made beautiful music, and you loved

When they mourn him, will a daughter dab her eyes with a tissue and say
"he took money from cancer research and gave big tax breaks to the rich"?
Will a son stand up and fight back his tears and say
"he refused to pay TSA so he could make it harder for women to vote"?

Will old high school buddies come up to that podium and choke out the words
"he deregulated companies so they could pollute the waters we drink"?
Will friends from decades ago stand there and weep as they say
"he condemned the pope while he bombed Iranian schoolgirls"?

I wonder what they'll say about me when I cross that rainbow bridge
I wonder who will come to that podium to speak about the life I led
I doubt I'll be famous, I doubt I'll be rich, but I would be proud if even one said
"He laughed, he brought beauty to the world, and he loved." 

Overcome

Well, I'm not a poet. But I felt like writing this.

Overcome 

I look at the world and I'm overcome by the cruelty
The people justifying hate for their brothers and sisters
I look at the world and I'm overcome by the greed
The people hoarding wealth they could never spend
While their bothers and sisters starve

And then it's time to take the dogs outside
Domino is overcome with anticipation
He leaps at the door, straining to get to the ball I keep on the shelf
I throw it across the yard and he sprints, lightning speed, to catch it
His tail wags with joy as he brings it to me, but he won't let me take it
I tug as he clutches it in his mouth, his tail is wagging with sheer joy the whole time

I look at the world and I'm overcome with fear
The orange man threatens genocide, and people use the word "nuclear"
I look at the world and I'm overcome with sadness
My father rests in dust and ashes, his light is snuffed
And the world is a little bit darker with him gone

And then it's time to take the dogs outside
Domino is overcome by the suspense
He yelps with urgency, begging me to open the door faster
I throw the ball again and watch him leap to catch it
And I laugh as I watch his butt wiggling, his tail wagging with intensity
In the presence of his joy, anxiety and pain fade away, replaced with laughter