This is Not Going to Work

(selling non-success)

What if
we fail?
What if
our selfishness,
dullness,
hurts,
foreign ideals,
cause us to turn
not to you
but upon each other?
What if
we allow
the nothing of our fears
to drive
the glorious something
of the love
that binds us
away,
until we fall
apart,
s ------c -----a ------------ t

--t-----------

--------- e-------
----------------------r--------

?

"What if?"?
is there any other way?
didn't you yourself
fail?
can we do differently
than the first
and still bear their name?
(for the point of bearing that name
is to remember and proclaim
that that name
is not the point)

if so,
then use our brokenness,
(the absence that by its non-being
praises that which is)
as you used
the scattered twelve.

Wow

This has nothing to do with poetry, but I'm just going to put it out there anyway. If you need/desire a theological deconstruction of this rubbish, ask and I'll be happy to pull out my ax. But I'm pretty sure that won't be necessary.

You may want to cover you computer in some sort of protective plastic before you click here.

Holy Saturday World

It's a nice heartache
She found there;
It's a new mistake
Done with her same old flair.
So she'll come back alive
With Christ-like scars
To pharisaical eyes
And dead mylar hearts.

She found her life on the other side of the grave.

You've been born again;
Have you ever died?
'Cuz she died more than once
Back when she killed them
With love and a clutch.
Now doubts can occupy
The same space as her faith,
Like the grave that held life.

In sacred silence we wait

In a Holy Saturday world
Where reason's crushed and uncurled
Until the holes in our systems provide
Glimpses of redemption.

It snowed the day
They lifted the lid
And found him hidden away
In the [mud and grit].
They had his friend drag him
Like Simon's cross
Across the pot-holed yard
To the furnace door.

He descended to hell. His ashes fell with the flakes

In a Holy Saturday world
Where reason's crushed and uncurled
Until the holes in our systems provide
Glimpses of redemption.

Is there any way around hell, in this foolish story we tell?


(Copyright 2008)

Poetry and Subculture

For a bit more on what I wrote about in the last post and hope to do a bit of in my next few posts, see here.

Poetry and Theology

I love theology. Yet, I am sure many are grateful (or would be, if they took to time to think about it) that God did not give us the Scriptures in the form of a systematic theology textbook. Instead God gave us a collection of stories and poetry and letters - and, often, it is difficult to tell the difference between them - that themselves are not the point but beckon us to Someone greater behind them.

I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately and what it means for my own theological exercises. I have come to the conclusion that essays, treatises, and systems simply do not cut it. They are good. Often necessary. But they themselves are a step to something greater (noticing a pattern?). I am convinced of the necessity (owing a great deal to the very types of essays and articles and books I am now proclaiming insufficient) of incorporating the arts into our theological work. Music (for a GREAT paper on the theological nature of music, see here) and poetry and sustained silence must be a central part of our reflection and spiritual discipline as they often say more than a whole library of the works of brilliant loquacious puffs ever could.

So, I am going to do something over my next handful of posts that is not easy for me. I am going to share the fruit (hopefully this is an appropriate metaphor) of my recent theological reflection: my poetry. I pray these are true to both appellations; that they are both theology and poetry. I also pray they will in some way be edifying to you, the blogging body of Christ.

I would love to engage in any conversation they may spark. And always remember that perhaps the point of our words is to allow us to articulate their inadequacy.

NOT ABOUT A GIRL (I had thought this would be obvious...)

Senses recalled in my head:
Your smell. It might drive me mad.
Soft touch upon my hand;
Sufficient strength to:
Stand me up,
Strangle me.

Dreams find you waiting there,
So far away, again.
I span the distant land
Reaching out to take that same

Offered pierced hand;

The thought of which grips my throat.
But it's your eyes that steal my breath,
And turn cool night to burning day.
As my skin begins to peel

I realize unrequited love will kill.


(Copyright 2008)