Peace, all. This reflection/poetry sort of spilled out this morning. A reflection from my context as I listen to the pain of seniors here in the US and witness the US-sponsored suffering, death, and genocide playing out in Palestine. It’s also a little bit of a reflection on the RCL (church lectionary) text that will be read in our mainline protestant churches this week–a story that sits between Jesus’ community feeding thousands, and Jesus' death at the hands of the State. Please receive it more as poetry or prayer or something like that, more than anything else. Just felt the need to share.
BTW, if you are reading on your phone, it’ll be easier to read this if you turn your phone sideways.
Peace all.
Tom
I spend most days of my week listening to people. To seniors. To people who work with seniors. To healthcare workers. And to pastors. To social workers. And family members. And neighbors in the community. I listen for holes. For gaps. For needs. For the absences that create pain. And longing. And sometimes anger. But more times than not, to that terrible dynamic duo of longing (for food on the regular, for housing that won’t suck every saved dollar away, for joy, for community, for peace, for freedom to not have to choose between buying new underwear or paying for meds, for “anything, anything, anything other than this”) on the one hand; and to despondent defeat, on the other–that terrifying acceptance that this is the world we’ve created–and which will kill us. This world that sacrifices our old. That isolates our poor, our sick, our neighbors, us, and our others. This world. That blames the crucified people (as Ellacuría and Boff would call them) for the crosses they bear.
The crosses that are thrust upon them.
Cut.
And crafted.
From trees.
And nailed.
The world. That calls them (the crosses) “their responsibility.” “Their haul.” Their load. “To bear.” While saying very little. Almost nothing. Certainly not enough about Rome.
Rome! Rome! Rome, Rome, Rome, Rome, and Rome and Rome! You gather your guards. You supply your armies with arms. You hang each messiah for feeding 5,000. For satisfying the desires of the suffering. And then some! For speaking of the Peace of God. The Reign of Love.
A world beyond:
Beyond the suppression of your “pax” romana.
Beyond the rule of your lord caesar, “the son of the gods.”
You massacre 3,000, 5,000, 6,000, more. For rising up. From slavery. From death. From the grave. Toward life. The warmth. The sun.
Your Way is violence. The many sacrificed. For the few. For the few. Your Peace is submission. Passed and passed again. Before the gifts, the presentation, the presents–the altar. Your wages? Bones. And teeth. And bodies. And blood. And blood. Blood, blood, blood, blood, and blood and blood.
Billions sent. Spent. Manufactured. Buried. Built. Villages crushed. Cities sunk. Lives. Lives. Lives! Gone. Into a land called Holy. An influx. And assault. A “mission” it is said. American bullets. American bombs. “Peace. Peace!” But there is no peace. Lips praise. But hearts are far away. Caterpillar, Inc. Bulldozing streets. Caterpillar, Inc. And no fucking butterflies. No fucking butteflies.
Only pain. Destruction. Blood. Rivers and rivers of blood.
Just genocide.
And genocide.
And genocide for Palestine.
pax romana. Long live Caesar, the son of the awful gods.
Waving flags. Stars and stripes. Red stripes in the night. These stripes are our neighbors. The others mean nothing. They are something that hasn’t come. Like money. For rent, for meds, for food. We have no money.
Just for guns. For tanks. For bombs.
Soldiers with spears.
“Why have you forsaken me?”
A vinegar sponge.
The crosses we bear.
Made in the USA.
“USA. USA. USA.”
Here. In Rome.
Where’s Judas?
With his kiss?
Where’s Peter with his sword?
And Mary? And Mary? And Martha? And that crew?
Lazarus.
Where are the crucified people rising?
There is God. In the hells we’ve made. “Descended to the Dead.” To Hades.
Rising in the battered and bewildered ones.
In the hungry. The impoverished. The old.
Preparing.
For transformation.
Plowshares from swords.
Caterpillars into hospitals, schools, mosques, churches, temples, synagogues.
5,000 fed.
And no more hanging.
Skeletons dancing. Tapping toes.
Lions and lambs embrace, in love.
Gonna study war no more. Gonna study war no more. Gonna study war no more.
Down by the riverside.
There is God.
I spend most days of my week listening to people. To seniors. To people who work with seniors. To healthcare workers. And to pastors. To social workers. And family members. And neighbors in the community. I listen for holes. For gaps. For needs. For the absences that create pain. And longing. And sometimes anger. But more times than not, to that terrible dynamic duo of longing (for food on the regular, for housing that won’t suck every saved dollar away, for joy, for community, for peace, for freedom to not have to choose between buying new underwear or paying for meds, for “anything, anything, anything other than this”) on the one hand; and to despondent defeat, on the other–that terrifying acceptance that this is the world we’ve created–and which will kill us. This world that sacrifices our old. That isolates our poor, our sick, our neighbors, us, and our others. This world. That blames the crucified people for the crosses they bear. The crosses that are thrust upon them.
Cut.
And crafted.
From trees.
And nailed.
Faith says that it doesn’t have to be this way. Religion has claimed that Jesus is “the firstborn from the dead.” And that we might follow. That the world, too, might rise in Love. To dance. And to feast.
I hope this is true. And that it is possible.
I really want it to be so.
And I pray that we can live it into being.
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