A great poem, shared with me by my friend Roberta Damon:
What, finally, shall we say
In the last moment
When we will be confronted
By the Unimaginable,
The One
Who could not be measured
or contained
In space or time
Who was Love
Unlimited?
What shall we answer
When the question is asked
About our undeeds
Committed
In his name—
In the name of him
For whose sake we promised
To have courage
To abandon everything?
Shall we say
That we didn’t know—
That we couldn’t hear the clatter
Of hearts breaking—
Millions of them—
In lonely rooms, in alleys
and prisons
And in bars?
Shall we explain
That we thought it mattered
That buildings were constructed
And maintained
In his honor—
That we were occupied
With the arrangements
Of hymns and prayers
And the proper, responsible way
Of doing things?
Shall we tell him
That we had to take care
Of the orderly definition
of dogmas
So that there was no time
To listen to the
sobbing
Of the little ones
Huddled in corners
Or the silent despair
Of those already beyond
sobbing?
Or, shall we say this, too:
That we were afraid—
That we were keeping busy
with all this
To avoid confrontation
Wih the reality of his
meaning
Which would lead us to
repentance—-
That it was fear that
kept us
Hiding in church pews
And in important boards
and committees
When he went by?
—Ursula Solek
Bonus: Take a look at these pictures and the accompanying story by Ryan Phillips, grandson of Irma Lee Hardie, one of our regular volunteers in Community Missions.
Here’s another great poem by Wendell Berry. I smiled when I read it because, for nearly five years in Kentucky, I was pastor to his mother, Virginia Berry. She was everything he says she was here and then some. But I also smiled because it reminded me so much of my own mother, who forgave me more wrongs than I care to remember, and who—like Wendell’s mother—has long since forgotten them. So, here’s to you, Virginia, and Mary Rice, and all mothers everywhere. 
Wendell Berry–well-known poet, philospher, and prophet—was a member of the church I served in New Castle, Kentucky. I’ve read a number of his novels and essays, but this poem has always been one of my favorites. If you’re not a fan of poety (some people aren’t), you can skip down to the last line which—during this Easter season—presents itself as a bold challenge to the followers of the risen Lord.
I was at Starbucks this afternoon, reading through a stack of correspondence, studying for Wednesday night’s sermon from Mark 12:1-12, and savoring the first few pages of Phyllis Tickle’s new book, The Great Emergence, when I looked up and saw a pair of shoes that inspired poety. Here’s the result:
As a follow up to my Ash Wednesday sermon about overcoming our fear of death by denying ourselves, taking up our crosses, and following Jesus (“volunteering to die” as Dietrich Bonhoeffer would put it), let me offer this wonderful poem by M. Truman Cooper, first shared with me by my dear friend Judy Skeen. It’s called “See Paris First,” and it’s about knowing what it is you fear and facing up to it–approaching it squarely and head on–so that you don’t have to spend the rest of your life being afraid. The poem itself is simple and spare. It may take more than one reading to appreciate it, but I assure you…it’s worth it.
