The first theologian

 

was a woman

who came seeking

 

nothing

 

for herself;

a day of walking

 

in the heat, in the sun,

she came

 

for her daughter

she came

 

like something wild out of the desert

she came

 

eyes almost blind with fear,

face streaked with sweat

 

and dirt matted hair, she came

crying out

 

until the voices whispered

like demons of her own

 

driving her away

By what right

 

did they say these things

call her a dog

 

to drive her away;

but she would not leave

 

until she received

the nothing she had come for;

 

and when he turned,

it was not to her

 

he said: It is not right

to take the children’s food

 

and throw it to the dogs;

but she knowing only

 

her daughter’s need

accepted even this as gift, 

asking only: How then

are the dogs to be fed?

 

And there it was, 

that he turned and sighed,

Your faith is great. It shall be

done for you as you desire.

And there it was,

the nothing she asked

 

becoming the gift

her daughter received.

 

A theology of need

This is a poem that I can't stop working on. It was published last year (Iris Literary Journal), but I keep going back to it. This summer, I workshopped it at UST with the poet James Matthew Wilson (and several wonderful writerly friends).  I think they helped me see it with fresh eyes. 
The idea for the poem and the main image of brokenness as a blessing came to me while I was volunteering as a chaplain's aid at the hospital.  What I began to sense as I visited patients and sat with families, was that they --in their struggle, in their fear, in their need-- were being transformed into sources of grace.  Often there was nothing I could do but sit by someone's side and hold their hand and listen to their tears, their memories, their laughter--or just the quiet discomfort of their breathing.  And yet, when it was time to go, I always felt that I was the one who had been blessed by the visit. As if  their sorrow, their trial, their need had opened a space for grace to enter into my own life, my own heart, my own soul.  

I find this to be an idea that haunts me.. It may be strange to say about your own writing, but it is true.   

A theology of need

  

Insufficiency

is the body’s theology;

 

an emptiness within

our every effort

where another may find

 

space

 

enough

to be enough:

 

an empty cup waiting

for a broken pitcher.

 

To fill a void with our own

is to finally find a home,

a space where we belong.

 

This is the body’s

theology.

The saints are never

 

wrong.

 

A poem for Holy Saturday 2022

 This poem comes from my book Stations (Wiseblood Books).  

It seems a fitting meditation for this Holy and mysterious day.

Station XIV:  Jesus is laid in his tomb

Wrapped and balmed, anointed

we lay the chill flesh upon the stone;

 

his mother now, released, weeps

silently beside her son

 

awaiting our withdrawal.

It grows dark.

 

And when the stone is moved in place

and when they all have gone,

 

I feel the silence of the unmoved earth

and press my face against the stone.

 

:

 

Make clean my heart, Oh Lord,

that it may be your tomb.

Make clean my heart,

that you may find your rest in me.