Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Religion's Underbelly (a poem)

I wanted you 
to be delivered 
box-shaped.
Small, medium, or large - it didn’t matter.
Just prove predictable,
measurable, 
comprehensible,
and 
contained.


Should you arrive early, 
I’d be tempted 
to set you aside 
waiting 
for my readied willingness to catch up 
Should you be late,
I might demand
a partial refund of faith
or
write a poor user review,
warning of 
potential disappointment.


If dimensions 
aren’t right,
no worries.
I can trim you 
down to size.
Funnel the love 
until it seeps, 
drips,
drops,
at a manageable pace.
Whittle the edges of mystery 
with a lathe 
of certainty.
Accept only rules 
of engagement
that grant privilege 
and safety.
I’ll be sure to discount 
the grace, 
stocking the shelves 
at the five and dime,
so that demand 
never exceeds supply.


but you.


you,
of all people;
so irreligious
in your holiness.
Unrighteous piety
that's frivolous 
in love;
wasted 
on charlatans,
beggars, 
and 
drunks.


you,
stingy 
in anger
toward those 
outside 
of the sanctuary.
The liars, 
the chancers,
and 
the cheats.


you,
with dirty feet
and 
unclean hands.
Touching prostitutes
and 
crossing the road
to bandage 
the dying.


you,
a derelict
of the very system 
created 
to explain you, 
make you plain, 
bring you close,
and 
make you attainable.


Worked my fingers 
to the bone,
beat my head 
against the wall,
configured 
and decoded 
all I could,
with 
no 
lasting
success.


because you.


you,
an ever-moving target,
impossible 
to manipulate; 
an uncontrollable 
mighty wind.


you,
a blue-hot fire,
impossible
textinguish;
unquenchable 
burning flame.




I never know if trying to explain my writing is helpful or a hindrance to the work itself. In this case, I shall give a short postlude. I have grown increasingly discontent, over the years, with the workings and ways of the American church. We are so tempted to analyze our success according to easily measurable numbers (attendance, building, and cash). And while these metrics can be helpful in assessing growth, they are far from taking into account the intangibles of true discipleship (increased virtues, deepening love of God, self, and others). The latter is much more difficult to gauge, and so we return to the things that most quickly define us as a congregation - our size (in people, facility, and dollars). 

This poem is part of my own processing as I consider the unsolvable nature and mystery of God. It's a product of my own wrestling in this last year of a changing hermeneutic in my life about the place of certainty in my walk with God. The god I knew as a child was finite, fully knowable, and predictable. As I age, I recognize that "seeing through a glass dimly" means there will be great and unsearchable things I won't know this side of heaven. Things about God's character, His stance of controversial issues, and the full matter of salvation. And I am becoming more and more comfortable, perhaps even delighted, in the uncertainty.



So, this piece is like retrospective in part, and still a current autobiography, as I seek to live resisting the urge to reduce God to a definable, fully comprehensible entity. He's much too lovely for that. But the malady of the church is that we often, quite belligerently, defend the certainty of our point of view. The people of God, who on some level know God is mystery, choose to diminish this mystery for the sake of our own comfort. And herein lies the irony - religion, which is developed to grant people access to God, is often the most guilty of culprits in denying people that very proximity of grace. It's the weakness of religion, because God was never meant to be contained.




What if believers walked in a certainty of God's goodness, seen most vividly in Christ, and a willingness to admit uncertainty in most everything else? 

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