* A literary journal published this some years ago. I find I never included it in my blog, so I am repenting that now.
Like the soft, blue Galilean Ocean
Full of power and strength but always
Calm and perfect, fixed on me.
Quick and direct, with purpose and the prestige of heaven
But always ready to wipe away tears,
Take what is given and give always what was taken away.
I remember the countenance, though
That is hardly something one might find in a textbook
Subject to analysis and argument in the cold hard halls of academia.
The color of the straw that garnished His bed
But matted and grimy to remind us of the price He paid
And the condescension to which He agreed.
Quick like the hands, with purpose and teaching
But with a beauty of pure majesty
He still could never hide.
Or motives, as they call them in the building of psychology
But pure and perfect and framed by the understanding and memory
Of more than a thousand years of one on one conversations.
The human attempt to do them justice is not only laughable, but insulting.
Is hardly pertinent to attaining a decent grade in class or progressing on to a PhD,
Hardly accepted in the ways of life that really matter, so they say,
And a ridiculous notion – it’s really just being prudish.
So they couldn’t understand what made Him so different,
Though they talked and analyzed till the espresso wore off
And they gave each other prizes made of not quite rusted metal
For who could tear Him apart the best
Or perhaps to those who thought they knew Him.
And though I stand here shouting quietly
And telling people where to look,
They continue on their merry way
And satisfy themselves in the piece by piece analysis
They made of Him
And of His sacrifice
And whether He was God or man –
(What does it matter? He showed the way to life!)
And all the while He stands beckoning
Wishing for them to leave the shell of a life they’ve created for themselves
And shelter them in kindness and love and power greater than worlds and light years
And teach them knowledge that puts Plato and Einstein to shame
But the espresso is gone
And it’s on to the frat party
And He stands there with open arms
With love in His heart and healing in His wings
As they walk away from Him
Tossing their crumpled environmentally friendly coffee cups neatly on the ground
He made for them.
One of them sees the litter and picking it up, takes His name in vain
Because the others were disrespecting the grass,
And he follows them
Thinking himself without the beam
While the Master (or master, as they write it in their award winning essays)
Arms still outstretched,