27 October 2009
Unmoved
I thought you wanted me
to be all flint and fury and gritted teeth inside,
to press my shoulder into a cold wind
and plod on, unperturbed,
and in place of joy to take
that wild courage that shouts back at the thunder;
to fear, yet forge ahead.
Who would’ve thought I’d be so good at it?
Who would’ve thought it would bring me peace:
and I-don’t-care sort of peace,
an I-don’t-hope-for-anything-more.
But I need to hope. I need to hear
your voice speaking not just challenge, but comfort.
I need to stop expecting to be misunderstood,
rejected, ignored.
I need to get hurt without expecting it,
or at least to live without expecting to be hurt.
I need to celebrate.
I need to seek
flickering joy; not bold, unwavering determination.
I need to sing along
with the subway trumpeter’s Easter songs.
I need to wake to the world saying
“All will be well,”
and to hear the autumn leaves whisper about
the Resurrection.
This poem is from a difficult time in my life. After joining the Crossing I was so excited about its ministry that I was inviting everyone I knew (plus some total strangers I bumped into) to come to the services. One person I invited was a friend who worked with me in a homeless outreach ministry run by a local Southern Baptist church. This friend began treating me as if I were a non-Christian, and began openly insulting me while in the presence of the homeless people we were serving. He assured me that he was “actively involved” in gathering a team of people focused on getting me kicked out of that ministry. This culminated in a meeting between me, this friend, and two pastors of the church.
I’d like to be able to say that I handled the meeting well. I started by describing my own faith and how it has evolved into something that I believe is more orthodox and Biblical than ever, and how that faith compels me to reach out in love to all people, even homosexuals (this is what they found unacceptable). I also assured them that in my own behavior and moral choices they would not find anything to object to. Then I gave in to my baser instincts and told them that there were several people in prominent positions in their church who I knew to be living sinful lifestyles, and that because of that I had a chip on my shoulder towards their church and felt them to be hypocrites. I also told them that their church, by renouncing Christian nonviolence and supporting the military, was denying the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount. And I may also have implied that I felt their church was materialistic and that the details of my own finances and giving would probably shock them by comparison.
So, I was forbidden to preach on the street anymore (and preaching is my greatest joy in life). Their pastor said, “I control what everyone in my church believes and teaches, but since you aren’t a member here and I can’t control you, you can’t preach in a ministry connected to my church.” (Yes, that’s literally how he phrased it: control.) This conflict, which had gone on for months before that meeting, left me angry, and bitter, and feeling like I was at war with the world, running around and around in the same little circle in my mind, wearing deep ruts in the ground. It didn’t help that I was also suffering the breakup of a romantic relationship with a woman from that church, and the breakup had left me in an oh-no-I’m-going-to-be-single-forever-what’s-wrong-with-me frame of mind.
I wrote this poem right in the midst of all that. It was one of those rare times when I really felt that God was speaking to me. And what God showed me was that I’d let myself believe that God expected me to live just by sheer force of determination, that God didn’t care about me finding joy but only about me pushing myself to do as much of God’s work as possible. Suddenly I felt freedom: you mean, that’s not how I have to live? I don’t have to walk around expecting life to be a battle, and afraid to hope for joy or for deep friendships or for change?
It’s amazing how hard it is sometimes to let ourselves believe that God is good.