What Else?
Dear Eugene,
Poetry is....many things.
A lot happens in life,
most of it sad,
an occasional happiness,
and sometimes you have no choice
but to play the clown and laugh on the outside,
even though inside we feel less than failures
So writes an immigrant child in US lockup.
Poetry is, like, What else is there to say but these words?
My son had said to me more than once, "Do you ever stop talking?" In a way he wasn't fair to me, for I rarely talked at home. In another way I understand what he meant; the words were not the ones he wanted to hear, even if I was to distill them into poetry (and I often did). His head might nod to the words and sincerely so, but his heart speaks.
Genesis 1 is poetry. We, Christians, nod to the words but in our life we say to God "Do you ever stop talking?"
If we really do trust (believe, "have faith") in God and his speaking through poetry, we would know why we could respond to the immigrant child's poem and take it at its face value. We must have agreed that there is an intrinsic value to a human being, any human being, for us to not respond to the child's words by retorting Who are you to feel this way? Who are you to feel the way I know how human feeling goes? Do you ever stop talking? Would you ever shut up? Why do you think I, or anyone else, would care?
Somehow we know a human being does not need an education degree or citizenship to be of value, a value given right from the beginning, just for being human, a value higher and deeper than any certification, affirmation, justification she would subsequently gather along life's path.
Genesis 1 speaks exactly that. We nod to the words, the good "ideas," but our heart speaks otherwise. We've never trusted any of that frivolous poetry.
If we did trust the poem that is Genesis 1, for every food picture we posted on Facebook, there would at least be another about the lack of food on the table of another human being, made in the image of God just like I am, called to the vocation to reflect God's glory like I should, blessed with the abundance in creation in no smaller measure than mine or anyone else's.
If we did trust the poem that is Genesis 1, for every picture we posted about our own kids, our own "happy" "Godly" family, there would be at least one other about unhappy, "Godless" families that God has called us to take good care of, to fulfill the mandate of our stewardship, to "rule" the world like the true King would, to love our brothers and sisters like our Father would.
If we did trust the poem that is Genesis 1, for every thought we think to better our own life, every dollar and minute spent to nourish our own soul, there would at least be a bit of scrap left for Ruth and Lazarus.
We demand the world to "believe" in the creation account given in Genesis 1, and would even kill a brother or two for not taking the words "literal." But our life says to God "Do you ever stop talking?"
We say we are people of "faith," but we had never trusted in God's words, even if God was to distill them into poetry (and he often did) and beckon us gently What else is there to say but these words?
What else, Eugene? What else...
Alex
Dear Eugene,
ReplyDelete“Poetry is, like, What else is there to say…?”
I barely remember any significant event with clarity during my earlier childhood years but I do recall the day when I was lost in the streets without my parents. At the time, I must have been about 5 or 6 years old, taking ballet lessons at a local facility. The instructions had been unequivocally explained to me: wait for my caretaker after ballet class to bring me home, since Dad & Mom would be working.
On that day at the end of my class, no one was present to pick me up. I waited. I looked. Meanwhile, kids were leaving with their families. My caretaker must have forgotten about me. I decided resolutely that I would need to leave the building & walk home independently.
From the retrospective view of a mature mind, the decision of a child to walk home alone would have likely been the worst option in a burgeoning, hazy town of an under-developed country craving for opportunities at any cost.
Nevertheless, on this day, fitted in my ballet uniform, I crossed the threshold of realism & emerged into the main streets for my first time without guardians or direction. There were no sidewalks so I simply shuffled along the edge of the road as broken & irregular as the multitude of exploited lives shrouded within shacks & sheds. Merchants, hawkers & consumers were too occupied in their transactions to have noticed a wandering, weeping child. Nothing looked familiar to me with the exception of the tropical sun shielding me from the grip of darkness.
Then I was confronted with the possibility of never reaching home. I did not know my exact address. I did not recall my parents’ legal names; to me, they were just Dad & Mom. I had nothing but I knew my full name in writing & I knew my God.
“Genesis 1 is poetry… If we really do trust in God & his speaking through poetry…”. I was a child who knew about Genesis 1. I must have cried for God’s help without understanding His poetry.
A stranger - an older man from behind a food cart - called out to me. He asked me a few questions, stopped his work & hailed a rickshaw to ride with me. I must have remembered & told him about the street name of my house. In our search for home, I vividly recalled stopping intentionally for ice-cream. Somehow, some time later, we magically arrived at the front gates of my home. Then he left, having paid for the ride & ice-cream. I would never see him or know his name.
“A lot happens in life,
Most of it sad,
An occasional happiness…”.
What else, Eugene? What more words can I say upon reminiscing this single day when I could have been lost forever but instead I was saved by the living acts of poetry from a stranger.
Yours, Kate