A few years back, this poem sort of spilled out of me. It was one of
those curious writing experiences wherein you almost feel that the work
isn’t yours. This, of course, supposes that the outcome is of such a quality
as to make the authorship matter one way or another. As nothing seemed
to come forward about Lent this year, the poem is before you; you may judge
for yourself. Those of you who have already read it may do so again if
you wish. I have read it several times and on one hand it might be trite,
but on another it does says something. Perhaps that is all a poem should
do—say something, and as with a good painting, offer something new each
time you visit it. If it does that we are honored. If it does not, well,
this publication has a lot of good stuff in it, didn’t cost you much, and
we thank you for your time.
ABOUT LENT
It seems like just yesterday, Lord, you were a little baby;
We had a wonderful dinner on your birthday.
Now you are talking about a long purple time when we
Must somehow find meaning in your suffering and death.
How can you do this to us? You were just born;
Look at my calendar, there is so much to be done.
The year makes no sense; you live and die in four months.
The rest of the time we talk about you; what you want,
But there is no symmetry, no order, we are out of context.
Baseball season starts at the beginning and ends at the end.
That is what we should do with the story of your life, Lord.
Publish the definitive biography; get it all sorted out.
Perhaps the problem stems from trying to view your life in a year:
Years A, B, & C, that's more or less how it is structured.
Is it necessary, Lord, to follow you in alphabetical order?
It will not work; some of us are auditory learners,
Some of us learn by sight, and some of us do
not learn at all.
Is there a way for all of us to find you?
"Keep a good Lent." What is it you mean by that, Lord?
Do you actually want us to eat locust and wild honey,
And fast and pray and think about God instead of ourselves?
Then, I suppose, you want us to walk with you to Jerusalem,
Be with you in your betrayal, at your trial, in your crucifixion,
We can't do it . . . can we start with the birthday and try again?