Two Jesus Poems

Sea of Galilee (Lake Gennesaret)

I haven't posted poetry in a long time (largely because I haven't written any in a long time), but I stumbled on these two poems that I wrote as a creative project for my ethics class a while back and thought I'd share them. They're not my finest work by any means, but even the modest audience of this blog is better than my words just sitting idly in a folder on my computer desktop. I hope you enjoy.

The Sermon on the Plain: A Prologue

He took them to a rocky level place

overlooking the waters,

where no heads could be seen above the rest.

And there was total silence, but for the wind.

Floating chaff from nearby wheat fields

stung his narrowed eyes

and dusted his untrimmed hair.

A gnat landed indiscriminately in his beard;

he brushed it away and gently

scratched the itch it left behind.

A heavy breath, a careful consideration

of his words, and his shoulders

unexpectedly crumpled under the weight

of Jeremiah, of Isaiah,

of Micah and Amos.

Buckling under the shadows

of those prophets who boiled

for justice and mercy—

each prophet a stone, cut and heaved 

at the clay feet of inestimable Caesars,

the moral arc of the universe trembling

ever so slightly

to accommodate each muckraker

at their own risk—

he sat beneath a lone olive tree,

crossed his legs, and sighed again.

Here were the fishers,

the tinkers, the tenant farmers.,

the relegated women and neglected children.

What had they to do with emperors

and reigns of kings?

What had they to do with anything

but the passing of seasons

and the harrowing

of the fields and lake

for food?

For years, the Galileans swallowed

stones for bread and snakes for fish—

where was their remittance of debt,

the promised justice

bubbling up like the springs rolling

down from grey-haired Mount Hermon?

At first, the disciples sat stiff

like weathered fence posts

sunk firm in the rocky ground,

their heads as dense as stones,

but slowly—like spring

lilies opening before the sun,

or a beggar smoothing his muddy

woven grass mat over a dirt doorstep—

their hearts unrolled

and their ears opened.

And Jesus—that filthy

humble peasant rabbi,

ethicist of ethicists,

yoke-bearer of Empire,

melter of swellheadedness

and multiplier of loaves—

opened his mouth,

raised his hands;

and with the selfsame thoughtfulness

by which he navigated

“Unto Caesar” and “Unto God,”

and with all the prophetic agitation

of waves eternally splintering against

inlets of the Gennesaret,

he began to speak:

The Sermon on the Plain: A Teaching

“You are the poor—

and how privileged you are

in your poverty!

God provides for you

like the lilies and the crows;

even the clothing of kings

and the wheat-barns of the wealthy

do not share your radiance

before God.

For those among you who are humble:

How privileged you are

in your meekness!

The fullness of creation,

the passing skies and the fertile earth

bursting with the vibrant Reign of God,

will belong to you someday.

For those among you who mourn:

Cheer up! There is no room

for tears in the coming Reign;

the toppling mountains will fill

the valleys, loss and lack

and grief and hopelessness

pass, and all

will be restored.

For those among you who are starving:

How privileged you are

in your hunger!

Remember those who yearn

after righteousness, and don’t be afraid!

Like the ravens, my friends will bring

you bread for your bellies

and justice for your hearts. And you,

likewise, must feed others in your abundance.

All will even out in the end.

For those among you who are merciful

and those of you who make peace:

How privileged you are

in your compassion!

Forgetfulness of self

and the will to sacrifice safety

for the realm to come;

This is the very face of God!

But how terrible it will be

for you who hates

your brother! Children

of Cain! Thorns

in an unplowed field!

Hatred is but violence of the heart;

Whoever despises the image of God

is guilty of brutality!

How terrible it will be

for the violent!

Hatred with skin on!

If you are struck

by hand, steel, or stone,

Do not resist, but forgive!

No weapon cuts

like a pardoned wrong.

There is no room

in the place where I will show you

for implements of warfare.

How terrible it will be

for the tightfisted!

They will shrivel

before the coming

Reign of God

like mosquitoes

before the first frost,

like wet wool

under the heat of the sun.

There is no room

in the place where I will show you

for the self-concerned.

Give to everyone that asks;

what value does your money have to you

except to weigh your pocket down?

But the generous are honored by God,

and the just

and those who make themselves last.”

And with that

he stood in renewed verve and took

aim at the Jerusalem Temple,

a hundred miles south.

And as the sun collapsed over the lake

like a grain cart with a broken wheel,

the beloved peasants pursued him in earnest.