I recognize this is not the first of its kind. Others have also shared just such things in the wake of the recent, horrific atrocities in Syria. I feel impotent to change much of this. But I can write. And I can pray. Here, I do both. Join me…please.
Lord, they did not ask for dusty feet
sandaled and sore
to walk over the flesh and bones
of neighbors and friends,
of brothers, sisters and parents.
They didn’t ask to be brought before
someone else’s tribunal on imagined
charges of being what they should not be,
what you created them to be.
They did not seek out this desperation
that found them huddled, fearful and crying.
To see the bloated bodies of fellow pilgrims
floating down the river, under bridges,
stuck and floating on rocks jutting out
and shaking bony fists at you for justice,
is to see a God too small to save.
Or am I missing something, Lord?
I am not smart enough to know
the fancy talk at long, important tables
where cigar-smoking men carve up
the world with a wink and a handshake.
I am not wise enough to understand
how to discern what most is needed.
I am not strong enough not to hate,
nor still enough not to stir up
my anger, my outrage.
Lord, if I am forced to sit and watch
what looks like the refuse of hate-filled politics
paraded before a God with weak arms,
and no stomach to move into the fray;
then, help me to forgive you, God,
if only long enough to dive in myself.
Perhaps we’ll meet each other there.