Lucifer's Epistle to the Fallen by Scott Cairnes

Lucifer, Son of the Morning, Pretty Boy,
Rose Colored Satan of Your Dreams, Good as Gold,
you know, God of this World, Shadow in the Tree.

Gorgeous like you don't know! Me, Sweet Snake, jeweled
like your momma's throat, her trembling wrist. Tender
as my kiss! Angel of Darkness! Angel

of Light! Listen, you might try telling me 
your troubles; I promise to do what I can. 
Which is plenty. Understand, I can kill

anyone. And, if I want, I can pick
a dead man up and make him walk. I can
make him dance. Any dance. Angels don't

get in my way; they know too much.
God, I love theater! But listen, I know
the sorry world you walk through.

Him! Showboat with the Heavy Thumbs! Pretender
at Creation! Maker of Possibilities!
Please! I know why you keep walking-- you're skittish

as sheep, and life isn't easy. Besides,
the truth is bent to keep you dumb to death.
Imagine! The ignorance you're dressed in!

The way you wear it! And His foot tickling
your neck. Don't miss my meaning; I know none
of this is your doing. The game is fixed.

Dishonest, if you ask me. So ask. God
knows how I love you! My Beauty, My Most
Serious Feelings are for you, My Heart turns

upon your happiness, your ultimate
wisdom, the worlds we will share. Me, Lucifer.
How can such a word carry fear? Lucifer,

like love, like song, a lovely music lifting
to the spinning stars! And you, my cooing
pigeons, my darlings, my tender lambs, come, ask

anything, and it will be added to your
account. Nothing will be beyond us; nothing
dares touch my imagining. 

This poem, from Satan's perspective addressed to humanity, fascinates me. How seductive he is, how subtly and skillfully he leads us from God. And there is truth in it, too; God's heart does not "turn upon your happiness." Hagar, Moses, Jonah, Jeremiah, Esther, Mary, Peter, Paul, and everyone else who tries to follow God learns that well. 

The Baptizer

Remember my baptism, remember it
For me-- when I was not yet three months
And it was the season of Christmas
Not Advent. Christ already born--
Now it was my turn. Wearing my 
Mother's wedding gown, altered:
Did you think, then, it was something
Strange, a baby getting married
In Chicagoland midwinter doom?
They tell me I was screaming,
Howling for all the world as though drowning.
And I was. 

Remember the pastor, remember him
For me-- I don't. I don't know his name.
But he was the interim, itinerant, wandering
The earth. And did he know, could he know
I, too, could be the baptizer-- cloaked
This time in a minister's gown, my gown
And drowning babies, momento mori 
Splitting parents from their children and giving
Them to God.

Remember the people, remember them
For me-- that little German congregation
Who welcomed me to the family of God. 
Their bruises incurable and wounds grievous
As Israel's in the days of Jeremiah-- what does
It mean to be welcomed by this people? Are they
Somehow with me still, and is theirs the voice
Calling me in the wilderness:
Make straight the path of the Lord and be thou
The next baptizer?

To Wrestle With God (Based on Gen 32:22-31)

He stays by the stream, he stays
Alone, and what must he be
Thinking, feeling in that
Eternal moment
That sparkling gleam
To which the whole orbit 
Of his years
Nature's years
Converged?

Jacob, Ya'aqov, deceiver 
Wanderer, Hebrew of Hebrews
Do you see his face daily
The face of your brother
The hairy man
The man's man
The son your father loved
Best?

He saw the figure on the other side
And it is nearly day
Dawn nearly shattering
Darkness-- Jacob 
Does not think to bow
Or weep or run or even
Kill but to 
Wrestle.

Jacob, for the first time in your
Life you must stand and fight:
No flight, no trickery
No mother to save you
You will live or die this
Day, this night of holy
Wholly relentless
Mystery.

He wrestles long, hard
Silently, silently
Groaning finally
His hip is out of joint. 
The man has hurt him badly--
Gasping, agony, pain beyond
Pain! He will not, cannot again
Run. 

Jacob, who is this stranger, this
Bearer of blessing, of pain?
Do you hate him? Is there anger
There, in your sweat and tangled
Limbs, the anger of the second son
The cast-out one? Is that why you're
Here-- avenging, bursting, let the 
Wrath spill over as you pin the angel
Down?

He grimly smiles as the stranger
Speaks: "Let me go, for day
Is breaking." But darksome still
The skies, still his heart-- and he
Won't! Won't let go, won't give
In, won't lie to himself, to the man
To the world. And with the cry of 
The anguish of the ages, replies:
"I won't let you go until you bless
Me."

Jacob, son of Isaac, son of Abraham
Who, too, knew our wild, craving
Untamed God, you too, will seek until
You find-- the blessing, the
Birthright, the promise, the Lord. 
Hail, you mighty warrior! Fiercer,
Bolder even than your brother, who
Strove with game, for you strive with
God.

He is incensed once more-- the stranger
Answers his demands with a 
Question, a boundless question: "What is your
Name?" Aching question of questions
Posed by daybreak, by burning nerve and
Pounding heart and sweating hands-- what
Is your name? Empty question, foolish
Mocking question, at once everything and
Nothing.

Jacob! Do you really know your name?
Or do you know visions and voices-- your
Soup on the fire, your father's dismissal, your
Ladder ascending, your father-in-law's demand?
Is it violent clarity, the terror of insanity
Rooting you to the ground before him
The stranger who so strangely asked your
Name?

He replied, in any case, "Jacob." And the 
Angel continued, without even a breath:
"You shall no longer be called Jacob but
Israel." Yisro'el, El, God! "For you have
Striven with God and prevailed." He tries on
The name for size, quietly feels its sound
Its newness, its foreverness, etched in him and in
Heaven. 

Israel, you are a new man, you will forever
Wonder about the stranger, the wrestling that
So strangely burst from your body. You will
Forever limp, forever feel it in your bones:
The darkness that renamed you. The God who
Claimed you. You might mourn your old 
Name, but you can never again cross that stream.
You wrestled with God and
Won.

He demands-- and it was surely a fair 
Demand-- "Please tell me your name."
And the stranger turned it around on 
Him: "Why is it you ask my name?" And
Then he blesses him, and he trembles and
Knows he could not have both blessings and
Answers. Questions are what named him, what
Brought him to Peniel, Penu'el, face of 
El. 

Israel, Israel, are you resigned or angry
Exhausted or enlivened, terrified or
At rest? Or all of it and more, gazing
Upward, as the sun prepares to rise
In your honor? For the world will speak
Your name with awe and fear, and nearly
Nearly worship you who bravely did not
Run from God but
Wrestled.

He goes forth, limping of course, and
Moved and bearing the hard-earned
Blessing, met his brother. The years
Disappear as they hug and kiss
And boldly, the mighty man whispers to
His older twin: "Accept my gift. God has 
Dealt graciously with me and I have
Everything I want." The wrestling match:
Everything.

Israel, did the hurt and anger between you
And your brother-- surely it was there, surely
There were fiery days for you-- Israel,
In the feverish fighting by dawn was it at
Least, for a moment: The face and voice of
Esau? And was that how, in the sun
In his arms, you gave and forgave and
Gave?

He is the father of the nation, brave man
Limping man, trickster, runaway, broken
Bruised beloved and blessed of God. Not
The nation of Jews only but every one who
Crosses the stream, alone, and strives with
God and with people in the dark and light.
And these, O Lord, are your people
Israel. 

A Postmodern Psalm

I ran across this microfiction piece by Sean Hill and knew it belonged in a sermon someday.  

Wondering if I am real. Am I just a character in a story? My past seems vague, my future limited. Please, if you made me, let me know. 

Letter to A Congregation Unknown, Loved

Letter to a congregation unknown, loved

Dearly beloved-- for that is what you are
The stuff of my dreams, my nightmares
Love is proportional to danger
Already you have captured my heart
Already, body and soul-- yours. 

I am not your hero.
I have no capes, no magic wands
No priestly robes, no powers of absolution
God loved you before I belonged to you
God will love you after I leave you.

I am not a bearded, biblical sage
Nor a dark, handsome man
A coddling, doting mother
I am younger than your carpet
Your conflicts, your wounds.

I am young enough to be your daughter
With tight jeans, an iPhone, and naiveté
But Joel says your daughters will prophesy
And I see visions of you, dancing 
Dying, rising, shining-- like Christ. 

The Point of Praise

A question skeptics ask religious people, a question many religious people have quietly asked, myself included: What is the point of praise? Doesn't God know God is great without us blabbering on about it? Wouldn't God, like any properly modest person, say to our hymns and, "Glad you like me, but hell, enough's enough!"
We forget about the majesty of God. In the midst of "Jesus is my boyfriend" culture and music-- (seriously, one Christian writer said we need to go on dates with Jesus and make sure to shave our legs for him because he deserves to see his princess all dolled up. Gross! I'm not shaving just for Jesus, that's for sure. And what, may I add, if you're a guy and not a metrosexual?!)-- we forget about John's vision:
 "I saw one like the Son of Man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash across his chest. His head and his hair were white as a white wool, white as snow; his eyes were like a flame a fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined as in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of many waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and from his mouth came a sharp, two-edged sword, and his face was like the sun shining with full force. When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead" (Rev 1:13-17). 
God is not our imaginary friend. God is the living God infinitely beyond our comprehension. Praise and worship are one level an assent to the fact of God's greatness, a fact unchanged by our worship or lack thereof. 
But that helps us see the original question-- why does God care about our praise-- in a whole new light. Why, indeed? Why does the Master of the Universe-- to use the Jewish phrase, and Jews are so much better at this reverence thing than we are-- give a flying flip whether I worship him or not? I'm just a speck on the cosmic landscape. As the psalter says:
"When I look at the heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established: what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?" (Ps 8:3-4)
As a mother loves even a chicken-scratch, construction paper Mother's Day card, so God loves our worship. He cares about our worship because he cares about us. He wants us to praise him because he wants us-- and not in the Jesus is my boyfriend way, but in this way:
"By the mercies of God, present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship" (Rom 12:1). 
He doesn't want our unshaved legs, or even just a couple pretty hymns on Sunday. He wants all of us, and part of that surrendering ourselves over to God includes worshipping the God whose glory is beyond compare, whose love for us nailed his Son to the cross.
But event the fact of the question-- What's the point of praise?-- betrays our rugged, unholy American productivity. Everything has to have a purpose, a point. But relationships don't work that way. Relationships don't have a point, and worship certainly doesn't have a point. There are times to work hard for the kingdom, interceding boldly for others, asking God for help, and generally striving. But there are times to just praise God. As Scripture says: 
"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places" (Eph 1:3).
The Jewish prayer formulation, "Blessed be God..." highlights the uselessness of praise. How can we bless the God who already gives us every blessing? But God wants us to bless him anyway. Because he loves us with the love that "surpasses knowledge" (Eph 3:19). 
Blessed, indeed, be God! 

What Song, Then?

One of many of Kathleen Norris' terrific poems. 

What Song, Then? 

When my life is alien soil

and a wind

like fear

makes restless ground

of all I have done—

what song, then,

to send out roots

that will drink the rain

that does not come—

how could I sing?

Watch light come

from dark and mist rise

from waters

as sky and shore

emerge out of night

and a tree half-green

half-bare.

Half-afraid of what is in me

(though God has called it good)

I sob over nothing,

desires I cannot name.

Sing us, they say,

a song you remember…