Tag: Agape

Missionary Position

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Certain faith systems send out missionaries to convert others to their way of thinking, and sometimes it works. Believers beget believers. This has been going for a very long time.

As a species, we search for meaning. And we want to belong. It’s far easier to convert or cling to a set of beliefs that guide and justify our behaviors than it is to be open, kind, and accepting. Some questions simply cannot be answered on this side of existence.

My Coauthor nods in agreement. This surprises me. I smile and begin making breakfast.

“When’s your next mission?” he asks in an innocent voice.  “And which bibles shall we print up?”

I should have known there’d be some smartass dimension to deal with.

“I’m no missionary,” I snap. “I’m a ‘live and let live’ kind of gal.”

My Coauthor cracks up. “In your dreams, Bossypants.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I protest. “It’s obvious there are better or worse ways to live. But I don’t insist. I don’t even shame people. . . very often.”

“But do you love them?”

I shrug. “What’s love?”

“A precarious tightrope that ends in a certain kind of death.”

“Scrambled or over easy?”

“Over easy, please.”

I serve the fertile eggs and sprouted wheat toast. We chew thoughtfully.

I break the silence in an uneasy voice. “I don’t know much about that precarious tightrope, but I do know something about death.”

“You know very little about death.”

“More coffee?”

“Yes, thanks. And feel free. Tell me what you know about death.”

My hand trembles. I refill his cup a little past the brim.

“I’ve been bedside of those passing. I’ve watched wasps writhe. Chard wilt. Bullets to the head of predators. Shovel to the neck of the snake. I’ve watched the light depart.”

The Coauthor nods. “And tell me what you know about love.”

My words fly away. I bow my head. I am the writhing wasp. The beheaded snake. The martyred lamb. The poisoned earth.

 My Coauthor is the dark night in whom I swim and drown. Food withheld, I starve. The constant laying down and taking up of life roils the waters.

 I am a missionary unto myself, but there is fluidity to my position. My body. My blood. Complicit and compliant. The most reluctant sacrifice you’d ever want to meet. The Coauthor is my broken heart, still beating.

I lift my eyes. A spectacular sunrise yanks me to the window and wraps me in the membranes of an apricot sky.

“Today.” I finally whisper. “Today is all I know about love.”

Posting Bail

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Ignacio Manteca


Humans are being bought and sold this morning. I’ve placed a bid on one, but we’ll have to wait and see how it comes out. I’m having trouble with the messaging systems. 

A voicemail is heard in Ramah — lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted—for her children are gone. I suspect the children of Leah, (Rachel’s sister-wife), and Bilhah and Ziphah, (the handmaidens), are gone as well. 

So damn gone. Pushed down the slick, disgusting slope of vengeful, wrongful incarceration. Deportation. So much money to be made. Phone calls prepaid by the broken.

There are too few places to put my rage. In the back seat of the old, malfunctioning car? At the borders that define us? In the pocket of the officer who lied about the handcuffs? 

It’s easy to be indignant from a distance and then order dessert. Tempting to wash my hands of this murky, oily, filth and focus on harvesting carrots. This evening, we can yuck it up about, oh, I don’t know. Privilege? Wokeness?

And this God Thing. 

Maligned, manipulated, ridiculous. Should we wash our hands of it, too? Would we behave any better if we had no fall guy? No excuse?

“Thing,” I scream. “Are you paying attention?”
“Trying to,” Thing mumbles. “Got a black eye. Dislocated shoulder. Bleeding.”
“Stop bleeding! There’s a cleaning fee.”
“Got no money.”
“They’ll go after your spouse and children.”
“Got no spouse.”
“They’ll beat it out of you.”
“Got no body.”
“Just stop bleeding. The sight of your misery makes us sick.”

Thing raises its piercing eyes to mine. “Don’t stop looking. You’re meant to see.”
“Oh, I see, all right. I see the idolatry of young girls with golden hair.”

Thing sighs.
 I continue.

“Some fucked up stuff is being done in your various names.”
“I have no name.”
“Well, they’ve named you some horrific names.”
“I’m beyond your alphabets.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re using you to justify war. Cruelty. Wealth.”
“So, I should just disappear? Wrap things up and move my concept along?”
“Yeah, I think so. It would be better.”

Thing shakes its head.

“Then who will suffer with you?”
“We can do that by ourselves.”
“Bad idea. And impossible.”

Thing puts its fractured arms around me.
Splinters slice my flesh.
Tears roll down our cheeks.

We mourn the hatred.
We mourn the debasement.
We mourn the children.

“We have to stop crying,” I say. 
“They’ll see that we’re weak. They’ll hurt us.”

“I know,” Thing says. “Cry anyway.”

Poems and Dialectics

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 


Dear Readers,

Odd week this week. Odd week every week. Here are three poems to consider. The first by Shel Silverstein. The second and third by me, struggling to respond to such an awful, open invitation.

          ------------------------------------------------

Invitation

If you are a dreamer, come in
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by the fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

******************************************************
                                                              No Words

We have no words but carrots and beets. The corn is tasseling. There’s nothing else to report. An outbreak of peace would be nice. But outbreaks of endless revenge threaten to end it all in a flash.

We have no words of our own. Every thought is on loan, and our hands are tied. Our feet take us places we don’t want to go. All of this is prophetic. Pathetic. We don’t know where to turn. 

We have no words but longings and love. Perhaps we could bake some bread and tenderly explore where it hurts. The diagnosis will be indeterminate, so we’ll remain afraid. The little we possess never includes the right words.

We have no words. Only weeds and misconceptions. Obsidian-tipped news that once flew fearless now lies twisted and broken. Redacted. Redundant. The few remaining meanings have hidden themselves.

We cling to words as if we own them and they will save us. But Words are guests. Real Words ring free and true like bells. Rods and staffs may bring comfort, but the Truth speaks softly and carries no stick. No salvation and no stick.

********************************************************

What We Serve On Platters

Come in, you old-skinned bastions of wrinkles and droopy eyes.
Come in, youngsters drifting in the increasingly salty sea.
Come in, bruised souls walking littered paths to nowhere.

Come in. Come in.

Here is a place at the table. Here you can relax and break bread.
Here you can dream. Here you can practice forgiveness.
Here your shame turns to dust. Your sharp fears grow dull.

Here.

Come in, you resistant bastards of the cruel ways, you of the emptiness.
Come in, you liars who torture and violate. Who consume and destroy.
Come in, monsters, devils, seekers of vengeance. You’re already burning in hell.

Come in. Come in.

Here you will be taken apart. Served in pieces at the feast.
Here you will be the sacrifice you always wanted to be.
Here your story will be rewritten, and you’ll return as a bird.

Here.

What is it you’re looking for?
Why are you skimming? It’s all here.
Stop. Breathe. Stop. Sit.

Come in.

Hearts on Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 
When your heart is on fire smoke gets in your eyes

Death rolls in, a thousand acres, flaming,
thick smoke drifting south. 
We are blinded by the slow burn of a million lies. 
Nothing trickles down. 

The poor belong among us.

And we are among ourselves on a finite planet 
on an infinite journey with a wee small chance 
of getting it right. 
Love is right. Violence is not.

The greater good is an apple tree the voles left alone
because we pulled the mulch away from the trunk.
Sometimes, winter should not be diminished.

What comes to everyone over time
are thirteen birds, four horsemen,
and an appetite for sweets and salt. 
The indulgences and the seven deadly sins 
are always calling. Try not to answer.

Stare down, instead 
and watch where you place each foot.
Wish each other well.
We are stardust and ashes,
and we neither live nor die 
without fire.

Too Many Jesuses

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

If I speak in the tongues of angels and women, of cancers, mildew, and broken teeth, but have not love, nothing much happens. Most platitudes are contradictions. Old mirrors and darkened glass neither reflect nor foretell with any degree of accuracy.

Some mornings are especially challenging. The tension created by too many Jesuses is barely offset by the comfort of familiar bedding and my jar of pencils. Sometimes, deep in the night, I try summoning one of them to ward off the neurotoxicities of unwanted wakefulness, but it never works. The Jesuses are neither respectful nor tethered to any particular reality. They argue among themselves noisily and without end. I regret inviting any of them in. I want them gone.

“I see where you’re coming from,” my Coauthor comments as she seats herself cross-legged, leaning back against the bookshelf. She shoos the contentious Jesuses away. “Go on outside. The water’s clear. The sky is lifting. The cranes could use a visit.”

I stare at my Coauthor. She stares back.

“Do you really see where I’m coming from?” I ask, hoping for sympathy and unequivocal adoration.

Her slight nod is unsympathetic. She’s sizing me up. I do not feel adored.

“And I see where you’re going,” the Voice of Creation adds.

Sunday school rears its ugly head. Dread hot-flashes through my body.

“The cross?” I squeak.

“Yes,” my Coauthor nods. “The one by the highway and the three on the hill to the south. Cut them down. The cultish homage to human brutality offends me.”

My eyes widen. “Well, that’s not very nice. What about loving thy neighbor? What about redemption?”

She laughs. The Jesuses crowd back in.

“The cranes are fine,” they report. “And the air is sweet. Everything that ever bloomed is blooming and there’s a wild greening underway.”

 I want to be the sweetness in the air. I want to be a wild greening.

“Ah-ha! You’re an anti-zealot,” one of the Jesuses points with derision.

“Am not,” I retort, uncertain of what that would even mean.

“Leave her be,” my Coauthor commands, glaring at the accusing Jesus. “I brought you into this world. I can take you out.”

The Jesuses exaggerate snapping to attention. Their eyes twinkle, their lips twitch.

Then one of them shouts, “Dogpile!” and we all jump on the Coauthor, trying to tickle her into a better mood.

“Hey, I made rhubarb banana bread yesterday,” I holler above the fracas. “Let’s have some for breakfast.”

We sort ourselves out, clamor to the heart of the kitchen, and break the moist bread together, dipping morsels in milk and drizzling stolen honey into our strong black tea.

Big Comes By

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

As great chunks of what we’ve known to be good in our community, country, and world continue to crumble, grief and disbelief have paralyzed me. My Friend, Big, comes by to offer his shoulder to cry on, his gut to punch, his eye to blacken, his body to fold into.

“Too late, Big,” I shake my head. “They’ve got us this time. I’m giving up. It’s over.”

“Who’s got us?” Big demands, incredulous at my surrender.

“The demonic forces of primal instincts. They’ve won.”

Big grimaces. “Yeah. Everyone fears being rejected from the herd. I thought adding same-sex attractions and transgendered hearts to the mix would do the trick. I love continuums. You realize mutations, inclusion, and diversity are the heart of evolution, right?”

“No, we don’t realize that. In fact, we’ve made up commandments that keep everyone insecure and judgmental. Deep down, no one is sure their genitals are adequate. Thus, the thrill of the chase. Hatred. Domination. It’s all on flagrant display. It’s killing us.”

“Come here, Little,” Big says. “You’re sad. How about we make some lists?”

“What kind of lists?” I ask, wary.

“Ah, maybe a nice list of daily delights. Or generous things you could do today.”

My insides explode.

“GET OUT YOU FECKLESS FOOL!” I shout.

Big laughs. “Or maybe a list of numbers you could call to protest? Or signs to carry when you march?”

“OUT!” I stomp my foot.

“A list of gifts you could give your enemies?”

My eyes are blazing, my fuses blown.

Big raises his eyebrows and pounds a facetious fist. “Okay, darling.  How about a hitlist of humans we could sterilize, or drug and relocate?”

“Now you’re talking!” I yell, punch the air, . . . and burst into tears. “But my knives are dull,” I sob, impotence tightening around my neck. “Big, we’re lost. We’re really lost.”

Big steps way, way back and throws his arms around the dying planet. His breasts swell. He nurses the starving and anoints the suffering with oil. Dark children from the Cradle of Humanity stare into the abyss forming around us.

“Little,” Big says with a dramatic sigh. “I’m gonna miss this place.”

My jaw drops. Big folding? This can’t be true. He’s up to something.

“Me, too, Big. I’ll miss it too,” I counter, sly-eyed.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Big admits. “I thought pretending to give up would make you do something.”

“Two can play that game.” I say, proud of calling his bluff.

“Now what?” Big asks.

“Maybe I should buy my enemies more guns.” I say, grinning.

“Good one,” Big laughs and slaps his thigh so hard the planets realign. “But no.”

Proof

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How do you know you are loved? Does it mean you get everything you ever wanted? How do you prove your love to someone else? What in the heck is love anyway? Is it like porn? Do you know love when you see it? Feel it? Trust it? Will it? Choose it? 

“Hello,” Love says. 
“Gaaa,” I say. “You’re not my grandma. Get away from me.”
“Howdy there, little lady,” Love says with a swagger.
“Don’t howdy me,” I snap. “I’m not your type.”
“Find me. Trust me. Uncover me,” Love demands.
“I can’t. I won’t. I don’t know how,” I shake my head, hands up, defensive.

“Good-bye,” Love says.
“Where’re you going?” I ask, suddenly afraid.
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Love grins. “Want to ride along?”
“How would I know what I want?” I ask.
“Exactly,” Love nods.

Love settles on the couch. “Do you love anyone?”
“I try,” I say. “But not very well, at least by your standards.”
“And what are my standards?” Love feigns interest.
I consider this for a long while.
Love knits a blanket beside me, humming to herself. 

“Well, endurance comes to mind,” I finally venture. 
The guess is flat. Two-dimensional. Endurance is not that sexy.
“Good one,” Love says. “Say more.”
“No, you say more,” I counter.

Love leaps up and begins a seductive belly dance.
“Inward, outward. Yes. No. Not-you-ness. Enough. 
Letting go while hanging on. Balance.
Acceptance. Sacrifice. Otherness. Oneness. 
Shall I go on?”

“Don’t bother,” I sigh. “It’s impossible.”

“Absolutely,” Love stops gyrating. 
“I adore that about myself. I’m a gorgeous trip to nowhere,
a deceptively simple meal. 
Five sparrows with open mouths and winter on the horizon. 
I’m full of myself. Brimming, spilling, messy. 
I’m the first longing and the last drink.”

“Love,” I say plaintively.  “There are so many cold days and crushed dreams.
So many painful failures. Could I have that blanket when you’ve finished it?”

“No, honey,” Love says. “It’s not for you. 
You already have more blankets than you need.”

What? I am embarrassed. Outraged. My demons scream. The collective that I am rushes to the sea—the known and unknown, the just and unjust--intent on self-destruction. Intent on death. But Love calls to the heavens, and the entire crowd of me tumbles into the blue bowl of inverted sky.

Mick Jagger slides onto the curvilinear stage, clearly on a mission. “You can’t always get what you want,” he croons. I want to slap him silly but what’s the use? The truth is not his fault.

Formatting

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

Phote Credit: Theresa Vandersnick Burkhart

“If you wanted to write a bible or some holy essays or something, would you use Word?” I asked the Source. “Would you store documents in the Cloud? Post directly to Facebook? TikTok?” My tone was edgy. Yesterday, I’d lost most of my skirmishes with technology.

God’s eyebrows arched quizzically. I waited in comfortable silence, enjoying the sensuous twist of driftwood and the undulations of the emerging horizon. I meditated on medieval monks brewing dark beer as they transcribed and illuminated ancient texts.

“I don’t write things down,” God finally answered. “The written word hardens and can become a weapon. It’s often misused. Have you considered the living word? It offers an array of formatting options that could keep you busy for centuries.”

Brilliant colors bled across the eastern sky, transforming the unspeakable terrors of the night into manageable commandments.

“Yes. On occasion I’m possessed by the living word,” I said “But I still love the written word. What would life be without bodacious, malapropism, or onomatopoeia?”

God’s gaze was steady. The carefully ordered syllables of my life started breaking free, combining and recombining. Recumbent. Iconoclast.  Greek. Mandarin. Farsi. Sanskrit. There are over 7,000 languages spoken by humans in the world right now, and who knows how many more existed before we started counting? And what about the languages of animals? Trees? Vibrations in space?

“Do you think we should include the living word among the list of functional modern languages?” I asked.

“Seriously?” God laughed. “Functional?”

A silver convertible, a rusty jalopy, an all-electric Ford Lightening, a school bus, and a fume-spewing Chevy paraded by. The Drivers grinned and waved.  Instead of candy, they tossed indestructible reading glasses. Delighted children grabbed them and put them on.

“We see you,” the children shouted at me. At each other. At the Drivers. “We see you!” They scooped up small animals, lonely widows, bees, and bones. “We see you!” they cried, rejoicing in their vision.

Their weightless innocence was infectious. I longed for a Buddhist-like acceptance. I’m always trying to weave the words at my disposal into an easily maneuverable raft or a safe path forward, but they often splinter or blow away, catching debris and damming up the Living River as they tumble willy-nilly in the crosswinds.

The Drivers got out of their rigs and circled me, holy eyes magnified by thick lenses, clownish smiles revealing large, sacred teeth. “Relax,” they said. “Word dams are an important part of the ecosystem. Just ask the beavers.”

“I don’t speak beaver,” I protested. “But you could,” they said, their heads nodding sagaciously. “It’s never too late to learn another way of seeing.”

Getting to Yes

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On one of my all-time favorite British sitcoms, The Vicar of Dibley, there was a character who answered any inquiry with no, no, no, no, no, no, no…. Then his oppositional stuttering would shift abruptly to something like, “Yes, sounds good.” This made the vicar roll her eyes and the audience laugh. Every time.

That sums up my relationship with my Coauthor fairly well. I look at the deep divisions in the world, the absolute necessity of being loving and forgiving, shake my head, and say No, no, no, no, no. Then I breathe, consider the options, and say Yes. Not because anything looks or sounds all that good. It’s just that Yes is the best answer available.

And the audience laughs. Every time.

The vultures laugh. The sparrows laugh. Friends and enemies laugh. The feasting deer lift their heads and laugh. Secure in the lap of forever, the souls of the brutally departed laugh. Fire-setters, firefighters, funeral directors, midwives, engineers, artists, jailers with rings of keys, pilots with bombing planes, producers of poison, planters of organic seeds.

Laughing. Every time.

But what’s so funny? The knee-jerk string of NOs? The pivot to YES?

“It’s all funny,” my Coauthor says. “Every bit of it.”

“I beg to differ,” I say.

“Of course you do,” my Coauthor chuckles. “See? Now, go ahead and get to yes.”

 “No, no, no, no, no,” I say, shaking my head.

“There’s a Yes in there somewhere,” God insists, sneaking toward me with tickle fingers, making ridiculous, nostril-flaring faces, tossing popcorn in the air to catch in his mouth—the Clown of Heaven, the Fathomless Fool.

“YES!” I yell. “Stop! You’re absurd.”

“No,” God laughs. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“Very funny,” I say. “Now, go ahead and get to yes.”

“Already there,” God smiles. “C’mon in. I’ve got wine and fresh bread.”

The Yes propels me forward. I take my place at the table and break the loaf open, crusty and warm. The wine is bitter, but there are carrots sweetened by the frost and a steaming cup of tea. I am grateful despite the costs and challenges in such wanton communion.

“Yes,” I say, soberly, allowing my eyes to see.

“Yes,” God nods with compassion.

And the day begins. It will be filled with divine comedies, embodied tragedies, the futile and the fulfilling. Most of the doors will be left unlocked, swinging freely in the wind.

The Blame Game

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Having someone or something to blame for my mistakes, disappointments, and entropy in general is such a blessing. If no one, if nothing, steps up to take the fall, then what? The empty abyss of nothingness, the voracious black hole of randomness, the uncontrollable, irreparable, directionlessness of life suck me undertow, and I’m paralyzed. Blame is a very good thing.

“But everyone is trying as hard as they can, right?” God says sarcastically. “So how can you blame anyone?”

“Oh, I’m a skilled, irrational blamer,” I say with pride. And it’s true. Except when I focus my lens on myself, there is solace in blaming and excuse-making. I harbor resentments, nurse grudges, and scan my environment for everything that’s wrong with anything. When I have a chance, I point out these shortfalls in a judgy voice as if the failings I unearth are both shameful and deliberate.

“I’ve noticed that occasionally you include yourself among the damned,” God observes in a kind voice. Almost offensively kind. I’m not in the mood.

“Leave me alone,” I say. “I don’t want to be understood or placated. I want things to go my way. I want things to be shiny, warm, buttery, pretty, predictable, and trouble-free. I want everything to be right with the world.”

“Don’t we all?” God sighed.

“See? This is my problem, God.  If you’re even a thing, then why aren’t you a preventer of tragedy or at least a fixer? Seems definitional of anything called God.”

“There’s a chance you’ve got the wrong dictionary, honey,” God said.

I scowl. God stares steadily into my squinty eyes. Her love is seeping into the room, and I don’t like it. Yeah, sure, being loved should make me happy, but there are strings attached. Equanimity, acceptance, and holy detachment come at a cost.

I don’t want to face hard times or try to do better. I want my address to be Easy Street, where everyone is pain free, youthful, fat, and sassy.

I don’t want to be loved despite my imperfections. I want to be perfect. I don’t want to be loved as I decline and die. I want to be immortal.

“Ding, ding, ding,” God says, pretending she’s got a bell in her hand. “We have a winner, folks. She makes it to the bottom in record time.”

I flip God off with my knobby middle finger. She blows me kisses. I grab them out of the air and make them into a string of luminescent beads. Elegant jewelry? Noose? It appears to be my choice. But I’m never sure.