Tag: Love your enemies

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.”

Revelations

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

“Morning, sleepy.” God rubs my head, smiling. “Time to wake up!”

“Stop,” I mumble, covering my head with my paisley blue sheet. “I didn’t sleep well. Thoughts of the Antichrist kept rolling around in my head.”

“Yeah. Rough week. Satanically healed head wounds. Fake hysteria. Spellbound followers of malevolent beings. Beasts in sheep’s clothing,” God signs. “I’ve seen it all before. It’s a bit passe.”

“Maybe for you,” I say. “But not for me. Not for us. This could be the end times.”

“Nah,” God laughs. “Satanic healing is an oxymoron, and it’s always the end times. But the Book of Revelation would’ve made a great screenplay for your current crop of dark-hearted fanatics. The author could have made millions scaring people. Too bad he was so far ahead of his time.”

“Time is definitely the issue,” I say. “We’re running out of it.”

“You might be. I’m not,” God counters with a selfish grin. “Even if your world runs out of time, I won’t. I play with time like you play with frisbees.”

“Well, Mr. Laissez Faire, a lot of people are begging Various Versions of You to do something about, um, everything. Soon.”

God groans. “You would not believe all the contradictory prayers clogging up the prayer-o-sphere.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” I say sarcastically. “This shiny blue marble with all its evolutionary splendor may be just a twinkle in your creative eye, but it’s everything to us. Everything.”

“Then act like it,” God says. “You’ve done a terrible job of fulfilling your potential so far. There’s a draft of your Official Eviction Notice on my attorney’s desk as we speak. And don’t ask for a recommendation if you move elsewhere. I love you all. I really do. You’re intriguing. But if you continue to be so easily duped, I’m afraid you’re not worth the risk.”

I bow my head as if to pray, but it’s just an excuse to break eye-contact with the Truth. Why ARE we so easily duped? Vicious selfishness and blind hatred have been rebranded as faith. Lying buffoons and feckless billionaires are praised and adored.

The sound of galloping hooves in the distance chills my soul. I gasp.

“Relax,” God says. “It’s not the four horsemen. It’s the Budweiser team. We’re having a big kegger on the beach tonight. I’ve ordered seven pizzas and seven golden bowls of chips. You should come.”

“What beach?” I ask. I don’t like Bud, but a little social time might be nice.

“Gaza,” God says.

“GAZA!” I shout. “You’re a fool, God. They’re not even letting necessities in. They’ll kill the horses.”

God shrugs. “They always kill the horses,” he says. “I’m used to it.”

Being the Cozy One

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

There’s much to be said for a Cozy God. Not just passive cozy. No. I mean assertive, smother-hugger, cheek-pincher, aren’t-you-just-adorable, big-lapped cozy.

But today’s version is sharp-tongued and angular. Her purple hat is cockeyed and her cloak of many colors drenched from flying through the freezing rain. She’s shivering and disoriented. Thus, I’m forced to be the cozy one.

“Here. Drink this.” I offer a cup of hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps and replace her cloak with a down comforter. She lifts the mug to her bluish lips, sips, sighs, and settles near the fire.

I let her warm up in silence. Mostly I’m happy when any version of God drops by, but as she curls her tired body and nods off, I realize some visitations are less pleasant than others. I consider hiding the refreshments and putting out the fire.

Where’s Cozy God? I complain to myself.

Witchy God yawns, stretches her thin arms above her head and says, “She’s busy. I’m subbing for her today.”

“What’s she up to?” I ask, interested despite my disappointment. If I’m hosting Witchy God, then maybe somewhere, someone is being cuddled and fed by a cozy, affectionate God.

“Doesn’t work that way,” Witchy God says. “The manifestations are interactive. You get what you give. You get what you need. But luckily, you never get what you deserve.”

 “Why not?” I ask, peevish and disappointed. “I try to be thoughtful. I share my stuff…” My voice trails off. “Well. Most of it. Some of it. Sometimes.”

I’m suddenly uncomfortable claiming I deserve a visit from Cozy God. The equations are slippery, comparisons fraught with subjectivity, tinged with envy.

“So what’s your cozy quotient, my pretty?” Witchy God asks in her witchy voice.

“You mean how much cozy do I need?” I ask, ever hopeful.

“No. How much cozy are you putting out there?”

And there it is. The eternal question. Witchy God begins whirling like a dervish, and the remaining October leaves let go.  Every limb is bare. Winter has arrived. The wars rage on. Witchy God is preparing to do whatever it is she does. Her cloak has dried, and her thermos is filled with my cocoa and schnapps.

“I’ll ride shotgun for as long as I can,” I say reluctanly. I swing my leg over the broom, but her take-off velocity leaves me flat on my back in front of my toasty fire.

“Not every battle is yours,” Warm Room whispers. “With that bad hip, you could be a bit more cautious.”

“No way,” I say.

Warm Room gives me a knowing smile and hands me a broom of my own.

Gone

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

To begin my morning wrestling match, I typed the word gone and then backspaced it out of existence and then typed it again. It sits on my screen, a fragile, arrogant four-letter word with its dukes up, ready to go a round or two with denial. But here’s the truth:  I can make it disappear and reappear the rest of the day if I’m so inclined.  I am more or less in command of my words. This is comforting. Sobering.

Spoken or recorded, words can linger beyond the speaker or the author. We fawn over first words. Cherish the last. The words in between muddle along, hurting, encouraging, freeing, frightening, disguising, delighting, warning, elucidating, lying, and shaping whatever they touch.

“Hello,” God says. “What have we here?”

“Me, muddling,” I say. “Thanks for interrupting. It was getting weird in my head.”

“Gone can do that,” God says. “Try go or going instead. More energized and hopeful. For now, that’s probably better for you.”

“Don’t pamper me.”.

God looks surprised. “Why not?”

“I want to be tough enough to handle it on my own.”

“Handle what?”

“You know. Goneness. Endings. Closures. Failures.”

“Oh good grief.” God digs his fingers into my shoulders. “Listen.”

I listen.

The rumble of a gravel truck. The neighbor’s choice of music. Birds singing. Fire crackling. Familiar sounds.

“Good,” God says. “Can you bring any of that back and hear it over?”

“Well,” I say with a grin. “That truck won’t make those exact sounds again, but I think Pandora is on replay next door.”

This cracks God up. “Ha ha! Pandora. Good one. So you think your playlists will save you?”

I look at God like he’s lost his mind. I shake my head and try to turn my back which is silly. There is no back.

“And there is no gone,” God says gently. “There’s nothing but Now. Type that.”

“I just did.”

“Good. What you think is solid, what you think is redundant, what you think will last, it’s all just Now.

“But wouldn’t it be great if words could pass through into forever?”

“Actually, there’s one word that does that,” God says.

“I suppose you mean Now,” I say.

“Nope,” God says. “It’s my favorite name—quite difficult to translate. In your native tongue, the closest you’ve got is love.”

I dig my fingers into God’s shoulders and in my most serious, sad voice, I say, “God, love is what makes gone so painful.”

“I’m fully aware of that,” God says, equally sad and serious. “But the alternatives are worse.”

Gifting

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

This morning began dark, but it has lightened to a dull gray which will soon give way to darkness again. I build a reluctant fire. God joins me, and we note the importance of a good draft. The air is heavy. My beer is cold.

I hate to admit it, but the sting of rejection has caused my joints to swell, and my dexterity is significantly reduced. The typos of life are hounding me. Blurry images of what could have been hang like abstract art in my ever-thinning soul.

“We should go shopping today,” I say. “I need to find the perfect presents and mail them to my enemies and detractors.”

God does a doubletake. She knows I hate shopping and would sooner maim or kill the monsters and idiots among us than take any kind of positive action.

“And not just my detractors!” I add, thrilled with the possibility that I’ve startled God.  “Not just my personal enemies. I’ll send gifts to crazed gunmen and billionaires. Liars. Haters. The meanest, most arrogant people on earth.”

We gaze at the fire. It’s not blazing the way it does sometimes, but it’s still fire. Still hypnotizing.

“Do you have their addresses?” God asks in a helpful, quiet voice.

“No, but I’m sure you do. Could I borrow your address book?”

“Of course,” God says. “But it’s rather futuristic. You know how some address books get outdated? Mine runs the other way. It gets ahead of itself.”

I sip my beer and consider this comforting absurdity.

“I myself have had a lot of addresses already,” I mention casually, hoping for a hint of what my future addresses might be.

“Nice try,” God says. “Could I help you with the wrapping? I love how you use old scarves and newspapers.”

“Nah.” I shake my head, deflated. “I’ve changed my mind. The jerks will just pitch the gifts out anyway.”

God hands me the scotch tape. “Doesn’t matter, sweetheart. Invest in the process. Open your soul and scrape it as clean as you can. Line it with shock absorbers, feathers, and things you honestly love. It’s not how a gift is received; it’s the giving that matters.”

 “I don’t think I believe that anymore,” I admit sadly.

“I know,” God says. “But you do.”

Road Rage

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

When I’m driving around, sometimes a line pops into my head and I think it deserves a whole poem. Like this little phrase earlier today: The exquisite pain of knowing… The chances of remembering it for long were slim, so as I negotiated the traffic, I repeated it over and over, even though I didn’t think I was in pain. I was, instead, enraged.

The roads were terrible; people were driving stupid. It’s election day and as usual, my beloved state has gone to the highest bidders. Good, honest people ran against paranoia and lost. I knew I was angry, but when God tapped me on the shoulder I jerked the wheel and yelled, “Fuck you, God.” This surprised us both.

I’m home now but there’s no poem waiting for me. God made a hasty exit at a red light. Fine with me. Who needs any kind of God riding along, let alone a misrepresented, passive one?

To ward off a potential return, I put my fingers in my ears and sing la la la la la. I think of people who don’t love me and hate them for it. And then I retract the hate because I don’t want to be loved anyway. I’m weary of it all. I make herbal tea and wait for the end.

“Finished?” God asks, in a quiet, almost tender voice.

“Yeah,” I say. “You?”

“Oh, I’ve been finished for a very long time.”

“Did you quit or were you fired?” I’m still feeling a little hostile, but I push a slice of sourdough toast toward God. Breaking bread together might help.

“Technically, I was finished before I started,” God says, and takes a bite of the toast.

I make a face, hoping to signal that I don’t like these cryptic answers.

God also makes a face. “There’s something wrong with this toast. It’s bitter.”

“Well, why don’t you whip out your magic wand and fix it?”

God smiles. “Because as I said, I’m done. I turned in my wand so we could be friends. Maybe you should feed this to your pigs.”

“We’re going to eat those pigs someday,” I say.

“I doubt it,” God says. “But good on you for trying.”

The snow continues, and visibility is limited. There will be anger, anxiety, and accidents throughout the day. Night will fall and bring a temporary peace. This moment will be the last for some. The first for others.

God remains soft and circular. I am linear and limited, and I realize that this is the knowing that brings the exquisite pain.

No worries, I whisper to myself. You’re tough. And you can always make more bread. This isn’t true, but God doesn’t contradict me. For that, I am grateful.

Holy Preppering

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

The question of what to believe and what to believe in has plagued humans since consciousness seeped into our thick skulls and we uttered our first Why? So many ways to explain what happens, what matters, and how things are related: Science, sorcery, nature, love, revenge, big bangs, money, freedom, justice, magic, self, country, and a wide variety of gurus, presidents, and Gods; it boggles the evolved mind.

When things don’t go our way, we also ask Why not? We assign culpability for painful, scary, disappointing events. Awful things must be someone’s fault: the failings of the various Gods, the devil’s doing, the stupidity of our fellow humans. It’s comforting to blame.

But such attributions are simplistic and often wrong. Absolutes are always nuanced. We naively pit cause and effect against chance because for a species of meaning-makers, meaninglessness is terrifying.

“Yes,” God agrees cheerfully. “It’s astonishing what humans think up to believe in. Accepting meaninglessness, ever-evolving truth, or limited comprehension is tough.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” I ask.

 God shrugs.

Recently, I had a brief encounter with a bona fide Doomsday Prepper. Talk about meaning-makers! Preppers believe fervently that a specific global disaster is imminent, and they enjoy actively preparing for it, honing their skills to endure against the odds, spinning conspiracy theories late into the night.

They hoard food, toilet paper, and usually, weapons. They have generators, animals, flour grinders, and secret stashes of who knows what else. If they are rich, they are building biodomes where they can live once the rest of the earth is uninhabitable.

Generally, they’ve formed God in their own image. This God wants them to have supplies and ammunition. This God wants them ready. This God wants them to survive.

“That’s so sad,” God says. “So isolating. Devastation around every corner. Enemies on every horizon.”

“I know,” I agree. “And it’s likely self-fulfilling.”

“Maybe,” God says. “But what matters is who you’re prepping to share with and who you’re prepping to kill.”

My heart sinks. “Well, that’s easy. We share with those who are like us and kill those who are not. And we kill anyone who threatens our loved ones or our supplies.”

 God nods. “It takes an enormous amount of prepping to be ready to love your enemies.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I snap, crossing my arms.

“Oh, I think you do,” God says patiently.

“Nice chatting,” I say, backing away. “But I have things to take care of.”

“Going to order another crate of toilet paper?” God asks with a grin.

“Yes,” I admit. “But I’m planning to share the outhouse with anyone who needs it.”

If I Love My Enemies, Who Will Hate Them for Me?

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Loving my enemies, even if the list is limited to humans, is a tall order. If other lifeforms are included, say vicious dogs or mutating viruses, all bets are off.

“Who’s betting?” God asks. This is a trick question. Instead of answering, I distract myself by reviewing things or people I detest. First, the obvious: Covid. Putin. But the list rapidly expands until I am simmering in the cauldron of generalized hate. God waits.

The dog I’m in charge of today isn’t vicious, but she’s often overtaken with spasmodic joy when she sees me. Neither of us can contain it. She squeaks, grovels, dashes here and there, and even though she knows better, she leaps up and knocks me down. I yell “No.” She meekly allows me to put her in timeout but then howls in protest. God is still waiting.

One definition of enemy is someone or something injurious or destructive. The dog knocked me over in joy, but the bruises are the same. How does intention factor into this complicated equation?  God clears her throat. I guess I should stop ignoring her.

“I’m betting,” I say. “There are too many hateable things and people.”

“You are SO right,” God says. “It’s too much for you. How about you let me do the hating?”

“That would be great!” I say. “I’ve got my list right here.” I hand it to her, but I can’t quite let go. She pulls. The list rips, leaving me clinging to a small corner of the page.

God glances down the list, rips it up, and explodes in laughter. She is a stampede of wild horses pounding the earth. She is an invasive species blooming bright yellow. She wraps her irrepressible presence around the artillery and dies blood red in the battlefield. She is chemo, killing all rapidly reproducing cells, innocent or lethal. She is a Supreme Court bent on destroying democracy, a river rising, a child playing near the den of the rattler. She is Source and the End.

“Hate won’t get you there,” she says, marching by in a parade of endangered species. She tosses me a floatation device, a flak jacket, and some abortion medications to distribute as needed. She puts a big fat hand out, taps her clawed foot, and waits. Reluctantly, I put the remaining corner of the hate list in her palm. She wads it up and eats it with determination reminiscent of Maxwell Smart. I should be happy. Relieved. But I want my list back. Hate is easier, vengeance feels good.

“Hey, God,” I say. “Turns out I don’t want you to do my hating for me. You’re not very good at it anyway.”

“You’re right,” God says. “I’m not.”

You Can’t Make Me

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

God and I are listening to Bonnie Raitt on Youtube. “I can’t make you love me if you don’t,” she croons, her voice resigned, gentle. The lyrics were inspired by an article about a man who’d shot up his girlfriend’s car. During sentencing, the judge asked the offender if he’d learned anything. He replied, “Yes, I did, Your Honor. You can’t make a woman love you if she don’t.”

“Well, that’s true,” God says. “But don’t extrapolate. She’s singing about eros–an attraction that’s sensuous, artistic, and spontaneous.” God gave me a chummy wink. “It may not have been that wise, but I put eros slightly out of your direct control. And I’ll admit, I get a kick out of watching eros make fools of you all occasionally.”

My mind drifts to some of my youthful escapades that may or may not have been fueled by eros. I keep silent. God laughs.

“I hid it in the genes; biology and all that,” God says, but quickly adds, “I also gave you a modicum of willpower and common sense. You can channel eros in some very nice ways.” God smiles. “It’s a source of energy.”

“Yeah,” I say. My mind drifts to the notion of loving my enemies; definitely not a source of energy.

“Ah,” God says. “Let me clear that up for you. It’s a problem with language. I never command eros. It’s there or it isn’t. My first–and actually only–commandment is this: Have compassion. Choose self-sacrifice. Act for the common good. I don’t just hope you love each other in this sense of love. It’s a full-on mandate.” God pushes back in the recliner, watching me squirm.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she says. And I say, “You already know what I’m thinking, But fine, I’ll say it. I’m thinking about mandates. I don’t like seatbelts. They make me itch and feel claustrophobic. There are mandates I hate.”

“Yup,” God says. “I know that.”

“But on the other hand, I detest second-hand smoke, and drunk drivers terrify me.”

“I know that, too.”

The song continues. “Morning will come, and I’ll do what’s right. Just give me ‘til then to give up this fight.”  The longing in her voice, the beautiful, ultimately loving surrender always chokes me up. Such a heart-wrenching choice.

“Now, about those seatbelts,” God says. “You realize that in a crash, your untethered body becomes a bludgeon, right? It’s a mandate for the common good, not your comfort.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I say. “That’s why I wear the damn things.”

But sometimes, I finish my half-beer in the car when I’m not driving. I haven’t shot up any vehicles, but I admit I still have some work to do.

“Oh, most of you have quite a bit of work to do,” God says. “And not to rush you, but like the song says, morning will come.”

Bad God

Rita Sommers-Flanagan10 Comments

Here’s how it started: I spotted God strolling in the fading garden at sunrise and shouted, “Okay, God. Get in here right now. You’re in serious trouble, old man. Serious.” If God had a middle name, I would have used it. Like, “God Henry, I mean it.”

God heard me and waved. God heard me and pointed at the sky. God heard me and heard me and heard me because I didn’t stop yelling until I had dissolved in a coughing fit from over-exertion. It was only then God approached, slapped me on the back, and helped me catch my breathe.

“Pretty upset, huh?” God said.

“Oh, don’t try that Carl Rogers stuff on me,” I said. “You know damn well you’ve got to do something about your fake followers. Have you seen them, enshrining cruelty? Greed? Millions dancing at the thought of women forced to carry unwanted fetuses to term as if that’s what you want, rejoicing about your amazing creation being endlessly “developed”? Have you noticed the air quality? The hurricanes? The fires? The poor?”

“Slow down, partner,” God said. “Last day of good weather for a while. And it looks like you’ll have your first female Vice President, and she’s from Indian and Black parentage, and she’s smart. There’s that.” To my surprise, there were tears in God’s eyes. I mellowed a little, but the image of my neighbors wearing those detestable red hats with insulting slogans didn’t fade enough. I live in a beautiful place that voters have placed in the hands of the rich and morally corrupt. I live among people unwilling to pay taxes to care for the sick, the widowed, the poor, the broken. Unwilling to even pay their fair share for the common good.

God saw my despair. “Well, honey. You all have a long road ahead. I’ll give you that. Let’s try something, O.K.?”

I nodded. With God, a nod is a dangerous thing but not as dangerous as saying no.

“Pick a neighbor with a red hat. And get the image of the face clear in your mind’s eye.”

I complied, but there was a low guttural sound in my throat.

“Now, take the face gently into your hands and let your eyes speak love. Let your pain show. Let the truth generate a kind of holy light around you both.”

My hands clenched. My eyes burned. “I can’t do this,” I said to God. “I just want to snap the neck and be done with it.”

“I know,” God said. “But then who’d pay the taxes?” He laughed at his own bad joke, extended his elbow to my imagined neighbor, and they walked arm in arm back to the garden. God offered my neighbor some carrots. My carrots. My garden. My Bad God, out there loving my damaged, vicious neighbor, sharing my harvest.

I remained outraged, but I didn’t dare summons Bad God a second time. Who knows what else he’d give away? I just watched and sipped my beer.