Tag: Murder

Lost in Translation

Rita Sommers-Flanagan14 Comments

In streaks of first light, God looked weary. Out of sorts. My usual impulse is to try a little levity, but something warned me that wouldn’t go over well this morning. I took his weathered hands in mine. “Sweetheart, you look exhausted. Rough night?”

He teared up. “I’m so tired of being used to justify atrocities. I thought I was clear with Moses, and I’ve tried to talk sense into the hearts of all sorts of wingnuts over the eons. But no. Every time I turn around, there’s something worse. What’s so hard about the basics?

“You mean the Big Ten?” I asked. “Maybe they’ve been mangled in translation or gotten outdated.”

God glared. “I doubt that’s it, but okay. Let’s update. Chances are slim to none it’ll change anything, but hell, why not try? You take notes.”

I agreed. It was a long shot, but I was game to help. “Shall we start with Thus Sayeth?”

“Nah.” He actually smiled a little. Then in his gravelly voice, he began:

  1. I AM and have always been the Safest Way. Sure, money, sex, status, false promises, and power—all quite appealing. But Love is safer.
  2. Everyone is an artist. Make things. Don’t worship things. I can’t be made.
  3. I’m not interested in your rash threats. I will not pay your bills. Stop brutalizing in the name of Love. Do not charge things on my credit card.
  4. The elderly of whom you are made deserve your respect and compassion. You’ll need the same someday.
  5. Rest. Restore. Do some collective napping. This is how you’ll recognize the sacred.
  6. Do not kill. Not for sport, revenge, or greed. Rape, torture, slavery…all not good. Ever. Stop it. And self-defense is an excuse, not a solution.
  7. If you promise someone they’re your one and only, don’t sneak around. That’s neither honest nor kind. Fidelity is good. Pretending fidelity is cruel.
  8. Gluttony’s a bitch. Don’t steal.
  9. Be truthful. Always.
  10. Harboring jealousy makes you small and mean. Other people do not belong to you.

And if these are too complicated, you can simply dedicate your entire being to LOVE. At all times, in all places. Be faithful stewards of creation and all the little beings therein. As you travel through, smooth the bumps for your neighbors. And once in a while, give me a call. That’s all.

.God crossed his arms. I crossed mine. “I think you know that’s not all.”

“I’ve got nothing to prove.” God shrugged. “But if I were you, I’d get things figured out. You’re running out of time.”

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

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO online and for a mere $13.99, you can torment your soul every day. Also, I am now posting on Substack, and may drift there as my primary place to post.

That Which You Do Not Need Anymore

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 

I decided I had to tell you something. At first, only 31 words agreed to cooperate, so I lined them up, hoping you’d understand. Here they are:

This is yours.
A day.
Awake.

Sunrise.
Shoes. 
Jacket, scarf. 

Eyes.

Food. 
Teeth.
Mountain.
Music.

Ears.

Lyrics.
Regrets.
Tyranny
of the ordinary.
Sinking
of dreams.

And it’s over.

Sleep. 
Resolve.
Rekindle.

Then I built a fire and baked a distracting dessert. The Coauthors snapped to attention. They stopped their ritual sacrificing, paid the sunk costs of screen time, lifted themselves out of the slung mud, and lined up for cookies. I was generous. In return, they shook loose a few more words. Too late, I told them. Never, they replied. So I accepted the dubious gift.

What We Must Assemble

A coffin, a stuffed animal from the glove box,
the rule of law. A fair trial.

Air. Transfusions. A Dashboard Jesus
assuring us that swords and deadly force are
toxic. Forbidden temptations.

Fresh strawberries from Mexico. Free speech.
Milk and honey for the penetrated little ones.

Hands. Feet clad in good news. Blue
sky. Small gifts. Rare spices. Oil
for the anointing of bodies.

Friends with tears and toast. Gentle
rain to fall on us all. It will fall

on us all. Barns to fill with bitter harvest.
Barns to fill with bones and lies. Barns
where we can hide until they find us.

Wine, cheese, friendly dogs, and laughter.
Thin suits of armor. Small stones.

And that was it. I’ve stuffed my message in a bottle. It’s floating its way to you. There are no angry gods to speak of. Only the still small voices in our heads that plead for mercy and politely ask for shelter and crumbs. You can use all the words you want, the kinder voices tell us. But edit. Remember to edit and then give away that which you don’t need anymore.

__________________________________________________________

If you would like more words to hold in your hands and consider on your own, order the latest godblog book from Amazon. Yeah. Sorry. Amazon.

The Spiritually Disemboweled

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

Today, I am rightfully and terribly sad because nice white adults who would rather live in a democracy are being fired upon, herded, overtaken, terrorized, and killed by a vicious dictator. Likely by the time you read this, the death toll will have reached 1000—maybe far more. And in that same timespan, 30,000 children (mostly not white) will have died of starvation or malnutrition in so-called developing countries. And the poisoning of the planet will have accelerated. Those tanks are not powered by the sun.

My own children are grown and well-fed. At least for now, I live in a democratic republic and can freely express myself. My little corner of the globe is stunningly beautiful. On some days, I am grudgingly grateful. But often, my good fortune makes me want to spiritually disembowel myself. The dentist assures me my teeth look fine, but I think she’s lying. Deep in the night, I imagine I am gnashing my molars down to the gum.

In times like these, God often asks, “Do you want to believe in me at all anymore?” And I say, “Well, yes and no. Mostly no.” And God nods understandingly and pats my head. I yank her arthritic hand away. “Save it for someone who needs it,” I say. And she says okay and sits there on the orange couch waiting for me to realize I am among those who need it. I consider the utter impossibility of believing in anything and the emptiness of believing in nothing, and I grab the vacuum and run it around the living room like a madwoman. This is funny because I hate vacuuming. God grins and plugs her ears. I’ve always suspected she hates vacuuming, too, but with God it’s hard to say. The invention of the vacuum was supposedly a step toward liberation for enslaved womenkind.

I drive the vacuum straight toward God. She is easily pulled in, traveling down the hose in a lump. For a moment, I feel victorious but then, horrified and alone. I turn the vacuum on myself and down I go, right into the dusty arms of the ever-present, ever-waiting God. “Help!” I shout. “I can’t breathe.”

“Stay calm,” God says and hands me an N95. I mask up. Masking is an act of love. What does it mean to love my neighbor? What does it mean to love myself? What does it mean to love creation? It is a dirty, sad, imperfect process–often thwarted or violently opposed–but the alternatives are so much worse.

God’s Mothers’ Day Chat with White People Toting Guns

Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments

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I would like to speak with your souls today. We’ll need to bypass inflated egos and false defenses. Quiet those quick rationalizations. Lose the aches and pains, your fears and hungers, and gingerly touch the dark walls of your short lives. Let go of the protective gear hidden in your pockets, strapped to your ankles.

You would be wise to surrender. Don’t be afraid. You can drop the best of these words along the path so if you need to, you can find your way home. But for now, lay low. Lay down low. Lay down so low that all you see is your mother. Turn your ear to the earth and listen to her heart beating inches from your body. Curl inward. Remember, everything curls inward. Notice the pulsing cord attaching you to this good earth. For now, you are sustained.

The body broken is necessary. When you try to elevate yourself beyond terror or save yourself with weaponry, remember the trajectory of a bullet is not linear. It takes the curve of the earth. The kind you carry explode on impact. The fragments make their way back weeping and bloodied. They reassemble in the womb.

Did you know you shot my son? Did you know he was your brother?

The garden gates are open. I’ll be waiting there for you. We’ll plant spinach and daffodils, potatoes and beets. We’ll pray for water and pull the weeds. I will knit you back together with fine merino wool, and we’ll use your stony hearts to build a monument. A testament. A tomb.

And then, when you’re ready, here is what I’ll say: Let there be light. And with all creation, I will say again, “Let there be light.” And as the sun reveals your nakedness, your mother will hand you freshly laundered clothes.