Skip to main content

Angels


Featured this morning in our church bulletin, a recent Advent poem of mine. Though the version for the service had one line adjustment for the sake of its context; this is the original.

More often than not they arrived on foot, 
like travelers come a long distance.
Think of the three at which Sarah laughed.
Think of the one standing in Balaam’s path.

The shepherds, aghast at the one,
then suddenly surrounded face to face with a host, 
looked angels in the eyes. Scattered among the sheep—
not suspended—stalking toward them purposefully 
with peace to those on whom.

The shepherds were not the first.
All of Israel followed the angel to Canaan,
and it was the angels who brought fire to Sodom.
An angel alone led the ram to Abraham.
And we haven’t yet mentioned the cherubim,
divine dragons, guardians of the throne, strange beasts.
This is the company the angels keep.

The messengers say do not be afraid,
and often lift men from prostrate praise.
More often than harps they hold swords in hand,
and sometimes the Lord of all looks the part.
Jacob wrestled the angel, but he wrestled his God.
And the rod of justice, and the feet of bronze,
sometimes the angel is the Son of God.

Where the image of infants with tiny wings?
What the prayers for guardians of easy things?
If an angel appears, something’s worthy of fear.
You’re called to change, to move. Your heart is laid bare.

Zechariah in the temple faced the angel and said,
“I am old; I need proof.” And he was struck mute.
When Mary faced the angel with his promise of favor,
she said, “I am young; how can this be done?”

So the angel, regardless of wings, robe, harp strings, halo, 
heard much the same from each, but knew the hearts.
In her was born the King of all kings.

Comments

  1. I enjoy this again as I am allowed to read through it slowly. Thank you for posting.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Yay divine dragons! Sweet poem, friend! :)

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

window in the sub

Dear Nathaniel, I am microwaving pie that Mom bought up in Oak Glen this week on her way home from the orthodontist. As I put it in the microwave, I was full of sadness that I was not in Oak Glen with her. Why did I not go? I was working. I want to see the trees turn. I want to wander slowly through autumnal gift shops. Under the water, you cannot sense the approach of the seasons. Even here it is difficult because, after all, it's California. But I can still sense it. After three seasons in Illinois and one in Scotland, it must be with me for good. Or at least for a while. Because I am all abuzz with eagerness for fall and winter, for turkeys and dried leaves and Santa. I should start cooking again this fall. Fall foods are my favorite. Baked squash dripping with melted butter and brown sugar, pumpkin soup... this year, if I have enough money, I will put together a holiday dinner for my friends. And we will drink Scandinavian mulled wine, which is the most wonderful thing I have e...

Again in Gilead

I just finished reading this for the second time last week, thanks to the forever book group of Grace. It was equally as lovely the second time around, and while reading it, I wrote down a dozen more quotes from the incomparable Ames, who is both too beautiful a man to be real and too beautiful a man not to be real. (I'm grateful and amazed to know a few like him.) "It has been my experience that guilt can burst through the smallest breach and cover the landscape, and abide in it in pools and danknesses, just as native as water." (p.82) I have found this to be remarkably true. I see it in myself, and in many others as well. "I believe there are visions that come to us only in memory, in retrospect." (p.91) This seems to be about the only way I experience visions, but because memory is a rickety thing, I tend not to trust them much. Which makes me a poor prophet. "I know, too, that my own experience of the church has been, in many senses, shelte...

At the close of nine years

I'm moving to Texas in less than two months. I've lived in Long Beach now for nine years. Already I have stacks of books covering my dining room table that I'll be reading for my PhD program in the fall. I've quietly begun the tedious work of sorting and cleaning everything in my little apartment. I'm scheduling all of my last days with friends, moving through my calendar in reverse order from when I expect to slip into my car and drive away. This is the longest I've lived in one place, so I've never really experienced a leaving quite like this before. I remember the day I left Wheaton, closing the bedroom door on my best friend, walking down to Chaeli's car so she could drive me to the airport. (The greatest grace of Texas is that she will be there. Some friends we never lose completely.) I remember leaving California for Scotland—walking away from my mother in the Palm Springs airport. We leave people who have changed us, and we leave places that ha...