Presence
The air in the market
electrified the dawn
Bow scarcely nudged shore
and people were running
We thought Him a ghost
but what stole our breath
was the sea settling still
beneath Jesus
If the sea ‘believes’
then might I?
His damp hem
people persist in touching.
The still—move
the agitated—still
If the frail believe
then might I?
The able-bodied rally
no riot – just intense industry
passing the ‘poor in body’
toward holier translation of peace
If the strong believe
then might I?
Jesus keeps walking
step by even step
until his feet land—
at me.
“Who do you say that I am?”
If He believes
then might I?
I am struck again, Lord Jesus, by the fact that you keep presenting yourself to us – to taste, to feel, to touch – your broken body, your proven suffering and scars, your wearied robe. Do you know that we aren’t allowed to touch stuff in museums? And that we get impatient when kids tug our skirts? You present yourself to us, for grimy fingertips, and the rare bottle of expensive perfume. Today we pause, to see you, not just the insistent need that we bring, but you. Tell us your story – the one in the garden, or the one at the tomb, or even the one with breakfast on the beach. We will try to sit still, long enough to hear your voice. J
jfig 4/2020
Roasted Words 