Saturday, January 24, 2009

Rites of Passage I

A couple of weeks ago, the church calendar marked the baptism of Jesus. Reflecting on it, I wrote this poem.


When I was baptised
there was no River Jordan.
Just a dented tub
in an ugly room.

No hairy prophet presided
but a smooth-skinned man
who told me to read Tillich first.

God's voice never thundered.
The heavens stayed resolutely shut.
Not even a small bird fluttered down from the skies.

Coming up from the waters I felt
No more sure of God's love
or my direction
or my self.

Yet somehow
In all its smallness
It was enough.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...