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
Silly
Awkward
Adolescent
Strange.
No more sure of God's love
or my direction
or my self.
Yet somehow
In all its smallness
It was enough.
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