By STEPHEN MITCHELL
Stepping from the clear air of the gospel
into your mind,
I found myself hemmed in, darkened,
struggling for my natural breath.
Yes, Brother, I know
what you glimpsed on the road to Damascus:
the sense of boundless freedom
that shot, electric, through every
nerve in your body, and all
the strictures of Thou Shalt Not
gave way, the dead weight of authority
lifted, and your only duty
was to the law
written in your inmost heart.
You were born again. But with
the bloody remains of your former
self smeared over you; ardent
and headstrong as usual; you leapt
from the delivery room table
straight out into the world
to teach the Gentiles your truth.
You left no time for yourself
to remain a child, to grow
inside the kingdom of heaven
slow and naturally
as a tree grows by the water streams,
then ripens and bears fruit
in its own season; no time
for your dogmatism and intolerance and resentment
to fall away by themselves,
letting you shed your guilt
as your old enemy the serpent
sheds his skin. And so
you remained with a past, a future,
and a now caught between them, in which
God-the-Judge kept watching you
through a one-way mirror, darkly.
I would like to arrange a meeting
between you and the true messiah
(you can call him Jesus if you like).
I would have you sit in my back yard
on a perfect day like today,
with a continuo of birdsong
and a mild breeze stirring the fig tree,
a fresh-baked sourdough
baguette on the picnic table,
three glasses, and a bottle
of a nice California port.
He might not say a word
of the Good News according to summer.
Perhaps it would be enough
to see him, face to face,
as he sips the wine and hands you
a piece of the bread: take;
eat; this is your body.
Stephen Mitchell, Parables and Portraits
(HarperPerennial, 1990), pp. 56-57.
Stepping from the clear air of the gospel
into your mind,
I found myself hemmed in, darkened,
struggling for my natural breath.
Yes, Brother, I know
what you glimpsed on the road to Damascus:
the sense of boundless freedom
that shot, electric, through every
nerve in your body, and all
the strictures of Thou Shalt Not
gave way, the dead weight of authority
lifted, and your only duty
was to the law
written in your inmost heart.
You were born again. But with
the bloody remains of your former
self smeared over you; ardent
and headstrong as usual; you leapt
from the delivery room table
straight out into the world
to teach the Gentiles your truth.
You left no time for yourself
to remain a child, to grow
inside the kingdom of heaven
slow and naturally
as a tree grows by the water streams,
then ripens and bears fruit
in its own season; no time
for your dogmatism and intolerance and resentment
to fall away by themselves,
letting you shed your guilt
as your old enemy the serpent
sheds his skin. And so
you remained with a past, a future,
and a now caught between them, in which
God-the-Judge kept watching you
through a one-way mirror, darkly.
I would like to arrange a meeting
between you and the true messiah
(you can call him Jesus if you like).
I would have you sit in my back yard
on a perfect day like today,
with a continuo of birdsong
and a mild breeze stirring the fig tree,
a fresh-baked sourdough
baguette on the picnic table,
three glasses, and a bottle
of a nice California port.
He might not say a word
of the Good News according to summer.
Perhaps it would be enough
to see him, face to face,
as he sips the wine and hands you
a piece of the bread: take;
eat; this is your body.
Stephen Mitchell, Parables and Portraits
(HarperPerennial, 1990), pp. 56-57.
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