Not your average Epiphany poem
I began writing this poem after reading several threads in a Christian discussion group on Facebook which centered around various views of how Jesus "saves" us. The arguing grew rancorous, with debaters demanding "once saved always saved" versus "if you sin you were never actually saved", contrasted by a few quiet voices claiming the salvation Jesus procured was universal. The Bible was thumped to the tune of all-caps fist banging, and it all felt futile and absurd.
The words you'll encounter below are a reflection not of my views on God, but of the Christianity many people demand we believe. They don't recognize the monstrosity of the god they've created, and yet this is the distillation of the good news they offer.
Surely a god who is love couldn't be this thing. Surely the magi saw something different.
Hear the Good News
by Suzanne DeWitt Hall
1/6/2022
A blood-thirsty creator belched out the world
and filled it with self-images
who lived, reproduced, danced,
stole land from their neighbors
fawned, and eventually forgot.
The creator bellowed
“How dare you betray me?
Give me blood, or you die
worship me, proclaim my love
and give me blood.”
The self-images hurried
to kill doves and pigeons
sheep and goats
rams and oxen.
“Mea culpa,” they screamed
bowing down, abject
pouring out still more
a red sea of apology.
“We will roast the organs for you
dash the sacred pulse against the altar stone
pour out gallons of scarlet atonement.
Forgive us?”
The creator gulped and burped
but it wasn’t enough.
its need for vengeance unquenchable
the self-images too rotten,
too riddled with weakness,
too easily distracted from its gaze
and in that forgetting
its hunger raged
the taste of mere beasts no longer luscious
in their millions.
It called for a new sacrifice.
“Offer this one,” it said.
“When he grows tall and juicy
kill him, instead.
The lifeblood of my mini me
will satisfy my hunger.
Surely.”
It drank the lesser offerings
for thirty-some years more
until the day arrived, deliciously.
The creator was pleased
as his blood poured out:
Immanuel
flesh damp with sweat
the scent of nard
so different from animal dung.
The self-images sighed, satisfied.
“We did it!” They proclaimed
“We are saved by the blood!
Our sins forgiven!
Forever!”
They danced in their chosenness
danced that they knew the key
danced that they could point at others and growl;
“Hear the good news!
Worship or die!
The creator still thirsts
and will drink its fill of you
but we gave it what it wanted
painted ourselves forever crimson.
Join us
obey us
for the thirsty one aches
for the roasting of your flesh
in the place where it waits
we call heaven.”
