Apologia
Some
that I know enfold belief in warm
Embrace,
like an over-stuffed teddy bear;
Recline
there comfortable and free from harm,
As
though faith were a harbor, safe; secure
From
fear or questions, shallow source of joy.
A
relic from childhood, perhaps. A toy.
Others
clutch it desperately, knuckles white;
A
lifeline from an unseen ship amid
A
sea of doubts.
They peer but catch no sight
Of
hope to justify their trust; just dread.
This
soggy rope might be adrift. No source
Of
life, an anchor on a downward course.
Then
there are those who wield it like a sword,
A
hacking, slashing weapon made to crush
Both
infidel and heathen with The Word.
And
handy, too, for slicing through thick brush,
Overgrown
hedge of bothersome debate
And
arguments from people that they hate.
My
faith resembles none of these. It is,
Abides. Not blanket,
opiate or crutch.
A
story that I feel and know and prize,
Sweet
music, metaphor made flesh, a touch
Of
the divine, I think. Belief, here now
Then
gone; a sometimes absence I allow
Like
bitter parting from a cherished friend.
More
true than real: an authentic fiction.
Doesn't
quite break, no matter how I bend.
A
mystery that offers benediction.
The
part of me that knows how to transcend
And
sees strange meanings in a crucifixion.
Jared Wheeler