Written in 1985. Faith and theology had been cracked open by the reality of peoples’ lives. We sought to discover and express a spirituality arising from the struggle of those seeking justice and their “true place in the world”
We walk, crawl, stumble,
grope in our little caves, within our prison walls believing
our illusions to be the truth of life
We are so sure, so secure, so filled with zeal yet
Crippled in fact by the wounds inside
Limited in sight by the idols we serve
Locked in the darkness of our little worlds
Jesus came
Writing his story on the walls of history
He wrote in Bethlehem, Nazareth and Jerusalem
He wrote in the cave, on the cross, in the tomb
He wrote on the heart, in the spirit amid the chaos
He wrote in bold letters edged with fire that
Burn and destroy the walls of illusion
The winds of Pentecost enflamed his Story
Threw it across the ages like tongues of fire
To guide all peoples in the march of freedom
It is the fire of truth, of reality and contradiction
It settles on the walls of our little cells, challenges
Our illusions as we sit chained inside
The Jesus Story throws down the gates
Rolls back the stone of death’s dark door
Crumbles the walls that imprison us all
The Light bursts in upon our shattered world leaving
Us standing so nakedly alone
Our illusions gone we stand afraid
So weak so vulnerable in the face of life
We grasp for that which would hold and guide us
He offers us freedom the gift of His Spirit
We grow in awareness of all that is the story
Of peoples in their struggle for life
Unburdened by the weight, the chains of illusion
We know inside a creative fire that
Leads us to build in a world of injustice
The Dream of the Father, the longing of the poor
We choose to be responsible, embracing all risk
Refusing to hide behind authority and law
We follow the path of obligation and service
The Path of Jesus, the Story of His Life
For no greater love does a person endure then
To give his life to his neighbour in need
Powerful images here, really putting an emphasis on “our illusions”. The poem as a whole speaks strongly to the human spirit. In the context of 1985, I can envisage the immense ongoing struggle for justice and the strength of God’s spirit that endured in the hearts of His people.
And 1985 flows into 2020, illusions being shattered, then replaced by others, the slow march of humanity toward a semblance of peace and justice.
In the Philippines, Duterte has just snatched 7 journalists from their homes and confiscated weapons and ammunition found (planted!) in their homes; they are being held incommunicado for writing against his oppression.
In America we witness a nation held ransom by a man whose ego is his only concern.
In Australia, our government is showing no humanity toward refugees being treated as convicts and towards a Tamil family from Central Queensland being held in isolation on Christmas Island. What a name! What a terrible irony in the name!