Welcome to the deep;
It’s sometimes translated
As emptiness when a better
Word is gratuitousness or
Better yet, grace, the
Absolute trust that happens
When a human body is
Moving with confidence
And delight; the futility
We are called to leave
Behind in Babylon is not
Physical existence itself;
It’s not dancing; it’s not
Sex or drugs or swear words;
It’s the mystery of the
Fruit of knowledge: can we
Discover beauty and stay
In wonder or must it always
Be patented and converted
Into an upward slanted graph
The shareholders can see?
Can we delight in other bodies
Without turning other people
Into meat to be gnashed in
Our teeth? Can we walk
Through our world without
Tossing garbage on the
Ground and needlessly
Torturing insects and pouring
Concrete all over everything?
A world of concrete and drywall
Has no access to the deep;
You can try with your fifty
Minute yoga classes squeezed
Into your lunch break and
Five minute meditations at
The top of each hour but
As long as you are productive
And successful you will
Never enter the deep.
The deep can only be
Entered through death
And loss that happens
Cruelly enough to break
Through the concrete
So that someone would
Even consider the possibility
Of walking barefoot in
The woods and rediscovering
The mud that we are scolded
For splashing our toes in
As children, ensuring that
The legacy of Adam’s curse
Will be passed down and our
Lives will be less than the
Wonder they could have been
If we had never tried to be
More than the dancers
We were created to be
And yet the song that gave
Birth to us is a complicated
Song; she doesn’t judge
The ones who fall short
Of synchronizing perfectly
With her rhythm and she
Never stops playing with
The perfect grace of an
Afternoon wind that tickles
A few chimes and tosses
A few leaves; nobody has
Time for the song who created
Us but if we make time,
She starts to write through
Us and it’s not like being
A robot; it’s being alive
Within a perfect embrace,
Knowing that the next
Words that need to appear
Will edit themselves until
They are divine breath;
I’m being dead serious
Right now; God is telling
Me point blank that she
Is the song I have always
Heard calling me into
The forest, naming me
Starchild so I would
Understand I have been
Sent from somewhere
Else to help my people
Learn how to dance
Again even though I
Don’t know how to dance,
The spirits who dance
Within me will move my
Limbs until every cell of
Mine is healed; I needed
To bear the shame of my
Ancestors in my colon
So I would dive into the
Womb of God desperately
Enough, and in that way
I was seduced into the
Heart of the song so
That God’s pink tongue
Is everywhere in a
Spiderweb of bells and
Panpipes speaking in
The gorgeous melodies
I find, some in the lands
That made me and others
In the lands of others,
But knowing every time
That none of these songs
Are mine; they belong to
All of us and their purpose
Is to take us back to the
Campfires we stopped
Lighting and the drums
We forgot how to play
Because when we danced
Around the fires, we were
God together with everything
Else; we were once lovely
Microbes in the colon of
God, but we got nervous
And turned into cancer
And now God’s body is
Pulsing with inflammation;
It’s not as though we can
Kill her but she really
Doesn’t want to lose us
And she might not have
A choice if we keep ignoring
Her song and inventing
Our own virtual reality shows
To close ourselves off in;
And it’s not fair because
The ones who are causing
The most death are always
Insulated from the sin that
They have brought into the
World so that they can go
To church every Sunday
Utterly oblivious to how many
Crucifixions they have nailed
With the clicking of their
Laptop keyboards; and yet
The only punishment that
God can impose on them
Is to let them harden into
Statues saluting flags,
Trapped in their perfectly
Safe Disneyland where
There is no poetry
But only robots who
Keep repeating the
Whitewashed version
Of the story so that
All the white people
Can keep taking our
Pills and ripping the
Counters and floors
Out of our houses
Ritualistically to make
Sure that we are
Fully updated and
Ready to sell our
Homes for the best
Possible price whenever
We need to move
Across the country for
The fifth time in ten
Years because another
Job that’s a slightly
Higher rung on the career
Ladder has opened and
We’re being recruited
To go there and every
House where we’ve lived
Has the same species
Of colonial grass so our
Feet have never touched
A plant that is indigenous
To any place we’ve lived.
Do you understand that
This is exactly what letting
The serpent feed us
The fruit of knowledge of
Good and evil looks like?
The Protestant work ethic
By which we prove that
We don’t actually believe
In grace; we believe in
Proving that we’ve been
On the right side at every
Stage of history because
If we ever have to admit
We weren’t, that will mean
That our ancestors weren’t
Entirely saved; even though
We say we believe we’re
Sinners, we have very
Specific formulas for the
Stories we’re allowed to
Tell about our ancestors;
It’s not so much that God
Is not holding us, but we
Are grabbing God’s hands
Like permanent toddlers
Who fight with their
Mother every time she
Tries to wipe their butts;
And she loves us as
Delicately as a mother
Loves her toddlers but
She’s ready for us to
Stop using her as an
Excuse for all our
Bullying as we carry
Around our leather
God-puppet books
That give us the right
To plant crosses on
Other people’s beaches
And claim their land
For Christ, as though they
Were not Christ already;
What he wanted us to
See is the anointing
That is available to all
Of us as he moves within
The wind that blows
Wherever the fuck she
Wants to and touches
The foreheads of all
The queers and autistics
And favela dwellers and
Bayou delta pickers who
Have always been the
First to receive the songs
Of God, which go through
Multiple bastardizations
Before the version that the
White boy band plays on
The radio; there is no
Competition for those who
Learn to delight in the song;
There is no American idol;
There is only God, always
Offering herself to us in
Unique, intricate life stories
That she wants to dance
Into us so that we can
Dance with others instead
Of spending our lives
Sitting in cubicles looking
At screens with charts filled
With the math that has
Become the only thing we
Worship; it was supposed
To be our way of life to
Dance and sing with God;
And it will be again;
There are too many of
Us who are being called
Now; the heavenly
Banquet is about to be
Convened; the bridegroom
Is getting the table ready;
Even though no one has
Responded to their invitations,
He keeps making his songs
In secret rooms where he
Delights in the deep and
Spirals down into more
Perfect synchronicity; the
Hidden family of poets is
Being revealed to the world;
The release that has been
Proclaimed to the captives
Will soon be our dance
Party; keep ignoring me;
I’m building an army.
Morgan Guyton is a United Methodist elder and pastoral counselor in Williamsburg, VA. He blogs at www.patheos.com/blogs/mercynotsacrifice
