And He Shall Come Again, In Glory, To Judge Both the Quick and the Dead

This was inspired by a remark that with the institution of the Office of Faith Based Action, now Jesus had his own office in Washington. And the only response to that is to ask whether the people who thought this would be a good idea had actually read the Gospels? This poem has been posted on a mailing list for Baptist ministers. How about that.

Instead of harrowing Hell,
He spent three days in America.
(He decided it needed Him more.)

The first day He pulled down the Office
of Faith Based Action
as Samson did the temple,
as He overthrew the moneylenders.
Nobody who reads with attention
could doubt whose side He would take on that one.
He wept for what was done in His name.

The second day He gathered those
who had cast the first stone
on religious radio, in talk shows,
in the pulpits and tent meetings,
the smugly saved, the self-righteous
with lumber-yards clogging their eyes.
He sighed for the lost sheep
and handed them over to
a slightly bemused Satan
who blinked at the power they'd granted him
in all those years of worship.

The third day He opened the prison doors
and let out the poor, the needy, the misfits,
the oppressed, the bemused,
of all shades and sizes,
He loved us in our humanity
flawed and feckless and still possible to save.
We walked free, rubbing our eyes and smiling,
light with the weight of chains removed.
Then, in the evening He hung out awhile
with some friends who were doing their best,
in a couple of churches, some bars, community centres,
but mostly out in the streets.
It was a big party, everywhere,
and sometimes He dropped in.
Everyone was singing, telling stories,
sharing food and drink, giving presents.

Then on the fourth day --
(of _course_ there was a fourth day
did you think this was an apocalypse?
What sort of happy ending would that be?)
On the fourth day, after He went back
towards the road to Emmaeus,
we got organised feeding the hungry,
arranging a space program,
sorting out education,
raising the floor,
maximising everybody's choices,
insisting that we can speak freely,
and that we can trust each other
(not only with weapons)
and that the world will go on, better.
We got on with it, quietly,
on the fourth day, like every day.

Jo Walton, 4th February 2001, Swansea. Do read and enjoy this poem but do not reproduce it in any way without permission