So, there is a group of us working through Revelation together. We've had a great time learning, listening, and exploring what God is doing in this strange and apocalyptic text. One of the things we've done together is to allow John's writing to inspire our imaginations. So, I plan to share several of our works of art here on the blog. I'll start with a poem that I wrote, inspired by Revelation 5, titled "Worthy." Enjoy!

- Josh



Worthy

I had heard of you with my ear, but now my eye has seen you

In my imagination, you still appear

As nordic Jesus—the blonde-haired one

With the piercing, gentle eyes

More Swedish pastor, with high forehead

And raised brows and full-headed

Lion’s mane hair. And tall. 

Tall and charismatic, like a board chair

Or a CEO or an executive director

If he were pastoring, the church

Would be full to overflowing, based simply

On his height and hair and eyes

And on his lineage—his family

Would be pastors for generations, with

Lawyers and professors and company leaders

Thrown in for better measure. “Good stock”

We might say, or “deep roots and strong trunk”

“Capable” we might say, “the future is in good hands”

And when those hands take the scroll

He might tell an appropriate joke

To put us at ease—something knowing,

Both self-deprecating (he wouldn’t want us 

To think that he thinks too highly of himself)

And capable (he wouldn’t want us 

To think we’d put our trust in the wrong guy)

The Lion of Judah and Root of David

Would be more than capable of

Just such a joke

But I didn’t catch the joke, or

Didn’t understand it when you told it

And—can I speak without giving offense?—

Your coming didn’t exactly put me at ease

Instead of lowering my anxiety, your appearance

Gives me pause, leads to some questions

I see the scars, of course,

They might still be open wounds

Have you healed enough for this?

And after what you went through

Wouldn’t recovery and therapy be appropriate?

So as not to carry your trauma and pain

Into the throne room?

Your brown skin and black hair, matted

With hands that have worked—worked

The olive wood, the broken stones,

The earth, the humus, the dust

Carpenter, stonemason, gardener the roles

Those hands have dug in creation

I see your hands plunged into the earth

Breaking the clay, stirring soil, quickening roots

Your hands, worn and wounded, gently

Cultivating ground, planting seed, feeding its life

Those earth-covered hands reach to the throne

And I watch with wonder and…

(Oh God, I confess it!) with wonder and…

Dismay? Disappointment? Disgust?

Do I want the gardener or

The executive director to lead God’s remaking

Of the earth? The Lamb or the Lion?

And with the Revelator, I’m weeping as I see

That no executive director is worthy

And the hands that reach for the scroll

Are earth-heavy, brown and bloody

The blood from your own hands is become

The lifeblood of each root unto each leaf, unto each leaf

Your breath and living blood is become

Creation’s sustenance, alive again, alive again

And He shall reign forever and ever