At the Burning Bush: Me, Not Moses
It’s surreal, what I see in front of me: this nightmarish conflagration. God, You got my attention. And I think I know where this is heading. But before You speak— anything, anywhere near a commission— can I ask You some questions? I was content—well, mostly—hiding away in my little circle of desert. How did You find me anyway? Are You sure you’ve got the right person? I’m old. I’ve tried. I’m not sure I can handle any more stress— I’m already developing serious hives. When it’s bad, it feels like burning, a clawing pain that never ends. Horeb’s innocent bush was like that: subject to bursts of red, explosions of heat— and You, feeding the flame, refusing to be done with it and leave. Everyone thinks of Moses, how he must have felt naked before the Great I Am. Big deal. I want to shout, Wait! What about the bush? It couldn’t die or heal! It had to keep on burning! Although, I get Moses, too—how tempting it must have been to escape from You. I’d almost done it—kept far from my people’s pain. But then, the heat, the flame, the crimes of terror at the border, the cry of the poor, the sobs of little ones, locked alone in cages… And I remember it now— I was young and unafraid. It was so long ago… I welcomed it then, this pain like hunger, the smell of trouble, this strange burning in my soul.
Psalm 139: The Unauthorized Version
Lord, you have frisked me and blown my cover. You smell my ripe armpits beneath deodorant. You know when I sit—when I stand still—and when I shovel bull. You discern my nervous tics from afar. Even before a potato chip is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether. You know every bulge, behind and before— it’s all too much to take in… If I say, “Ugh! The darkness within me!” If I book a cruise, or try to flee the country— If I make my bed—like, never—are you kidding? Still, you promise me you’ll stay. You insist my sin is no unbleachable stain—unlike the kind I get when I throw everything in. Darks bleeding on Lights— then, abandoned. God, I’m lazy. God, I hate laundry, my soul knows it well—my soul knows she is Wash-On-Delicate-Only, wonderfully handmade by you, knit in my mother’s womb…Ruined. Faded, wrinkled, and stretched. And yet… Um…Can we talk about something else? Have you seen those other guys? They’re way worse than me—than I—and I think they’re plotting something—You hear them, don’t You? The way they curse Your name?—Shouldn’t You do something? I mean, just sayin’... Meanwhile, I lie here thinking a million thinks— your limitless thoughts toward me—better than counting sheep—how not a single, snowy flake of dandruff falls, not a cuticle is gnawed, not a tear drops… Oh, God…yesterday was a hard kick. Right in the gut. But I guess you already knew that. I don’t know where to go, or what to do…Oh, God…lead me through.
Psalm 36: Of King David, Post-Trauma
Nightmares again. A mouth spews burning ash— a specter shrieks and laughs— God doesn’t see! God will not bring justice! He brews a caustic brine, this fool who floods my mind with his poison. It is true. It is just as the prophet said: The wicked fool and I dream the same deception. Rest never comes. O LORD, my God, relentless is your dawn. Your faithfulness, bright as a lover’s glowing eye, rises above sky-high mountains. And I am pinned on my bed, pressed beneath your love, your wisdom, wild-red as the sea—the raging waters that fled before you, baring every hidden thing. Fits of sleep—lust—murder—visions of dread— a booted foot pressed to my neck— a royal spear, thrust at my head—Warrior King, circling in battle, counting the dead— numbering shields and fighting men…counting…counting… Awakened, I hear the children playing, safe in your shelter. They drink the morning’s nectar, fill their round bellies. Warm and at home. When did I fall from that mountain? Or was I driven away? To the place of the wicked—knees to my chest, face covered in dust, lost and broken… But I will lift my eyes… there, my shepherd’s lyre. If I turn the pegs, the strings will come again in tune. I will sing of your unfailing love. I have not forgotten the ancient psalms… I have not…forgotten.
Linda Falter graduated from Princeton University with a BA in Religion and is currently working toward an MFA in Poetry at Pacific University. Linda’s work has been published in Christianity Today and The Acentos Review.