Naaman's Rebirth (prose version)

2 Kings 5

Shadows, quiet ripples, murky water: as murky as the end for which he came here.

It was wet, cool on his diseased skin, but surely unmiraculous. Was it for this that he had traveled all this way? Oh Abanah and Pharpar! The golden rivers he had played in as a child!—surely they had more power than the unpretentious waters of this foreign land. So, too, the mighty golden gods, and their priests’ incantations, than that insolent prophet of Israel’s unseen deity.

“Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and you will be healed.”

How did he get here, anyway? How had that word first come to him, carried from his wife’s little servant girl, “the prophet who is in Samaria?” How had she come there, for that matter? Why?

From Israel to his household. From his household to Israel.

He should never have listened to her. He had been foolish, he saw that now, but what was there to do but to follow through with it?

Water. Wet. Running in his eyes and down his hair and beard. Once … twice …. This was ridiculous, really. This was far too easy. Where was the striving, the ceremony, the great words spoken and deeds performed? He knew was battle was, and he knew victory. Did Elisha not think that he could accomplish something greater than this? He did not come to beg charity. What was this God anyway, to heal in this manner?

Three times . . . there were his men, his chariots and horses and soldiers, waiting on the bank, watching silently. Four…. Where was the honor that was due his high position and estate, when he waited at the prophet’s door? Five…. Why did he come here? Why did he listen? What was it that compelled him, from his comfortable home all the way here? Here, to this river, this humiliation, reluctant obedience to the prophet’s command—relayed by a servant, no less—he had come for cleansing. Could this God make him clean? This water wouldn’t clean him, but would the God who ordered him there? Six …. only once more to go. What would happen, when he went under that last time? Would he be changed? Would anything be changed? His gods, lacking in power, had done nothing for him, given him no relief when he brought his offerings, gave them his gold. Now would the God of Israel to whom he had given nothing show power? What did Elisha know that no other priest or prophet had?....

Seven. The seventh time he bent and immersed himself in Jordon’s stream. The seventh time he emerged…

New. New skin like a baby’s, whole and rosy and smooth and fresh; like the soft skin of his children when he held them in his arms, and whispered in their ears. And the surging of his heart as he touched that precious, new, life-giving skin was equaled by the wonder in his mind for now he knew. He knew, for the first time truly, that there was a God. Not an idol, but a God. Not ceremonies or incantations but power, real divine, power, and it had touched Him. He had touched him, and he knew he would never be the same.

“Indeed, now I know that there is no God in all the earth, except in Israel.”

Broken Fingers

Broken fingers, bleeding, cold . . .
I am too weak to hold this rock.
Forgive me, Lord! Forget my name . . .
Forget You ever died for me.
Just let me slip, slip, slip away
Into the darkness of this sin.
The torrent’s black, and grim and fierce,
But it would be so easy . . . .

No, save me, Lord! my heart must cry,
I cannot live without my God!
I cannot go back to death;
I cannot let go of life.
You will not let go of me;
You will not set my conscience free
To be with sin again as friends.
You must make me faithful still . . . .

Broken fingers, bleeding, cold . . .
But Your unseen hands on mine
Will hold me lightly, surely safe
Through brutal storms and bitter gales;
And though sin’s darkness sucks at me
And I’m too weak to hold this rock,
You, my life, make me live in You;
You, my Savior, save me still.

Mantra Against Violence [on tv]

November 30, 1998

How many gun shots?
How many blood wounds?
How often across my mind the synthetic red
has shattered in grotesque imagery
of real people’s pain? The death
and suffering and sin that has torn a once
innocent world to gory shreds
must repeat itself, as if we had not
real blood in rivers through our streets.
The screams of a thousand mothers
will echo in my ears if I but look around;
why seek more?
Surely soon blood will be a film upon my eyes
as terror stalks my thoughts
to slay them for death’s cult following.
I do not wish to share my skull with corruption,
putrescence, hate and violence,
but how shall I wash these guts away?
Soon, how shall I grieve
for the world I seek in fascination?