We pray a psalm at every Mass. But we never hear a complete psalm — the lectionary producers having taken out the verses which might in some way be problematic — where the psalmist seems to be fed-up, fearful or obsessed with enemies and troubles. The psalmist holds no emotion back from his prayer. Sometimes his/her thoughts turn violent. Our picked over Mass versions leave us with just the cheery bits. Were we to hear each psalm in its entirety, we might finish up scratching our heads. So I've composed my own psalm here (yes, we can do that) — holding nothing back from God. Notice I said we. Try it. No judging. God doesn't think less of us for our confusion, doubts, anxieties, distractions. In fact, I expect God would welcome it. It means we take God seriously.
rising and poised perfectly
through a tunnel of sycamores —
prototype of anything else
we might call golden globe.
But it's the mind-darkness
that terrifies,
depresses me,
O God —
our paradise planet
born of light,
parched and withered,
starved and weary.
The list of extinctions grows.
And it is our own fault.
Astounded —
that despite the signals
we've failed to take the hint!
Silly us,
to call anything, the war to end all wars,
when even now
theaters,
nurseries,
maternity hospitals,
parks, farms, forests,
schools and rural villages
are disappeared by missile-strikes
ordered by a dark mind,
yet another incarnation of evil.
The new clouds are smoke clouds,
poison
ash-clouds,
rising up,
Vesuvius-like
from cities wasted.
Hear my pro-life lament:
for the baby girl blown up in her stroller,
the four year old boy dead and
undiscovered under fifteen stories
of crumbled cement and steel,
the family running with their little luggage and their cat crate,
the old man targeted from the sky while tending his bees.
I hold this sorrow,
even sorrow for you, God of Light.
Could it be that we've robbed you of omnipotence,
who called the oak trees and ferns,
the giraffes and frogs into being,
who opened the sea for freedom's sake,
who gave new sight to the blind man,
who left behind Turin's shroud.
So unconscious,
we've insisted you go away.
Have you left us?
Gone to another planet?
Perhaps a safer, non-weaponized world?
We have a telescope now that sees back to the origins of light —
are you there, Holy One?
Have we frightened you away by our political party cult-darkness,
who elect ignoble souls,
cheer them on,
hooting,
fist pumping the air,
chanting their slogans,
ignoring their lies,
wearing their colors,
waving their banners —
ridiculous in our shame.
Do you remember the night,
when I brought the eight girls
who had done terrible things
to pray before the myrrh-streaming icon
of the Mother of God?
And the gentle priest said,
"The icon is dry tonight,
so let's bless only
the children who are here."
And when my group approached the icon
it started to pour scented oil,
flooding off the bottom edge.
And the little acolytes rushed
to stretch the
red cloth to keep it from
landing on the floor.
The poor girls didn't notice,
but I did,
wide-eyed for the faith-stirring sign.
But the devil is a spoiler,
and we need the autocrats of power-love,
and the pillocks of money-love
and their celebrators
to see,
to inhale this too.
Show yourself again, O Blessed One,
whose omnipotence is love;
hearts have grown cold;
and the forests are on fire.
