What Kind Of A God Would Die On A Cross?
A Prayer to the God Who Fell From Heaven
If you had stayed
tightfisted in the sky
and watched us thrash
with all the patience of a pipe smoker,
I would pray like a golden bullet
aimed at your heart.
But the story says
you cried
and so heavy was the tear
you fell with it to earth
here like a baritone in a bar
it is never time to go home.
So you move among us
twisting every straight line
into Picasso,
stealing kisses from pinched lips,
holding our hand in the dark.
So now when I pray
I sit and turn my mind
like a television knob
till you are there
with your large, open hands
spreading my life before me
like a Sunday tablecloth
and pulling up a chair for yourself
for by now
the secret is out.
You are home.
-John Shea
This poignant poem is a prayer—about prayer itself. Everything turns on the question, What kind of God is out there? If it’s a distant, pipe-smoking potentate who observes our thrashing like a scientist peering through a microscope, then let that God die. In an astounding image, Shea sends a golden bullet prayer into the heart of that God. Only Job in his agony, only Abraham poised to slay his own son, only the broken hearted among us could load, cock, and trigger such an awful prayer. Yet all of us, in some moment, have felt this god-anger.
Then the poet lays down his soul’s weapon. For the God who fell from heaven, pulled by the eternal weight of a tear, is one who moves among us, “twisting every straight line into Picasso, stealing kisses from pinched lips, holding our hand in the dark.” Now his prayer is simply sitting in the Presence of one who can be trusted, who spreads a table before him. It’s the Twenty-Third Psalm. God pulls up a chair beside the thrashing soul and is finally home.
We first hear of the God who fell from heaven at Christmas—Emmanuel, God with us. But it is not until Good Friday that we understand what Love is willing to endure. Now we know that nothing, but nothing can separate us from the Love of God.
Today’s Question:
What Kind Of God Would Die On A Cross?
If nothing can alter this God’s love for you, how might you pray today?
Question #20 “Who Came Out Of The Empty Tomb?” comes Easter Sunday April 9.
The humanness of “Why have you forsaken me” to his Father just makes it all so real to me. Love the poem, I’ll have to read it a few times to let it all sink in. I don’t know if it’s God but I feel something, everywhere, most of the time.
Can’t imagine the pain Jesus endured, I guess God wanted us to know he wasn’t messing around? I really don’t know.
It’s good that you mention Jesus and those words from Ps. 22 “why have you forsaken me?” When I was writing about Job and Abraham, and how they must have felt about the God who caused or allowed their suffering I thought of adding Jesus—in Gethsemani, and on the cross. But somehow I thought Jesus’ response had to have been different. And in the paradox of God-man, I suppose it was, in some way altered by his divinity. But in his full humanity he also felt abandoned and betrayed. That’s just a mystery we can only just sit with. Nobody knows how to make it all come out right.
Thanks, David, both for the poem and your explication of it. Loved the “baritone in the bar.” And that image of the heavy, heavenly tear—where, how did Maggy find it?
So my answer to your question: If I believed God loved me this way, I’d pray with relief, relaxing into his love, nesting then sleeping in his love. Prayer would be primarily gratitude. I’d stop praying to God and pray with God. I’d do less asking. A lot less asking.
So beautifully put, Michael. Let us all pray with God.
Praying with God—-all true prayer is really the Spirit praying on our behalf. Prayer not as personal performance, but as gift received.
Stunning words and images to take us into Holy Week! Thank you for increasing the vocabulary of my prayers !
How extraordinary that God pulls up a chair – sometimes our closest friends and relatives don’t do that without a formal invitation…thanks for the words, David. Peace.
I wish it was as easy as turning a knob until God was coming in through clearly. Maybe then he could explain tragedy.
You’re right—-it’s not easy. And we don’t get an answer to the problem of pain. All I think Shea offers in the poem is a vision of a God who suffers with us.
I loved the poem, the imagery it evoked and the sense it brought to me. I loved the familiar image of the patient pipe smoker, (Vision of Bing Crosby), the baritone in a bar never knowing the time to go home. However, the image of ‘pulling up a chair, a Sunday tablecloth’ really drives it home for me.
The ultimate patience, love and welcome that God offers us everyday, a Sunday, an Easter, a homecoming to His love and grace.
Thank you, David for sharing the poem. I plan on printing out and keeping.
Blessings to you and Pam, family this Easter and always.
Thanks, John—I print out all the poems I love—have a thick file! Glad you will be returning to this one in future days.