An Advent Pilgrimage (Poem)


The Argument:

During a forgettable church service, the soon-to-be pilgrim notices the shoes of the Prophet, 
and by way of small talk, notes how far a distance the Prophet has traveled. 
Being convicted by the gaze of the Prophet, the pilgrim begins to turn away, 
but is reassured and called onto the pilgrimage through the desert. 
Beginning at the edge of the Unreal City at the feet of the Tree of David, 
the Prophet leads the pilgrim in the direction pointed by the root of the tree. 
During the first week of traveling, the pilgrim has second thoughts about the journey, 
but is convicted by the Prophet and repents. The pilgrim then meets Jeremiah, 
who leads the pilgrim to a secret chapel, illuminated from the inside by the Servant of God (Malachi),
 and John the Baptist. The pilgrim is convicted further and sent out to wash in the waters of the river. 
This cleansing is so potent that the pilgrim passes out and is carried and laid onto the altar of the Lord. 
The pilgrim then awakes some days later, being carried by the Prophet and accompanied by a man
 singing songs of Zion, whose name is the Secret of the Lord (Zephaniah). The pilgrim and Prophet
 finally arrive in the green wheat-fields outside the House of Bread (Bethlehem), where the Parishioners 
of Hypocrisy swarm. The pilgrim reaches the gates of the House of bread, to find Micah,
 a man riddled with and dying of diseases. Upon embracing this man, the pilgrim is led into a hiding
 place, to observe Mary and Elizabeth. Finally, in the last song, all things, prophets, people, and time
 is gathered together before the Nativity, which is also the Cross, and the Throne room of God.

Song I


Purify me, oh Spirit,
and sing through me first
of your Prophet’s shoes.

Caked with the dust of infinite
white on powder blue,
tan shimmer on dark leather,

shoes speak the person,
and such was she,
with the desert in his eyes.

With all the desperate need for
small talk in empty church spaces,
after service, in small, unspirited words I said:

“Wow, you must’ve come a long way
Ma’am!” “Yes.”
she, prophetess in winter robes, whispered  

I was summed in her stare,
placed on the sale rack,
and accounted for:

She price-tagged the toll of
A thousand and one drunk nights,
broken promises and lustful glances,

measured the baby crawl pace
of a weak man on the longest
journey to the cross.

I could not take that look, was
ready to turn away, back to old ways
to the hazy woods of old faiths,

when a hand warmed my shoulder,
I call the hand mercy, though
it is cracked and carved with age.

“The pilgrimage beginning again.
Come, walk with me,
we take the journey to believe.”

it is not an easy thing to leave
which is why we must do it suddenly
with one coat, one pair of shoes,

and left the rest with knowing friends
who had gone before me on this way,
and knew they’d see me at the last song.

the time had come for me to find
that most remembered birth, and
I took the messenger by the hand

into the wilderness of the promised land
The prophet led me
to the edge of the sands

where the concrete stops in suburban straight
lines, broken trust with the Lord of Time.
Time.

“Stop” calls the still small prophetess
and leads me to a tree on the edge
of that forgettable, cellophane church city.

It was an old tree in our father’s prime
with regal leaves on gnarled branches, pointing
up, up… The tree of Abraham, Isaac, Israel, Joseph

Tamar, Ruth, Bathsheba,
The tree stretches up, and reaches
down, with deep roots

The wind pipes and strums through
the secret heartstrings of the tree.
“Listen. Listen.”

To you, eternal present,
I lift up my eternal now.
Do not let me be put to shame

“I am trusting you”, I said to my guide, “do
not leave my words in cheap hands.
Show me the ways we must travel, the paths to take.”

The prophet nods, pointing to one, unbroken
root, the branch of impossible distance,
“We follow this” she murmured.

Look up at the setting sun
staring deep at the first star, she
consults the moon, mutters

“We must begin today.
Love is a stickler for ceremony and symbol.
If we don’t start, we might miss it.”

“Miss what?” I ask, “come
and see.” the prophet-sage smiles.
We followed the root into the desert.


Song II


The first week we traveled
long, forgetful days in
the desert heat

On and on we went
through days of thirst and want, we
slept on rocks I wished were bread

A voice came to me, sounding so close
to my own. It prodded me
with thoughts of food, proof, and power:

“leave plowing through the desert’s heat  
to those who need fairy tales
be reasonable, disillusioned, elite.”

My face was ticked with uncertainty
eyes misted, I slipped into broken mind:
the message only lives in my head, the desert is a memory

I am used to an Unreal city,
plastic Jesus worship services
offering sugared palliatives, not hard cures

My home is in the hospice wing
where stale faith, stale bread
keeps me fed, not free.

I want to tell a story, but am crippled by
a macabre vision of kitsch, chipped tupperware
homilies, “let’s all go on the road to Jesus”

marionette puppet patriarchs and blue suede saints
Children’s services
horror of horrors.

as a rowing team will forget their pains
pants, and groans, and hold pace
to the steady cry, so did my guide push me

“Have you already forgotten your purpose?
the taste you had for dust and blue skies?
Come, take up what you have left

A servant will come to us soon,
the man who cries, overcome,
in the loneliness outside a holy city.”

Then came the first Sunday together
when the servant came and
led us to a place of mysterious rest

As a dog will see its owner return from war
and bolt with wild, loud, loving speed
so did the servant dash clumsily across the sand

He came to us and flopped down
with a cry “Have you seen it?
the branch? The root? Is it time again?”

With the silent reproach we give the strange
I spoke to the cast out hermit in dusty robes
my voice solicitous over wary eyes.

“No” I said “I have not seen the root,
do you need some water, can I help you?”
My worried eyes met his creased mirth

“Listen to this man” my quiet guide intoned
“you speak of thirst, yet he knows
where eternal springs meet fresh oceans”

The messenger heard this and laughed:
“I know you, master, voice of love”
“quiet” Said my guide “the time’s not right”.

“Come then!” Said the no less loving servant
panting, rolling, dancing, eager in praise
“I will show you to where we rest today”

There is a stream in the holy badlands
which runs near to a pilgrim’s temple
Come, you are just in time for service.”

We followed, and my guide breathed
“question this servant. Get to know him.
He is holy, and will do you no harm.”

And so I placed myself
in stride with a saint
and asked him for his name

“They wrote it Jeremiah, it means
shout of the Lord. The doctors call me
Downs. I have some trouble holding in.”

With that he hooted,
and called me in love
and embraced me in a simple hug.

“What did you mean” I asked a little shaken,
“About the root and branches
and time?”

He said: “’s a secret, oh yes for now.
But also a promise. For someone is coming
From the tree you saw back home

There was a man o’ God’s own heart
not always the best man, but a good one
who planted a tree with the wife of God’s light.

This was a looooooong time ago
long ago, don’t you know?
but up and up the tree grew

And now, very soon, from the branch
a fruit will loom, and he will be
our righteousness.”

The last he sang, operatically
and jump and cried, and danced his way
it was not long until we found our stream

The stream, a trickle at first, grew wide,
until we found an oasis of sweet water
of dripping trees and warm dates

Beside the water was a temple of light,
a glittering gem box fit for kings;
we went inside.

The temple was all windows
where warm country homes and bright
city food lines are crystallized in stained glass.

In the brilliant chapel light the servant
went before and joined three old men huddled
against the cold, lighting up the night with hope.

Two men sat whispering
in the dome of the temple
where the light shown out greatest

and though no men
seemed more different
in dress, color, or temper

still the gentle, smiling touch
of one to the other’s shoulder
betrayed that they were brothers

The man to my left,
the rising sun on his back,
was the oldest of the two

as canals will run across good
tilled earth, digging deep furrows
into the virgin ground,

so this man’s olive face was lined
with a thousand cares and laughs
of a life abandoned without regrets.

In his hand he held a scroll.
A scroll well sealed that seemed
to have my name written in the seams

He wore rich man’s clothes, with
a twelve gemmed tie clip
and a cap that said “holy to God”

His hair was well oiled, clothes clean
teeth straight and white, nails perfect
and steady eyes that pierced deep

By his side was a man with
the sun in his heavy eyes
and a feral face.

As a homeless man might let his neck
grow a gangling beard, and leave his hair
untrimmed, unwashed, and long

so this man was, scruffy,
unkempt, in truth he seemed more
to squat than to sit.

In one hand he held a pair of shoes
the other was sticky with honey and bugs.
a threadbare shirt of animal hair was all he wore.

His skin was a dusty brown of field work
with eyes never resting and hands
that jittered, twitched, and twisted

Jeremiah and my Guide sat me down
beside these men, beneath their feet
while they went to talk of secret things.

A silence fell upon the room,
and yet there seemed some song
plucked on threads of dust and gloom

“You’re late” croaked the old man,
struck the scroll upon his knee,
and fixed me in his glinting eyes.

And I admit my flashing, angry eyes
with shame I yelled, accusing, forgetting
the love and free choice that had brought me.

“The desert is long, and hot.
There was only flat bread and
what my guide provided to eat.

Besides, do you know me?
I have traveled this week with fists
clenched against my will to turn back.

At times my guide would disappear,
and I would be so afraid the food she left
would run out, I ate the sand of the earth.

I have come this far, which is more than others,
yet all my work has only been the sowing
of my tears onto my torn shoes.

What is your name, anyway?
And why should I listen
to you, a stranger in the desert?”

The old man was quiet, for a time, fixed
upon my face, he said: “I am a Messenger.
You have not been faithful to your first wife.”

“What do you mean?” I replied, confused:
“How can a single man be unfaithful?
I may have had my lapses, but less than others!”

To this, he stood, and unsealed his scroll:
“A Revealing: The Word of Love
to you, from the Lord’s Messenger.”

“You have returned to me tainted goods.
I gave you the keys of freedom,
and led you out from the slaver’s kingdom,

but you have loved your slaver’s idols
safety, security, a country’s dream
and built your house on prosperity.

You have loved computer screens
and paper money, giving only that
which would not hinder your own needs.

Your repentances don’t last one hour
from the church’s doorstep, your
gratitude and worship fail sooner still.

But still I love you, and offer freedom, offer
yourself to be washed clean in the river
by the Voice crying form the wilderness.”

At these last words, the wild man stood
eyes met mine, blazing, walked to the door,
motioning me to follow him to the river.

I stood and followed quietly, ashamed,
until at the front steps he paused
and pointed at an unmarked space

He spoke: “I am the Voice of the Wilderness, crying.
Here I leaped in my mother’s womb,
at something that is coming soon.

Here I saw my father struck dumb, here
I saw his throat unstopped, and over my crib speak.
And there an old man saw a promise filled.”

“How could you leap within the womb at future things,
and remember your crib, yet here you stand
alert, alive, a grown man?” I questioned.

The young feral smiled at my curiosity: “Love
stitches these journeys in an eternal now, sings
a song within the Earth and heard throughout.

The voices, threads and songs of those who have loved,
will be your guides to lead you along your way
Do not be surprised to find such things.”

He lead me to the river, and stripped me
bare, he took soap, and lye, and hyssop fair,
and dipped me in the refining, wet river.

Each touch burned like a refiner’s fire
each scrub rubbed my skin quite raw,
I cried, unable to hold my tears!
Pain, pain, lament of the world
there was the song I helped create
I saw the part in which I played

In thought, word, and deed
by what I’ve done, and left undone
a unwhole love, unneighborly, unselfing

“Who can stand such things? Who
can be clean enough to stand the pain
who can hold against such hurt?”

The Wild Voice was strangely quiet,
and in this stillness gathered up
my broken body, broken soul.

Like a child who cannot breathe
because of some bronchial cold,
and gasps aloud in stuttering breath

until a strong parent holds the child up
rocking back and forth in the cold night air
until he falls into a troubled, shaky sleep,

so I dropped into darkest dreams
only dimly aware of being lifted up
and carried by oil-rich hands.

My bleary eyes saw one thing more
before slipping off to darkest deep
a rest both profound and pure

I was laid upon the beautiful altar
a broken spirit, a clean, burnt offering
finally prepared for the coming sun.

Song III


There is a place between
where dreams and reality reach
a twilight space of deep truth

where the mind sifts calmly
through racking pain, where
each heart knows everyone’s Name

It was here, in the still space
I first heard that sweet song
echo in the corners of me.

I will not try to sing it myself,
for such things are too
wonderful for me.

“Sing daughter Zion,
should loud,
Strugglers-with-God…”

While the song went on
in deep, rich tones, sensation
spread across my frame

I became aware of movement
being carried across the dunes
in soft hands, in a steady pace.

As lovers will in the deep of
night at times moan and
reach, asleep, for the beloved

so my heart stretched in longing
seeking out for the origin of that
most blessed, sweet song.

In dream I saw a man of Gold,
singing to the one who held me:
Behold! a lady held in purest light.

But soon I woke from sweet dreaming
yet still to find myself in arms carried
by my abiding steadfast guide.

A silence fell as the sun arose,

broken by the tones of gold:
“You’re awake! You’ve slept long,
and in sabbath have traveled far.”

The voice came from my left, and
had at its origin a man made warm
by the rising sun on his left side

Like rich black leather will darken
and crease on the chair, where
the wise mutter over hidden things

so was this man’s skin and face
with deep, curious eyes under brows
that could look without lies.

“There is a chapel not far
from here, in which
we’ll take our rest.”

The old man had not finished
speaking his plan before
the chapel appeared close at hand

we huddled in the small, quiet
space. Once inside I was lain down
in the thin dust of blessed things

My eyes held a question, the kind
that my Lady and Guide could see at once,
and with a nudge she caused my voice to sound

“Dear traveler, your song is joy
to my heart, and longing in my ears,
What is your name, so I can know you?”

The old man raised one refined eyebrow,
“my name is God’s Secret, for it I have given
much; for it, and life, and love, I sing.

You are nearing the end:
In one week you shall see
the gates of the House of Bread

But leave that future,
for the future, you rest
and I shall sing again:

‘The Lord, Is my salvation,
I will trust
and not be afraid…’”

So in the silent chapel
the music that sows together time
sung in through me

In dust, wood cracked
drafty comfort
again I dreamt.

I dreamt of wild snakes
in loud clothes, with loud tones the blared
on microphones and screens

Coming to the sweet pilgrims river,
with contorted hearts and two-faced,
clean, humoring condescension,

They asked to be washed
of that little, precious dust
which still held them to humanity.

But the Voice of the Wild, roaring
like the lion, shrieking like the mother eagle
Rebuked the brood of vipers

“Who taught you to flee the wrath to come?
you plated your trees in gold and excuses
they will bear no fruit for you.”

And so the snakes oozed away,
ignoring the words of the wise and stopped,
at the fields outside the house of bread.

Song IV


We awoke together in silent,
pre-dawn light that shows the path
where the sun will be

the desert slowly testified
to the promise of green,
where good things grow.

In between wandered
the well-walked
pilgrim’s path

yet here the road was hardest
not far from the house of bread
there was a famine in the land:

as locusts will rip at
the fertile womb of
seed-flowing, gentle earth

so did the parishioners of hypocrisy swarm
around their fires to devour
the grain outside the blessed house

bread they had not tasted, nor
did their spit-shine polished shoes
ever step within the baker’s town

but with greed hands they plucked
at the wheat grain and gnashed
at vineyard grapes to make their drink.

Pity those once rich fields, which
fed them all their hearts desire
and housed their growers, preachers, scribes

for each season the grain sprung up
far cruder, less nourishing, until
an empty grain was left where bread should be.

because of this, though we were
ever surrounded by grain and grape,
save for my guide’s provision,

I would have starved.

Yet still we journeyed
looking more homeless
than holy

until on Saturday’s noon we reached
the gates of the house of bread, baker’s town
to see a man ill with AIDS

his skin blotched red and purple
his mouth an open sore
his body sunken, sallow, thin

he was painting his blood
upon the gates when we approached
he looked up, a grimace beamed.

“Looking for bread?” He said,
“it’s through this way to a party,
though many do not accept the feast.”

A shade of who I once was
heard, observed, repulsed
and left me behind, for the fields.

yet I followed the prophet’s lead,
and we came closer, with tears,
and I spoke with the man

“Tell me, beloved brother,
your name, what afflicts you,
why have so very few come?”

As a widower might with heavy look
recall a dearly dead in recent time,
so this man seemed, and tearfully said

“To come to the feast of the Lord
at the house of bread, you must pass
through these gates, where we beg.

We are forgotten of our people
vagrant, poor, the government’s problem
yet you must embrace me to reach glory

Most turn with disgusted eyes, throw
out some change like stones to sate
their guilt, and turn back to the fields.”

At hearing this, my Prophet reached
and drew me and this man to close embrace
we held together, and tears we cried.

When long after our tears were spent
the man smiled: “I am Micah,
come in to eat, brother, child.

the house may seem so little, but
by no means is it the least!
Come in! Come in to the feast.

But know this well: the family
of whom we honor, the feast’s founder
whom we come to eat,

are migrant workers,
refugees who fled across
hard lands filled with war.

Come, the women are at the well
come and this to their song
come to hear their story.”

Micah led the Prophet and me
Inside the gates, took us to a place
by the water, but hidden, to see

two women, both pregnant came out
to the draw clear water and to wash dusty
swaddling clothes. One said:

“Ooph he kicks when you are here
he'll be a soccer player, 
or a saint, I'll guess.

but sing that song again, the one
you made after that messenger came
to share with such good news!”

as a woman will curl the corner of her lip
and look to the distance at one side,
perhaps recalling her wedding day

so this woman looked, and
laughed, her coarse hands laid
upon her rounded belly

“My soul magnifies the lord”
came from her lips, and I
was lost deep within that sound.

How long I sat, transfixed,
I will likely never know, but at some point,
the prophet said, “time to go”

as a lost child upon a busy street,
will shriek and run, not heeding danger
at the sight of their worried parents

So once we left that flowing well
“Let’s go to the house, to see, touch
to feast!” I cried, moaned and howled

“Peace! Be still” the prophetess
stated softly, but quite stern
at once I stopped, she said

“we must wait until
the table is prepared
for all to come be served.
It is time to rest besides”
“But must we rest” I groaned
“Yes.” the quiet reply came from the wise woman’s lips,

“For God gave once a week
to be filled with rest in sweet arms of peace,
it’s arrogance to do without this first feast.”

Calmed for the time, my master
guided me to a quiet space to wait
for the dust churned up to settle.

Last Song


I come at last
unto the stitching place
and here lies the dusted thread

where the song, poem, book
reader, real, and all
that came from me

are drawn together

here is the Blessed Virgin
bloody, dusty, broken from bearing
the weight of our prayers

Joseph, here you are, too. Though
he doesn’t speak to me, merely
seeing the dust, is washing my feet

the prophets, from my journey
and other places within the desert
coming now before the Prophet, my guide

But as I see, that still, small voice,
is becoming transparent, fading
to walk within the gathering crowd

now come the shepherds
now the farmers, now
Buddhist monks and atheists

Now the singers, priests, players
now the pimps, prostitutes, sinners,
all are coming.

Lords and lovers, who mix
the powerful no different
from the now empowered

All

all are coming
to bend and dance and sing
“Holy, Holy, Holy”

Now before a trough
now turned to a cross
a tomb, and now a throne

We are shifted sifted,
touched and moved into groups
by a shepherd-Lord’s hand

here, then, now, drawn
together at the edge of time
all voice, all atoms sing

a song that tells
in each note, each mote
of dust on our creaking shoes

the sea parts, is no more
here, now, within the Lord
Jesus comes with bread and wine

Come, come to the feast
taste here the song made
flesh, bread of a wedding cake

Come drink the wine that stains
the violin strings of time, singing
within all creation and imagination

For yourself, and each of us
come with dirty shoes
broken hearts, tired soles

come with the sick
the outcast, and with
the stillborn young

bring the simple, the wild
the dogs, lovers and even those
who cannot meet with your eye

Come for the feast day
Come, Taste and See,
joy unending, love for now

Amen

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