American Poverty

 

I’ll just start with a warning here: this poem is the product of a deeply smoldering rage. I am and always have been disturbed by the fact that a debate about the morality of abortion even exists, especially within the Christian church. Has our connection to the truth lapsed so dramatically that we can’t find it within ourselves to be enraged and disgusted by a practice that so directly defies the love and grace of God?

There should be no debate on this. It should never have become about politics, or economics, or social structure. It has always boiled down to this: that the sanctity of human life is a basic truth, and the violation of that sanctity is an abomination, always. One doesn’t have to be a follower of Christ to believe that–but if, fellow Christian, you find yourself feeling squeamish about that declaration, I’d invite you to search your heart and ask yourself: are you with Christ or against him on this truth? Is your faith bigger than your fear?

Abortion is the scourge of humanity, worldwide, and there is no room for apathy or ambivalence toward it in the Christian life, or any life that claims to be moral.

Frankenstein, Inverted
No evil exists there,
only life and the simplicity of it
a shroud of warmth and darkness.
There is no uncertainty, only blissful freedom. It is a beautiful place,
untouched by any but God’s hands.
Yet you would have it be touched by death, by
the cold metal of destruction, the liquid fire of poison
callously administered.
You would have this sanctuary disturbed, sucked dry, turned hostile and fruitless, the life within it denied
for the purpose of relief, of bloodstained freedom.
Not unless we have to, you say.
You say, no one ought to ever have to. But your words ignore the fear
that forces your hand,
the hope that cries out, unheard, even as it is extinguished.

This abomination of human creation is permitted its vile sustenance.
By decree of cowards are the most innocent among us
presented to its ravaging mouth,
though their hands have touched nothing but security,
their eyes know nothing of lust, of greed,
their hearts know only openness, only possibility.
Their mouths breathe nothing but gentle murmurs
of the dreams that enfold them.
Theirs is a mere poverty of days, of years.

A life of poverty is no life at all, you say,
meanwhile your own soul cowers behind dry eyes, flayed and bitten, beaten raw.
Its hands hold nothing but the bitterness of experience.
Its eyes see only depravity,
its heart knows only fear.

What do you have that they do not? What is your life
but hunger and longing?
The taint of loss. The fear of death, of dying
unknown. The poverty of a spirit encumbered by darkness.
If anyone deserves death it’s you.
And yet this poverty you love
you grip it tightly in pale hands
your pain is your own, you’ve claimed it and know it. Your voice gives validation to your existence. You wouldn’t trade it away for the blackness of oblivion,
not yet anyway.
And no one says you must, not yet anyway.
In the end you crave not death but the safety you once knew
and will never remember. Perhaps you’re doing them a favor,
to end it before the knowing. Perhaps you envy their silence and solitude.
Perhaps it’s better this way.
Perhaps it’s better they don’t live to become
just
like
you.