In my Father’s house

In our imaginations, limited

and blinkered by some of the stories

that we hold so precious;

we picture a heavenly hereafter,

and make literal the metaphorical mansion,

with its many rooms, that the Jesus

of John’s gospel tells us

he must leave his friends to prepare.

Extending the metaphor, Jesus the servant-king

becomes Jesus the housemaid;

this can hardly be his meaning.

Where, then, will we find his father’s house;

where can we be at home?

Here,

among the dust. Among the struggles,

among the doubting and the tears.

Here,

in the midst of the failures;

with the anxious and the fearful,

with those who wait.

Here,

where occasional gleamings

of resurrection light flicker almost forgotten

but stubbornly; where children of hope

whisper their words of freedom

and shout against the silence;

refusing to quietly go away.

Here,

where deeds of love and grace

continue to be wastefully enacted,

and strivings for justice and generosity

seek fulfilment in peace.

Here,

where unfashionable songs are sung,

uncertain paths are trod,

and the joy is defiant;

here is the dwelling place

with its many rooms.

Nowhere else.

© 2011 Ken Rookes

I try to post my poem early in the week. This means that I may well revisit it, and make some changes. For a more definitive version, check later in the week.