Of Children, Pigs, and Priests

What does one do
with being misled?
I’m not lost
down some blind alley. 
That’s not the misleading.
It’s more like
“Look!  It’s a bird!”
misdirection.
I looked
and let myself be led
to foolishness 
baffled by a half-truth,
a lie.
 
Ok, yes, I am 
temporarily lost,
unsure 
of the right path.
I don’t know now
who you are,
what lengths you’ll go to
to stay hidden.
And what lies beneath.
 
We were two (too?)
innocent children
holding hands
wandering through
this forest of life,
aware there are beasts
in the underbrush,  
but merrily skipping
down the road
nonetheless.
 
But I dropped your hand
out of shock,
and looked
and now I’m . . . 
where?
I look up, 
But I don’t know
what I see 
in your eyes.
“Trust me”?  
And “Please believe,”
I think,
but I don’t what 
to believe.
 
Believe what?
Your lies?
Or something deeper
you need me
to believe despite
the truth
so that we can
happily continue
our journey
as before?
 
No.  I cannot.
For I would see you
as you are--
not some golden 
screen image 
I Echo back to you
in the background
while languishing
for real connection. 
 
No.  I want 
flesh and blood
brokenness 
and longing need,
in open grace--
not some coy fan-dance
of pretty feathers
concealing and revealing
your nakedness.
I want you utterly nude,
in full-spectrum light
with blemishes, scars,
rashes, rolls of fat,
farting naked 
in all your glorious
self revealed.  
 
For you are glorious,
though not omniperfect. 
I am awed in the holy of holies
of your adobe temple
polished shiny smooth
with ponderous 
writings on the walls
where fiery lamps lick light. 
A Waterville stream babbles forth
baptismal promise
beneath a solid oak 
table set with your blessing
gifts to the world--
bread, beer, and an open book
of computational fluid dynamics--
ever eager for communion . . .
as long as you don’t have to venture
out and others earn your admittance.
 
(I do not take
my admission lightly
but with reverent praise.)
 
But in a dark corner
there is a screen 
behind which no one sees
shame, deep shame,
piled up like dusty
broken chairs
in a forgotten warehouse
presumed to be haunted, 
of not being good enough
of not fitting in,
fear of abandonment,
judgment, repulsion. 
of deeds you’d rather 
forget due to regret. 
 
I understand 
the need for hiding,
concealing 
the mess of it all,
the naked shame
of all the fat
piled on 
to protect 
from the pain
of truth--
that life hurts
and we are not
all we had hoped
we’d be 
nor as good as
we thought 
we could easily be.
 
We’re a broken mess.
And that’s ok.
I’m a mess,
you’re a mess.
Everyone’s a mess mess.
We all fall down.
 
But we have a choice
when we stumble--
to rise from the muck
or wallow in it,
pretending 
we’re pretty pigs
when we’re just 
sullied in shit
and rolling in it.
 
Lord knows 
I’ve done my share 
of wallowing,
mostly in chocolate,
to the point where
I’m fat
and not pretty.
And that’s just the truth. 
So I, too, want 
to hide behind 
a soft cozy blanket.
 
But I cannot have 
true naked intimacy
without dropping 
my cover of security 
and coming out from hiding
to see if maybe,
just maybe, 
instead of mockery
or rejection
at this shameful cross road,
there might be acceptance,
empathy, ministration, 
and forgiveness
that precedes 
self-prescribed penance 
without absolution.
 
So where are we? 
Pigs and children
and great high priests,
fan dancers all. 
But we can choose
whether we’ll 
be two separate pigs
wallowing in hidden shame
or come clean
and be clothed 
in our right minds,
joining our hands
in holy accountable
communion
to continue 
our skipping journey,
aware now 
of our beasts
but determined 
to face them 
with torches 
of absolution
together.
                                       Tess Lockhart,  June 2019