St. Mark, journalist

(As we draw near to the end of the Revised Common Lectionary year)

The rush of words
before they Petered out,
scribbling, scribing jumbled stories —
healing after healing,
fishnet and parable,
storm-stilling, tomb-roaming,
bread-basket counting,
sabbath-whistling,
“who do you say I am?”
hunting Jerusalem,
walking the jaws of cross.

I write second-hand
and cast the stories loosely,
though I often wonder myself
why they turned away
from his telling them
who he was,
why they could not understand
this man who didn’t need
his birth reported to be Christ,
who didn’t need any words
to cry forsakeness
above the gamble of his death,
and who didn’t need more
than running feet
to announce his
fierce aliving once again.

It’s not my gospel, anyway,
though some will name it so —
cameo performance
of a naked mother’s son
fleeing a garden of tears.
But, as I Mark the memories
of those who loved this Jesus,
and chase my own words
down his truth,
I find the more I rush
to stillness, and hear
his question in my ears,
the more I love him, too.

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3 Responses to St. Mark, journalist

  1. Thanks you, Maren. Well woven words.

  2. Oh, Maren,
    How moving….
    Thank you and blessings,

  3. Maren says:

    You are both very welcome — I tried to get that rushed feeling.

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