THE PREACHER RUMINATES BEHIND THE SERMON
Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000)
I think it must be lonely to be God.
Nobody loves a master. No. Despite
The bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and bright
Determined reverence of Sunday eyes.
Picture Jehovah striding through the hall
Of his importance, creatures running out
From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout
Appreciation of His merit’s glare.
But who walks with Him?–dares to take His arm,
To slap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear,
Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer,
Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool?
Perhaps–who knows?–He tires of looking down.
Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight.
Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great
In solitude. Without a hand to hold.
You know, this sort of reminds me of President Kimball near the end of his life. He said that he always felt bad that no one ever called him up to go see a movie or go to McDonald’s. Maybe sometimes he tired of being great…
Thanks for the poem.
To this poem is a beautiful idea of a real relationship with someone. But who would dare to poo poo Gods ways or call God a fool? Not me for certain :)