Adventures in Hagiography

Hagiographers build the saint's life
Even as they kill the man behind it
Deader than a sinless doornail.

They lose his doubt and fear and foibles,
His bad temper and worse choices,
His lonely nights of dark despair.

They know their audience, to be sure:
Masses eager for a blameless hero,
But one less offensive than Jesus Himself.

In the baby lisping Ave Maria and Pater Noster,
We see Christ as we would like Him to be,
Rather than the bruised, bloody bondslave He was.

Storm

He calls; I step with all my might
Onto the water, treading carefully,
And promptly sink beneath the foaming waves.
Someone has gone badly off-script.

I was promised an easy yoke, a light burden,
Peace amidst violent storms,
So why is an ad-libbed half-ton weight
Dragging me relentlessly downward?

Dry

Like a rainstick-wielding Aztec,
I wave Scripture over a parched soul,
Praying for divine favor:
Heaven-sent rain on a thirsty land.

In the distance: A cloud,
No bigger than a man's hand,
But it soon blows out of sight.
I'm no Elijah, and this is no Mt. Carmel.