Download the Poetry in Scripture insert
It usually starts with a question: Why do bad things happen to good people? What is the meaning of life? Why shouldn’t I give up hope? In response, we choose our words carefully. But in that hesitancy, the questioner senses that we are unsure and grows impatient with us; or we feel like our words are inadequate so we lose confidence in ourselves. In the end, we don’t feel like we’ve said what needed to be said, so questions persist, lingering in the air unanswered.
Communication has always been hard. Words can be both precise and flexible. That’s why we can describe people who said one thing but meant another; or why we complain that someone twisted, bent, or distorted what we said to make it mean something else. Communication is hard, yet what we say matters. That is why we choose our words carefully—preachers and poets and parents alike and anyone who has ever been asked: What is life all about?
I start thinking about this after reading an article about Emily Wilson, the first woman to publish a translation of Homer’s epic poem, The Odyssey.1 In the very first words of The Odyssey there is an adjective describing the hero of the poem Odysseus. Was he a good man or a schemer, a strong protagonist or a weak pawn at the mercy of the gods? The Greek adjective for him was the word polytropos—“poly” means “many”; “tropos” literally means “to turn.” To say Odysseus was a “many turning” man doesn’t make much sense in English. So translators through the years have used a host of words to describe what kind of man this “polytropos” Odysseus was: a man of many a turn, shifty, cunning, restless, clever, skilled in all ways, tossed to and fro. In the end, Wilson came up with an English word that communicates this complexity perfectly: she said, “Odysseus was a complicated man.” We know just what she means.
Translators working on ancient Homer aren’t the only ones who struggle with finding the right words. Consider those who translated our bible from Hebrew and Greek. Consider the King James Version of Genesis 1:1—In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. For hundreds of years, translators have struggled with the precise meaning of the Hebrew words. Was there nothing in the universe and then God wondrously created everything in a flash—in a divine Big Bang? Or was there something out there already—the canvas of space was not entirely blank when God began to create the heavens and the earth as part of this eternally-existing universe? Both translations are possible from the ancient Hebrew.
Go a step further: read about the Spirit of God moving over the waters. The Hebrew word for “spirit” is “ruach” which means spirit, breath, wind. Did creation come about because of a wind?—that feels too impersonal—a breath?—that feels a bit too anthropomorphic—or was it God’s Spirit literally moving over the new creation? In the end, Genesis is more poetic than scientific. To some that is a criticism; but ultimately the ambiguity is important to what we hope to communicate. Creation is God-directed in ways we can never fully grasp or pin down. Creation is polytropos—it’s complicated. And that’s a good thing.
Go now to the New Testament, to John 3. The Jewish leader Nicodemus comes by night to visit Jesus, the upstart rabbi. Early in their conversation Jesus says “no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born anothen.” The Greek word anothen means “born again” and “born from above.” To be saved and enter the kingdom of God, does it require a type of earthly regeneration—like being “born again”—or a spiritual regeneration—like being “newly made, born from above”? Billy Graham and revival preachers have long preferred the former option: You must be born again! Modern bible translators tend to select the latter option: What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit; therefore you must be born from above (John 3:6) In the end, Jesus insists both are needed—grace-infused new life and earthly incarnations of new faith. Salvation is polytropos—it’s complicated. And that’s a good thing.
Hard questions always come up: Why do bad things happen? Why shouldn’t I give up hope? In answering these questions, we need to be more open to poetry than prose—more open to multiple meanings versus narrow precision—because that is at the heart of all faith language. Someone is in pain: Do you read to them from the detailed language of Leviticus or from the poetry of the psalms? Would they rather hear about goat offerings or these words: Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me: your rod and your staff they comfort me.
In today’s hurting world, we are ill-served by the legalistic language of lawyers when we need the soul-stirring words of poets and prophets. Too often after another mass shooting in America, any call to restrict the ownership of assault weapons is deflected by NRA wordsmiths who argue that that term (“assault weapons”) is too vague and is wrongly applied to common rifles used for hunting that have been modified to hold extra ammunition or fire more rapidly. As poets of faith, we must argue back and say, “Fine. If not “assault weapons,” then what is needed are bans of “weapons of assault” that kill schoolchildren in Sandy Hook, churchgoers in Sutherland Springs, and concert attendees at the Pulse nightclub and in Las Vegas. And why? Because our faith tells us that is how we do justice, love kindness and walk humbly with our God.
Or when issues of harassment come up and legal defenses are couched in language arguing that sexual advances were misconstrued, that flirtations were simply taken the wrong way, and besides the women appeared to go to the hotel room meetings willingly, then the poets of faith must insist that harassment is about the misuse of power—of male privilege imposing itself on women who for generations have been blocked from advancement in misogynist business or cultural arenas. And why do we push back? Because the poetry of faith tells us that we are called to relationships that are not envious, boastful, arrogant or rude, that do not insist on its own way, rejoicing not in wrongdoing but in the truth.
Or when charges of racism are raised and people try to dissect the act into permissible free speech or whether an intent to harm was present, then we forget the larger truth—that, in the words of Ta-Nehisi Coates, “racism is not merely a simplistic hatred. It is more often broad sympathy toward some and broader skepticism toward others.”2 In the words of the religious poets, racism isn’t about broken contracts; it’s about broken covenants—the promise that in Christ, there is to be no privilege or prioritization between God’s children: no longer Jew nor Greek, male nor female, slave nor free, black nor white. It is not about legalities under the law where justice is miserly doled out in teaspoons, but about biblical standards of letting justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.
Words matter. And the poetry of faith can speak far clearer than the prose of self-serving human reason. Included in your bulletin is an insert that contains a sampling of scriptural poetry. Take it home. Put it on your fridge or on your desk or by your bed. Get familiar with these words; perhaps memorize them. In times of need, when hard questions arise, more often than not, these words will say what needs to be said far better than anything else you might hear spoken.
Words matter. The rich poetry of faith matters. That has always been true. When the writer of John’s gospel struggled to capture the wonder of God’s eternal plan of salvation for humankind, he looked first at the poetry of Genesis 1 and then expanded upon it in John 1: In the beginning was the Word. Not a single word, not a precise noun or narrow adjective—but a capital “w” Word. In Greek it’s the word logos. It refers to the way we communicate, the way we order life, the way we understand—and this Word was with God and was God. All things came into being through the Word, which is simply a poet’s way of speaking about God’s son, Jesus. Our brains and philosophy may stumble to grasp this concept, but our hearts immediately sense the deep truth of this poetry of faith.
When we are confronted by hard questions, let us turn to poetry. Sometimes it is poetry put on the lips of angels: Be not afraid, for unto us is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. Sometimes it is poetry recited from a mountaintop: Blessed are the meek and pure in heart, for they will see God. In the end, the poetry tells us precisely what we need to know: What has come into being in the Word was life, and the life was the light of all people. The Word made flesh, Jesus Christ, the human face of a divine God, the light of the world. In him is life, even life eternal. Saying that, understanding that, and living that is the work of Christian poets like you and me.
AMEN
1 Wyatt Mason, “The First Woman to Translate the ‘Odyssey’ into English,” New York Times Magazine, November 2, 2017. (Her opening line is actually, “Tell me about a complicated man, O muse.”)
1 Kevin Young, review of Ta-Nehisi Coates book, We Were Eight Years in Power, New York Times Book Review, November 5, 2017, p. 14.