And the innkeeper's my own damn fear,
The excuses I make for playing it safe,
Keeping it real, offending no one and
Telling the poor couple and their child
To find another Samaritan, with less to lose,
Someplace else to bed down tonight.
Could be the inn is in my mind,
And the innkeeper's my precious pride,
Those grievous certainties that mark right and wrong,
Us and them, my nobility and their ill intent,
And I'm so devoted to complaint that I refuse
To meet the gaze of the Mother of God
At my door, asking only for shelter, for hope.
Could be the inn is in my mind,
And the innkeeper's my own lazy soul,
My own resistance to prayer, and discernment,
To the posture of grace that kneels before truth,
And I'd rather come up with my own God,
And trust my own instincts and holiness,
And I guess I'm too damn lazy to open the door
Where they knock tonight, the Mother of God,
Who says YES to the universe and BRING IT ON to the Holy,
And the lover she leans on, who says I WILL to partnership,
And the unseen Child they bear, even now,
Into my world, and into all worlds,
To call us back to fearlessness and peace.
DGJ 12.15.17
An Occasional Poem, during Advent
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| Basilica, Nazareth, Holy Land |
