I am a preacher,
A reacher for syllables
And since I make my living with my words
I want my words to make a difference
In the living of peoples’ lives.
I want ‘em to break out in hives,
Or goosebumps at least.
Not just sit in their seats, saying,
“Nice, ah, sermon, Pastor.”
That, ah, hasta be the last thing
I want to hear people say.
“Nice” is so “safe.”
It comes from a place of comfortably
—dare I say it?—
I tell you that words once had power
When not locked in that hour.
I think of that day –
What’s the Book of Acts say? –
Tongues of Fire descended;
The barriers were rended
Each heard the word
In their own native way.
And that is to say
This isn’t a paean to community;
Some celebration of Unity.
Any commonness, feigned.
Mesopotamians and Phrygians –
Still couldn’t understand each other.
But they did hear the Truth
As if sisters and brothers (and all kinds of kin).
Each still unique, yet united within.
“Oceans have many names,”
The Buddha once said,
“But they all taste like salt.”
So is it our fault
That today we play games with the names
And waste the taste
That could nourish us all?
Love is not limited;
not bound by our primitive conceptions,
We are one nation, this world,
A möbius curled in and around
Not books on a shelf;
The taste of Truth is “Freedom.”
So how do you hear this word?
How do I?
Don’t get stuck in the “why” or the “how”
The flames, they still flicker.
The summons still sounding
Despite difference abounding.
Or, perhaps, it’s because.
Many people; one love.
Truth tastes like freedom.
© 6-2-2011 by Erik Walker Wikstrom