to worship God, to open ourselves to God’s voice, to grow towards God’s will
Come, let us worship God!
O high eternal Divinity, You who are both Unknowable, Other, utterly Beyond all sense and space —
and Presence itself, pervader of all things, glimpsable in every human face, in the wheeling of the stars and the miniscule machinations of ants —
Remind us of your vastness. Make room for our littleness.
Through this time of worship, stoke in us a burning desire not for easy answers but for grace to guide our questioning; not for light that forces out all shadow but for the wisdom encountered only by those who brave the stormy night.
Another prayer (read after reading Psalm 107:1-3, 23-32)
God whom even the seas obey, All praise belongs to you, for you journey with us into troubled waters and guide us out again.
As we ride the perilous waves together, Surround us in your Spirit of wisdom and courage — a whirlwind stronger than the gusts of any storm, a breath that stills the most agitated soul — to carry us through.
Call to Confession
We have come to worship the Creator not only of ourselves, but of all peoples, all creatures, all the cosmos;
Yet we fall into self-centeredness, becoming so lost in our own hurts, our own desires, our own needs, that we fail to look around to see how we might attend to the hurts and needs of others.
Only in acknowledging our complicity in the continued wounding of the world can we join in God’s restoration.
So let us confess our failings, first in silent reflection, and then as one.
Prayer of Confession
Borrowing from the words of Thomas Merton, we confess together,
Lord God, We have no idea where we are going. We do not see the road ahead of us. We cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do we really know ourselves, and the fact that we think we are following your will does not mean that we are actually doing so.
When we fool ourselves into certainty in our own rightness,
Remind us of how limited we are, Infinite God, how prone to calling evil “good” and good “evil.”
When we favor being right over accepting truth, cheap grace over the long hard road to justice and reconciliation,
Jolt us from our egotism, self-giving God. Help us let go of our defensiveness.
When the way seems too hard and we nearly succumb to despair,
Surround us with support, sweet Trinity; suffuse us with wisdom and courage.
Returning to the words of Thomas Merton, we rejoice because…
We believe that the desire to please you, o God, does in fact please you. And we hope we have that desire in all that we are doing. We hope that we will never do anything apart from that desire. And we know that if we do this, you will lead us by the right road, though we may know nothing about it.
Therefore will we trust you always, though we may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. We will not fear, for you are ever with us, and you will never leave us to face our perils alone.
Assurance of Pardon
In the name of Jesus Christ, we are forgiven! By the Holy Spirit, we are empowered to strive ever deeper into God’s will!
Thanks be to God!
Passing the Peace of Christ
In Jesus Christ, we know God’s forgiveness and peace — not an easy peace, nor a halfhearted peace, but a peace entwined with justice, a peace that empowers us to survive all discord.
Affirmation of Faith / Responding to God’s Word
Ours is a God who makes room for our demand for answers, hears us out and guides us into wisdom as far as our finite forms can go.
Our God affirms our cries for justice, for in the cries of the oppressed and despairing Holy Wisdom cries for justice too.
Rejoicing in God’s welcoming of questions, let us use poetry as a medium for framing some of our deepest doubts, with all the messy human emotions that come with them:
my God, you better be ready when i come and stand before you face to face at last because you know how many questions i have for you and you know the very first that will burst from my lips will be
why did you conceive and birth a world roiling with so much pain? why did you make human beings capable of such atrocities?
why did you make our skin so frail, our stomachs so prone to hunger and thirst, our minds so quick to judge and scheme and place ourselves first?
and why, why do you seem to watch passively as we raze forests into barren dust as we pour poison into rivers as we tear flesh from each other’s bodies with our teeth?
…i don’t know, yet. but when i think of you cradled in the arms of a single mother with calloused brown hands
and of you walking miles between towns to bring healing on tired feet, your stomach eating itself with hunger, your tongue parched
and of you being nailed to a cross by hands that have shed their compassion for gain as you cry out “my God, why! why have you forsaken me!”
…then, i feel a little better. i still do not understand but i trust.
we trust because you do not watch us suffer from some lofty throne high above,
but rather wherever a child sobs with hunger a woman aches with grief a whole community is being trampled into the mud you are there.
your face is tear-tracked too. your wrists and feet and torso bear wounds, too. so i question, constantly.
and i will demand answers. but also, i trust you.
truly, truly our hope is in you.
These pieces were written for a service centered around Job 38 and Mark 4:35-41, with themes of God’s bigness and God’s co-suffering with us.
i will not worship my husband’s god – not now i’ve witnessed how he acts in wrath:
how he burns children and cornered women with the men who long tormented them
and scorches tortured earth and bodies that maybe could have bloomed again if given time and proper nourishment.
anyone who dares to preach to me on necessary evil, or collateral damage, or how everything happens for a greater purpose
while stepping deftly over charred corpses to avoid soiling their shoes
should thank their bloodthirsty gods they are out of range of my frozen fists.
i will not worship the god of my husband, no! – he never belonged to me or mine anyway, nor made us his.
in his search for just ten righteous people in this sand-and-soldier-blasted city he overlooked us women and our little ones.
of course he found no innocents among the men perverted by the war they’d lost who would not let themselves give in to grief but let their self-contempt and wounded pride corrode into distrust of all outside their little sphere…of course!
O god of men like mine! of course you failed to round up righteous men in such a place where strangers are condemned as enemies and difference is dragged out and disciplined!
but had you thought to look where men never look you would have found us.
if any god will make room for my wrath i’ll worship them till my last crumbling breath!
the sex slave of my husband’s uncle claimed she found a god who saw her as she languished – a goddess not too proud to meet her gaze nor too ashamed when faced with Hagar’s anguish to hear out her complaints.
o desert deity of the attentive eye and ears that hear the tortured woman’s cry, are you the one who turned my frantic flesh into this silent sentinel of salt?
let me worship whatever Being it was who took my broken heart and salted it so that never again will it have to bear fruit only to watch it trampled and consumed by men not worthy of it.
yes! let me worship whatever Being it was who came in mercy, not in wrath to wrap my limbs in unbreachable brine so he can never, ever touch me, take me, again –
not after what i heard he’d let men do to the fruit of our union, the girls of my womb;
not after he proved willing to turn his back on women and children going up in flames.
that is the Being i’ll worship now: the One who stood with me transfixed upon despair,
who empowers my bearing witness for all time to the screams of burning women, left behind.
with my face to them my back is turned on him forevermore…
though i worry who will protect my daughters now from him from all men.
if any deity swears to defend my little girls, i swear i’ll worship them…
from my fixed point in the sand i watch the stars flow across the overturned bowl of the sky.
i alone watch long enough to learn by heart the patterns stretching over years traced by these winking fish wheeling in their pool of perfect black.
but i who chart the arc of time unblinking discern no promised bend towards justice.
evil breeds and grows as strong as good. knowledge is slaughtered, lies fallow for centuries before it raises a slender shoot again that is seized and hailed as something New… only to be mangled, murdered, dis-membered again.
nothing new, nothing new under the stars.
with sleepless eyes i mark the cyclical slaughter the rich slip underneath their laden tables while sipping from their cups that bubble over red as the blood they’ve trampled from the neighbors they choose not to re-member.
and, far away and high, as eons wheel by i watch the stars wink out one by one.
This poem was written by Avery Smith and belongs to them. Please do not publish it anywhere, or use it in a service, without permission from the author. Reach out to Avery at email@example.com for that permission, or just to chat!
About this poem:
I intend for this poem to make two points:
That to bear witness is holy and necessary, particularly when moving quickly on from history’s atrocities serves the Powers That Be. This is why in my poem, Lot’s Wife interprets her transformation not as a punishment for looking back but as a gift or act of mercy — affirmation of her need to bear witness, her refusal to turn her back on her neighbors.
That we must actively reject the God of Patriarchy, the God of Genocide, the God of Xenophobia, in order to embrace the God Who Sees those whom the world discards. See Shirley Guthrie’s commentary on God the Heavenly Tyrant being dead, along with all other “gods that were really nothing but a projection of our own fears, wishes, insecurity, greed, or speculation.”
Meanwhile, I acknowledge this poem’s shortcomings, particularly the over-simplification of implying all the women of Sodom were “innocent” or that all the men were guilty; gender dynamics are much more complex than that, especially in our own time and space. To say nothing of nonbinary people like me who do not fit within that man/woman dualism anyhow.
I have long held a deep compassion for Lot’s (unfortunately and tellingly unnamed) wife of Genesis 19, ever since first reading Slaughterhouse Five in middle school, in which Kurt Vonnegut writes,
Vonnegut’s was the first voice I found that pushed back against the predominant interpretation that Lot’s wife was wrong to look back. Since then, I have found others who also treat this woman with love instead of scorn — including the primary inspirations for this poem: Miguel A. De La Torre’s Embracing Hopelessness (2017); and Peterson Toscano’s and Liam Hooper’s Bible Bash Podcast episode 26, “Sodomy, Terrorism, and Looking Back.”
In a different work of his, a short essay from 2010, De La Torre explains that Lot’s wife has been vilified across the ages in order to “justify her demise”: “If she is not portrayed as a foolish woman with a self-indulging heart, then her punishment would appear capricious.” If we are to believe in a fair God who doles out punishment only on people who deserve it, we must conclude that Lot’s wife was wicked somehow. To suggest that she was right to look back, and unjustly punished, is to call God’s goodness into question — or at least to question the biblical text.
De La Torre argues that we will never know the motives of Lot’s wife (and of course I agree, even while using this poem to imagine what those motives may have been). Chances are, he says, this woman was neither perfectly innocent nor horribly wicked:
It is this woman who carved out a life — as so many of us must — in “the entrails of empire,” who befriended her fellow unnamed women in patriarchy’s shadow, that I with Vonnegut love dearly.
As we come to accept that we cannot know much but only conjecture about Lot’s wife, the biblical text does provide us more background on Sodom than is often explored in discussions of this story.
In the Bible Bash episode from which I drew for this poem, Peterson Toscano brings in Sodom’s painful military loss in Genesis 14 to contextualize the xenophobia and brutality of Sodom’s men in Genesis 19. In the biblical world, defeat in battle sometimes resulted in the rape of defeated soldiers by the victors — sexual violence that is much more about humiliation and domination and toxic masculinity, of course, than sexual orientation. Moreover, Sodom’s enemies proceeded to loot the city of everything. After such a painful loss, it seems in Genesis 19 that the men have been twisted into hateful, fearful beings — in a way that Peterson skillfully connects to the United States’ response to 9/11. These defeated men of Sodom would enact sexual violence on any foreigner who dares enter their domain, as if to regain some of their (toxic) masculinity by acting as the victors, not the defeated.
It is this war-wounded city that Lot, his wife, and his daughters flee — but only his wife looks back. And therefore, according to Peterson,
(The counting of the righteous being a reference to Genesis 18, wherein Abraham persuades God to refrain from destroying Sodom and Gomorrah if just 10 “righteous ones” (masculine plural) can be found within them.)
Later in the episode, Liam responds to Peterson’s declaration that Lot’s Wife is the only righteous person the Sodom story shows us by relating her choice to look back to the present day:
Whenever God is constructed in the image of fearful, vengeful, violence-hungry men, we must like Lot’s wife disobey. We must face the atrocities we would much rather turn away from.
And therein comes the influence from Embracing Hopelessness, wherein De La Torre rejects triumphalist histories that sweep suffering past and present under the rug for the sake of the comforting lie that humanity is making constant progress towards God’s reign. In accepting that history is more disjointed and arbitrary than we’d like to think, and that it has no certain happy ending, we join the poor in their state of insecurity and uncertainty (see pages 47-49 of Embracing Hopelessness).
According to De La Torre, we must let go of our salvation histories wherein suffering will be revealed to have meaning in the grander scheme of things, in favor of active solidarity with the world’s most disenfranchised. We reject ideologies that paint them as less human than us, or as coerced “living sacrifices” on the altar of progress (p. 55). With Lot’s wife in my poem, we do not turn our backs to the pain that is accepted as a necessary evil to fuel the luxuries of the elite few. And unlike with Lot’s wife, we cannot compel individuals to shoulder the burden of bearing witness alone; it must be a communal act.
As De La Torre explains, only when a community — its privileged and disempowered alike — dares to acknowledge atrocity can collective healing begin. He shares psychological findings that show how “Refusing to forget the horrors of history can bring healing,” as making space for survivors to be heard “contributes to a collective healing process that publicly condemns the past while attempting to prevent future violations” (p. 103 of Embracing Hopelessness).
Without a communal acknowledgement of atrocity, there can be no healing. Thus there will be no healing for Lot’s wife: she is quite literally frozen in her act of re-membering her destroyed city, because none join her in it. Just as marginalized persons are dehumanized into mere objects in the dominant culture’s epic history, Lot’s wife is denied personhood as well — her very name has been lost to time along with her human form.
Meanwhile, in turning their backs to the destruction, fleeing from acknowledgement of Sodom’s suffering, Lot and his daughters likewise will find no healing. Their story as developed in Genesis 19:30-38 brings more atrocity, more fracturing of personhood and relationships. As De La Torre explains, “Trying to forget past traumas…leads to emotional disorders with consequences for the individual and community” (p. 103). Trauma unaddressed begets trauma across generations.
With the generational trauma that has built up and festered over centuries in our own time, it becomes clear that “present social structures are the end product of a history the dominant culture prefers to forget. These events may have taken place in the past, but the power and privilege squeezed out of them continue to accrue” (p. 105). In the face of this reality, we must admit that the notion that history’s arc naturally bends towards justice is nothing but a comforting lie.
And when we reject that comforting lie for the truth that the future is uncertain, we must also scrutinize the certainty that a wholly good, all-powerful God exists — the question of theodicy. Alongside the righteous Job of scripture, as well as with Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel, De La Torre puts God on trial; he insists upon holding God accountable for not preventing the horrific suffering that is the disowned and forsaken offspring of Eurocentric, imperialist “Progress.” And for any who may worry that such a trial would constitute some manner of blasphemy, De La Torre writes,
I imagine Lot’s wife joining in the outcry of Job, of prophets and psalmists, of Elie Wiesel and numberless others who respect God enough to demand answers from Them. I myself will continue to grapple with the stories of scripture as well as the stories of my own nation, to wrestle until a blessing for the oppressed is shaken out.
May we all band together for the difficult work of dismantling false gods and false histories, in order to make room for truths that empower and restore dignity to the most disenfranchised of our world.
my god they have cornered me like an animal and like an animal i want to lash out i want to sink my teeth into their flesh until they shout and let. me. go.
when my fist flies forward to sink into their face it hits yours instead.
they cornered me, made me a beast who cannot tell friend from foe and in my frenzy i struck you just as you were reaching for my hand to pull me up
sit with me in this fear, in this fury, in this pain sit with me until it melts into tears and i am ready to stand up to walk out past their leers their spit their stones
god help me pull the nails from my feet and wrists and i shall use them to build a house for all of us who are trampled into dust
with tender touch we pluck the nails from each other’s flesh, the knives from one another’s hearts
and we will not hurl them into the ones who drove them into our skin
no. they will never be weapons again.
do you see the flowers blooming around the doorway? do you hear the laughter resounding in the halls?
i have repurposed the rope they tried to hang me with into a swing that children take turns swinging on.
This poem was written by Avery Smith and belongs to them. This is a revised version of a poem included in their volume The Kin(g)dom in the Rubble. Please do not publish it anywhere, or use it in a service, without permission from the author. Reach out to Avery at firstname.lastname@example.org for that permission, or just to chat!
About this poem: This piece contemplates how the horrors done to us might be transformed into something life-giving — and in the meantime, God is with us. How do we fight back against our oppressors’ dehumanizing violence? How do we bear good fruit and thrive in a world that would see us quashed?
This poem was inspired by Psalm 73, where the psalmist begs to know why unjust oppressors thrive while the oppressed suffer. So overcome with pain and fear is this psalmist that they risk becoming the animal their oppressors try to dehumanize them into — but God raises them up from that fate. Here are verses 21-23, my translation:
Yes, my heart was warping into a bitter husk, my insides were all cut up. I became brutish, I knew nothing anymore — I lashed out, a wild animal, against You. Yet even so, I am unceasingly with You! You hold fast to my right hand!