Poetry that Penetrates

Serious work eluded me this morning. Television coverage of the inauguration and related events were too compelling. I couldn’t escape the drama.

Rev. Joseph Lowery’s benediction was the high point. The man’s been around a long time—he worked with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Today he provided poetry that captured the present.

I wasn’t an Obama supporter, although I admired much about him after reading his first book, “Dreams of My Father.” I felt he was open to—of all things—change. Before it became a code word. Someone suggested it could be calculated deceit, but I didn’t think so, and still don’t. Even early in the campaign I felt checked whenever I started to say something negative about him. I have huge policy differences on abortion, for instance, but I’m inclined to think God was checking me, keeping me from saying negative things about a man with a destiny.

Obama’s speech was okay—revealed once again his pragmatic approach, his focus on results. But it was Lowery who touched my heart.

My acquaintance with Black churches is brief, but includes defining moments. When Ken and I were much younger, we lived in Phoenix, AZ, for eight years. Ken returned to school and subsequently began his teaching career in Phoenix. But equally important, I experienced a spiritual epiphany that initiated my walk with God. Ken, who had known God as his Savior since childhood, experienced epiphanies of his own.

While in Phoenix, we fellowshipped with a diverse group of people. With friends from this group, I attended a couple of Black churches. For the congregations, the settings were their norm—bare, concrete floors and uncomfortable bench-type pews. But unlike my home church, a church with all the amenities, they used not one, but two, instruments—organ and piano— together. And, oh, the chords the young instrumentalists played. I’d never heard such invasive sounds. Like the glorious music produced by Bach, Vivaldi, Handle, and others, it was anointed in the Old Testament sense. But the congregation, in accordance with Old Testament practice, sang, danced, prayed, and shouted.

And then we heard sermons expressed as poetry, rough around the edges—but poetry because it brought revelation of Truth from God’s Word. I don’t know what the others in my group—a handful of whites—were doing, because I closed my eyes and absorbed new courage for my Christian walk.

Since those experiences, I’ve believed the strength of the African-Americans in our country comes from their churches. Their worship experience couldn’t be passive. Although their music expressed the bitter-sweet sorrow of “soul,” it also expressed God’s ability to strengthen them, to give them power to persevere.

Think of it. Power to persevere when treated as less than human.

Praise God for Black churches. Without them, the problems of America might be unsolvable. Without God’s presence, people become vindictive—it’s happened to Christians in the past. Without God, people become lawless.

Do we truly understand that we owe Jehovah God our freedom? That only He gives His children the strength to forgive and to love?

I felt Rev. Lowery's powerful images and allusions exemplified poetic prayer. The techniques (such as rhyme and alliteration) helped, too. His words had power to penetrate, to invade our minds. We need to hear from God. We need to receive from Him—to let His power strengthen us.

Oh, God, may it be so. And may it begin with me.