Theopoetic ventures Selected poems by Karel Reus Presented to the meeting of the Progressive Christian Network of Victoria 22nd September, 2024 ©1924, Karel Reus 1
A New Genesis.................................................................................................................................... 3 A plain man’s take on theology............................................................................................................ 4 A plain person hears the Sermon on the Mount .................................................................................. 6 Beachcombers .................................................................................................................................... 7 Blame game ........................................................................................................................................ 9 Bordering on the ridiculous... ............................................................................................................. 11 Clergyperson ..................................................................................................................................... 13 Condescension noted........................................................................................................................ 14 Cui bono? Who benefits?*................................................................................................................. 16 Dancing on moving ground ............................................................................................................... 18 Let’s privatise the church................................................................................................................... 19 Our help in ages past…..................................................................................................................... 20 Preaching test ................................................................................................................................... 22 Prophet spotting ................................................................................................................................ 24 Reflecting on Progress ...................................................................................................................... 26 Repentance ....................................................................................................................................... 28 We are all compost...* ....................................................................................................................... 30 What matters? ................................................................................................................................... 31 What on earth should I do next?........................................................................................................ 33 You’ve got to be joking! ..................................................................................................................... 34 2
Before IT was, there was Potential and Potential brought forth the Actual, and IT took form and shape, determined by necessity. And a great river of time flowed strong and silent from the source, and galaxies and suns came and went and came again. Then, a voice broke the silence and said "I am here, and I know it". And this "I" became "We", and "Togetherness" emerged and was clothed in flesh and became "Us". And "Us" asked "Why?", and Story was born, and story led to story and Homo Religiosus (HR), master story-teller and poet, sang. HR considered potentiality, and called it God. HR considered togetherness, and called it Spirit. HR talked to God, and called it Prayer. HR found mystery and called it Faith. HR weaved stories around God, and called them Scripture. And a mighty edifice did HR build, and called it "Church". And HR admired Church, and wandered in its halls, amazed. And HR declared Church "a good thing", but the great river of time lapped at the footings of Church, and they crumbled, and eternal Church ran out of time. And HR looked into the depths of time and saw that IT was a work in progress and was both now and not-yet, and that much remained to be done. Then HR allowed the great river of time to bear HR forward, and out of its depths the river spoke in riddles and hints and innuendos about quiet wisdom and the value of understanding, and compassion, and the virtue of patience. And the direction of the river was towards truth and honesty. And the great river of time urged HR to abandon building projects based on shaky foundations of self, and declared such projects to be idolatrous, and not a good thing. And HR forsook self and found compassion and was satisfied. And HR heard the eloquent sound of silence, and learned from it. And HR went with the flow, eddies, whirlpools and currents and all. And HR found mystery, and valued it, and told new stories. And HR loved, and loved, and loved until it hurt. 3
(Chalcedon 451 CE) There’s a meeting up the street. A bunch of churchy heavies pomping about in fancy dress, making points in language unfamiliar to me. Maybe I’ll pop in, or maybe not; there are bouncers at the door, and no seats for plebs like me. I’ve got a mate that did get in because he carried baggage. He heard a crazy argument about Jesus being a godly man and being a manly god at the same time would you believe? If that’s what an education does for you I’ll give it a miss. They do this with straight faces, would you believe? There’s a bunch that will look you in the eye and tell you there is no difference between one and three, and will tell you that your salvation depends on it. “Trust me” they say, but they ask questions I have never asked, and don’t begin to know the questions I hold dear. “Get a life” I say. “It’s all codswallop” to me, and I don’t give a rat’s arse for your wordplay. Tell me something that matters about my work and my death, about my trembling hand, about my sick child, about my crook back, about paying my rent, about flood and drought, 4
about helping and being helped, about diabetes, about aching joints. o Tell me Jesus is a friend. o Tell me I will find God within me. o Tell me my sins are not dead ends. o Tell me my life has meaning. o Tell me my church is for me and mine, and let those gladiators who brandish words like weapons leave us and pursue their power games elsewhere. 5
What sort of topsy-turvy doolally philosophy is this? Did I hear it right? What did he say? We're OK when we are at the end of our tether? We're OK when we're deprived? We're OK when we are content with our lot - or little? We're OK when we're on good terms with God? We're OK when we care? We're OK when we sort ourselves out? We're OK when we help rather than hinder? We're OK when we find our inner us? We're OK when we are unpopular because of all of the above? We're OK when others do the dirty on us? Get real! This sort of nonsense won't catch on... I've been to the end of my tether. It's not OK. I've lived not knowing where the next meal will come from. It's not OK. If my lot is struggle and strife, it's hard to see why that's OK. Prayer and God-talk don't put bread on the table. Caring often leads to care-fatigue. When I sort myself out I don't often like what I find. The more I help the more is asked of me. I know the oppressed can't wait to get their boots into those less fortunate than them. Unpopularity is never a comfort. So, when we come down from these quiet slopes to earth again, and when we mix once more with the hoi polloi on their plain, can we stop cooking up pies in the sky and put some fair dinkum bread on the table, make some lepers walk, and some dumb folk talk, and pull a few strings to make the whole catastrophe just a bit more fair. 6
It was early morning when I stepped onto that beach. A breeze caressed my cheek and waves lapped gently on the shore. The sand curved ahead away from me urging me to walk towards a headland thrusting into distant sea. Intent on where I placed my feet and focused on the residue of last night's storm I failed to see this fellow 'til I blundered into him. Apologies exchanged we got to talk about the weather (of course) and the view, and what had brought us to share this place and time. ”I collect driftwood”, he said, and I politely asked if he would tell me why. ”I have this thing about impermanence”, he said, ”I see that nothing lasts, and this wood tells the tale.” Anxious to move on, I thanked him for his company and insight and wished him well. On my left I saw that yet another unexpected person was paddling in the shallows. Greetings exchanged I asked her why she ventured from the firmness of the shore. ”I have this thing about living in the moment, of capturing the essence of the present and being immersed in being”, she said. Impressed that shallow water gave rise to such deep thought, I, lost for words, moved on. Up ahead a man collected shells; not any shells, but shells of certain size and shape. I questioned him about this and in reply he said, ”I have this thing about order. There's far too much disorder, change and variation.” When I asked if I could help he firmly told me it would take 7
I wouldn't make mistakes. Rejected, but relieved, I wandered on. I tripped across a woman lying on the sand. So silent and still was she that she could have been thought dead. Alarmed I asked her why she struck this pose. She said ”I'm waiting to be told what will become of me. My fate, my destiny, is determined, and nothing I can do will change a thing.” Seeing further conversation would be futile with her head buried in sand, I moved on. Then I came upon a barrier of sand and behind it saw a man and on his face he wore a scowl. ”Just stop there”, he said, ”I have a thing about evil and I'm holding back its power.” ”That must include me”, I protested. ”There's only one way to find out”, he said, so throwing caution to the wind, I crossed the wall. Though vindicated, I declined his offer to stay on to fight the good fight. My walk that day was peppered with encounters such as these. How strange that this, my beach, for all its expansive beauty could harbour responses such as these. Should I have joined these strangely varied folk with an enterprise of my own making, or would that miss the point that the beach itself is that which makes us what we are. 8
Comments heard at a previously undocumented public meeting held in Jerusalem in the mid-First Century. "I blame the Romans! They think they can just come here and throw their weight around as if they own the place." "I blame the Jews! They're a rag-tag bunch who couldn't organise their way out of a paper bag." "I blame his parents! A firmer hand in childhood and a liberal dose of tough love could've made a man of him." "I blame the priests and other wankers like them! They couldn't cope in the real world if their lives depended on it." "I blame circumstances! Things just panned out bad what with the economy, the environment and stuff like that." "I blame the women! Nothing good can come from liberated sheilas voicing opinions." "I blame the stars (well, that particular star at least)! Putting ideas in the minds of angels and odoriferous shepherds." "I blame the prophets with their gloomy predictions and fancy syntax bequeathing quotable quotes for out-of-context use" "I blame Jerusalem and the heavies who run it. That smelly rubbish dump should have been cleaned up long ago." 9
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