Dogma
by: Billy Collins
I might be an atheist
were it not
for all the tall angels
and the pudgy cherubs
in the silvery clouds
presiding over all those miracles.
This is a good poem for a Sunday.
Looking at the state of the world at the moment (wars and climate change and politicians hawking Bibles), it's hard not to question the existence of an Almighty. How can a Higher Power let all this shit happen?
Gone are the days when angels would sometimes knock on your front door and ask for some hospitality (dinner and a warm bed). Lepers aren't walking down streets, ringing bells and shouting "Unclean! Unclean!" The blind don't see, and the lame don't walk. Miracles just don't happen with great frequency in this day and age. Or do they?
Here's the thing--and I think this is the point Billy Collins is making with today's poem--angels and miracles are all around us. Every day. That hasn't changed since baby Moses went for his little boat ride in the bulrushes. Modern people have just become immune to the holy weird of the world. For example, I saw a wild turkey on the side of the road today, and I ate a lavender vanilla bean gelato for lunch. Tonight, I picked up a poet at the airport and drove her to her hotel. This poet has won, among other accolades, the American Book Award. Miracle upon miracle upon miracle.
I've had angels in my life, as well. These angels have gone out of their ways to help me at various times when I've felt irredeemable. My friend, Helen, was one of those angels. She believed in the inherent goodness of everyone she met. Every day was an adventure in wonder for her, from the deer feeding in her backyard to the raspberries growing along the side of a path. She lived in the realm of the earthly sacred. And Helen believed in me.
So, Saint Marty agrees with Billy Collins: angels and cherubs and miracles, oh my!
Catechism
by: Martin Achatz
I learned to recite
the "Our Father" in Latin
when I was a kid,
so I speak guilt
in two languages.
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