Prayer and Agoniste

It derived from the blown and cratered
gristle of Sinai, oral lore codified
by relentless centuries of infant skin
scraps, torn hair, and bloody stones
yet, now, once, we upon a

time saw a singular sheep, fresh
sheared, in-penned, dulled by
childish pats, ever beshepherded.
once seen, but not since.
and, told we are sheep for 

shepherds, sinly conscience
obstinate, abstinent, stolen from
Eden, so its use must be wrong, right
from preying judas goats.

O my God, 
to be a farmer like Cain, the sacrifice
accepted as rot rather than holocaust,
a season, then renewal, time more your style.
O my God,

I know you through my salt crusted 
forehead and dirty fingers, I know you
through scum and dung and
desperation. O my God, I
feel you in gripped fists and blazing eyes.

A thousand years of humble homilies
a desert kindred upthrust and by
now - forgotten the forked tongue.
why should we be sheep when you made
us men?

we used to speak with the jawbones of
the wild ass, long-haired
nomads, singing in 
roughspun wool. 

I’m ba­si­cally us­ing my rusty an­thro­po­log­i­cal ed­u­ca­tion and sundry other learn­ing to ex­press ex­as­per­a­tion re­gard­ing the Christian em­pha­sis that we are sheep and God shep­herds us. That’s an easy metaphor used by a no­madic tribe of herders to ex­plain their the­ol­ogy in terms they could un­der­stand. Since sheep are con­sid­ered re­mark­ably dumb and meek, it’s also a use­ful way for, say, a priestly hi­er­ar­chy to en­force con­trol and ad­her­ence for a few thou­sand years. 

We can be God’s and be men as well. He’s not the God of sheep.

3 thoughts on “Prayer and Agoniste

  1. Good morn­ing Adam,

    I wrote this at a Misdrashim work­shop a dozen years ago.

    “In The Field.”

    by Jeff Hess

    Hevel climbed the warm slop­ing soil of Kayin’s newest field, un­con­sciously tram­pling the tiny green leaves as he drew near to his brother. “Brother, about yes­ter­day. With God,” he started.

    “Go away, lit­tle brother. I have work to do,” Kayin said, dig­ging his sharp­ened and fire-hard­ened plant­ing stick in the ground to make a hole for an­other of his fig tree seedlings.

    Hevel breathed slowly. “I wanted you to know what hap­pened, Kayin. Why God did…”

    Kayin looked up. “God does what God does, Hevel. Haven’t you lis­tened to fa­ther?”

    “Yes, Kayin. But I also lis­ten to mother.”

    Kayin looked be­yond his brother and took in the path of crushed life cross­ing the field. “Look what you’ve done, you id­iot. Look at the trees you de­stroyed,” he said, wav­ing his stick at Hevel. “I nur­ture each one through the dry sea­son and you don’t even stop to think where you put your big flat feet when you stomp across my field.”

    “You didn’t get the mes­sage, Kayin. God doesn’t’ give a dung beetle’s trea­sure for your shriv­eled plants. We’re cre­ated in God’s im­age. He doesn’t care for girly men. God want men who are real men.”

    Kayin low­ered his stick and leaned heav­ily on it. “Is that what you think, lit­tle brother? That killing makes you a man?”
    “It’s not what I think, Kayin,” Hevel said, drop­ping his ges­tur­ing hands to his side. “It’s what God thinks. You saw who pleased God yes­ter­day. What part of “loser” don’t you un­der­stand?

    “I should be like you then, lit­tle brother,” Kayin said, hard­en­ing his grip on his stick, “and leave the fields to the women?”
    “Now you’re talk­ing, Kayin. Come with me and learn what it means to be pleas­ing to God. You…” Hevel stepped back. 

    “What are you do­ing, Kayin?”

    Kayin fol­lowed, step for step, his plant­ing stick pointed at Hevel’s chest. “Any fickle puff of smoke can slaugh­ter a dumb sheep, Hevel. Where’s the power in that? But a man, Hevel, now there’s a chal­lenge. Only a man, or a God, can kill an­other man. How will that please God?”

    “Kayin, wait, you have it wrong,” he said, reach­ing. “That’s not killing, that’s mur­der!”

    “Yes. And your point is, lit­tle brother?”

    “It’s not the same.”

    “Of course it isn’t, Hevel. Killing is a pale shadow of mur­der.” Kayin thrust his stick into Hevel’s chest and pushed hard and top­pled him and leaned into his stick un­til it came out his lit­tle brother’s back and pinned him to the ground and his stick wicked the blood from Hevel’s shak­ing body into the thirsty soil.

    After Hevel ceased to move, Kayin piled stone upon stone and branch upon branch and cut out the fat-parts and laid them on the branches. Kayin sent a prayer and made a fire and waited for the pleas­ing odor to bring God.

  2. Thanks for shar­ing, Jeff! I think that an­gle is com­ple­men­tary to where I was go­ing. I feel I might be fo­cus­ing more on how the mytholo­gies of a herd­ing cul­ture don’t ap­ply to all cul­tures across the board, even though they’ve been shoe­horned in for a few thou­sand years. Anthropomorphizing a god is al­ways go­ing to be dan­ger­ous.

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