I have something for you. It will help you get your family back. And those friends who think you're crazy. My gift is a word. "Maybe." Go ahead. Try it on. It isn't hard to use. Say "Maybe the election was stolen, or maybe it wasn't." There, wasn't that easy? Maybe Donald Trump is truthful, maybe not. Maybe Lee Harvey Oswald shot JFK. Or was it the CIA? Maybe the government told us the truth about 9/11. Or was it an inside job? Maybe. I'm not sure. Maybe on March 4th Trump will finally be crowned 19th president and that nasty cabal will be sent to Guantanamo. You think? I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe there really is a nasty cabal that abuses children, and keeps them in tunnels under the White House, or maybe that's just a carryover from the old Illuminati fiction that was written in the 70s. Maybe Q doesn't even know it was fiction. Maybe you don't have to believe everything Q says. Maybe you are free to pick and choose your conspiracy theories. And maybe there's no devil. And maybe there's no evil. And maybe there are only people who make mistakes while trying to be good. And maybe none of this stuff matters, all that much. Sure, life is full of maybes. But not everything is maybe. There are, in fact, facts. Family, for instance, is a fact. So just relax. Lay your head on a pillow stuffed with maybes. Snack on a big bowl of maybes. Swim in a sea of maybes. You'll feel better. Maybe.
We know it all. We all know it all. We may have forgotten, but we know how this movie ends. That's why we remain inexplicably hopeful.
It’s easy to be an Antichrist.
Just ask yourself, “What WOULDN’T Jesus do?”
Then climb up on a Jesus-size platform.
Preach and teach and make them love you.
They will follow you to the ends of the earth.
When Jesus comes again, he will delight in the company of post-Christians. He will appear in drum circles and sweat lodges. He will march with Black Lives Matter. He will preach a Green New Deal. He might even sit in, listening quietly, at a Proud Boys meeting. Some evangelicals will take him to court and charge him with impersonating a messiah.
When Jesus comes again, he will try again to tell the world his truth. He will take to Twitter and say, “Here’s what I meant to say. We’re part of one Life and one Light and one Love, and that’s what we call God. All those stories that they told about me? Mostly disinformation.” Some cardinals will want to excommunicate him. Pope Francis will take him aside. “Kid, you just can’t be so blunt. That’s what got you killed the first time.”
Jesus will take to Twitter and say things like “Buddha was right!” After a few news cycles, he will be old news.
But his presence will remain, like the leaven in his favorite parable.
The hypnotist has left the stage.
We stand here, dazed. What just happened?
Some of us were sleepwalking, sleepchanting unmasked, sleepwearing MAGA hats. Others cowered in fear for four long years.
But now the hypnotist is gone. He forgot to snap his fingers. We stand here, dazed.
We look around at brothers and sisters and friends and we say, “What happened to us? Was I mad at you, and were you mad at me?”
The hypnotist has left the stage. He never snapped his fingers. It’s up to us to wake up on our own.
Some call it civil unrest.
I say we’re passing our torches to the new generation.
Some hand-offs have been smooth.
Torches held high
have shone bright light on past and present racial wounds.
Other torches slipped through eager fingers
and got trampled by running feet.
And then there were those
who used their torches to start dumpster fires.
These torches are for light,
Once upon a time
we needed it,
in order to survive.
We needed to know
who was in our tribe,
because people of another tribe
might not be nice to us.
That was a long time ago.
Now fear of the other
is a vestigial organ,
like wisdom teeth.
Now our planet grows smaller
and the problems we face are
We need to embrace the other,
in order to survive.
In the place where a baby’s sleeping,
there is unique calm.
His presence grows and fills the room
and wanders down the hall.
His dreams are light.
So much of what felt heavy to us
is not important now.
“Don’t write a silly poem,” Petra said.
“He’s a serious person.”
From his perch on Nana’s lap,
nine-day-old Euan looks soberly at his sisters.
They like to stroke his arms and legs.
They like to put their faces up close to his and smile.
He looks back seriously.
Now, watching Tulia do her dance,
he waves an arm and a leg.
He won’t stay serious long.
Ecology’s little brother.
In the coming matriarchy,
he will not be heir.