Standing Still

This morning at church, the pastor spoke about the minor prophets, opening up his new sermon series for the summer.  There were many insightful things that he had to share, but the one that caught my attention the most was about what the prophets had to say and how they felt about it.  Most, if not all, of these prophets spoke words that the people of their time did not want to hear - in fact, their words incited anger and occasionally violence.  The prophets spoke about the evils of the world and their society in comparison with what the Lord says that the world should be.  We have not properly learned to mourn evil, but the prophets had.  They mourned and were horrified by things that we take as "normal" or "real life".  What the prophets were trying to do was call our faith into account and to take us to the slums of the world and our own communities.  Many times, the prophets would point out the social inequalities, the oppression, the exploitation, and the injustice of their society, the rejection of the poor, and their inability to rest on the Sabbath.  The pastor's message reminded me of what I am passionate about.  To a certain extent, I can empathize with these prophets.  I understand their rage at the injustices of their world.  I understand their desire for truth and justice, their abhorrence of a "middle road" and "grey areas".  It's for those very reasons that I feel called to begin working in community justice and to live among those suffering under corrupt leaders, living in poverty, striving to survive.  I hope to someday be able to advocate for them and to bear their burdens alongside them - I hope to stop standing still in the midst of this injustice.  The sermon reminded me of my ambitions and dreams.  Last summer, I wrote a short poem about this very topic.  While I don't normally share my poetry, I figured that since this is one of my first blog posts, and practically no one knows about my blog at this point, that it couldn't hurt too much to share it:

Standing Still

The rocks of this stream are scorched, sun-bleached

The crops are crying for rain

For months these roots no water has reached

Their fruit unseen again

Innocent ones are lying in bed

Eyes still open wide

Stomachs distended, aching heads

Brothers at their side

A long procession, marching ahead

A symphony of wails

Souls are heavy, spirits filled with dread

A good-bye is hailed

There are so many unseeing eyes

There are so many unheard cries

Even if unknown, a babe still dies

Yet we still seem to rationalize

Standing still