Since the Summer of 2011, and our time at family camp, I have been inspired to write some forms of poetry. I have several friends who write great works for poetry slams and sermons. This is my first public "appearance". You can hear me "spit my stuff" by listening to last Sunday's sermon "Lord, Heal Me" by using the sermon player at the end of this post.
Reference: Mark 1:40-45
Reference: Mark 1:40-45
“Unclean! Unclean!” I cry out, a forced vocalized sentence of prison and pain, suffering, and shame, exiting from my mouth, covered from head to upper lip so that I do not share this ugly disease.
Because I am a disgrace, I am unholy, and I am unclean, I am a wretch, an embarrassment to my name, an embarrassment to my family.
I walk with my torn clothes and disheveled hair, looking around to see if anyone, anywhere, even cares, as I traverse trying not to break that 50 foot barrier between those who are unlike me, those who are not considered unholy, unclean, and un-loved.
My life is lonely as I make my camp in desolation, living in places I never imagined, keeping my distance so no one else receives my sentence, my sentence of isolation, desolation, desecration, my sentence of social mutilation and humiliation.
Yes, I am doomed to die this way, I am imprisoned by my body, in fact, I am my disease. When people see me, they don’t see me, they see leprosy.
Because I am unclean, because I am a disgrace, because I am unholy, I shout the words that preach “stay back!” “don’t come close!” “I am contagious!, I am infectious!”
Don’t touch me, or you will be like me! Don’t even talk to me or you are at risk of being outcast like me! Stay back! Stay away! Don’t approach! Danger!
But, who is this stranger who comes my way? Who heals those who seek him? Who is this man who claims the power of God? Who is this man who rises early to converse with the Almighty and sends demons crawling back to their dark pits of hellish intent?
I see him; I want to be touched by him! I must be touched by him!
“Unclean! Unclean!” I shout as I approach this man, hoping he hears my death sentence and creates a way to find me innocent.
“If you will, YOU can make me clean!” I cry out, I don’t just want to be healed, I want to be cleansed! I want to be restored! I want to be transformed! I want to be cleansed from within! I no longer desire this sentence of death and decay, I no longer want for others to get out of my way! I want to be new, I want to wear new clothes, I want people to see that I am not a wretch, a disgrace, an unholy appearance.
Touch me! Cleanse Me!
And there, in the midst of my uncleanness, in the midst of my crying out, in the midst of my shame and years of isolation and desolation, he responds to my cry, as he speaks to my spirit, what will he say?
“I will; be clean”
(c) 2012 - Aaron B. Kesson