The Fall

Almost 10 years ago this Fall I learned that the bishop over my former parish where I'd first become Orthodox had been removed from his duties and put into alcohol treatment, among other things.  I spent a lot of time walking and lost in thought that day, feeling it was terribly sad, but not without meaning somehow.  After returning home from the park I wrote this poem as a kind of therapy and search for healing.

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I read about the fall of a bishop today.
It makes me sad and prone to wander.
I took my dog to the park and let her run.

He was my first Archpastor in a new-found Faith.
He is a lonely old man with an alcohol problem.
I imagine he’s been feeling pretty small these days.

I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

Why do I use such shoddy materials to build a life?
I build indiscriminately, pell mell, without much thought.
It is a poor strategy, short-sighted, a flim flam thing.

How long does it take for something so precarious to topple?
I need something to come and shake it daily, a test.
Otherwise its collapse becomes inevitable, a matter of time.

I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

I think of a story of the foolish building on sand.
Of a myth where a boulder need continually be pushed up a hill.
Of the Golden Mouth praying for help to make a good beginning.

The Sacraments as stones and the Spirit as mortar.
My structure shaken without bringing despair.
The grace of God to start again, more humble, obedient, and careful.

And I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

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