Poetic Theology in the Key of Thirst
The world feels parched these days, literally and metaphorically.
Summer days in my city have been sizzling so far, and many places around the world are facing water shortages.
Too many places also feel parched in other ways. Justice, kindness, breath–these are in short supply as wars rage and people seek hope for the future.
In these days, I find myself turning not to answers but to songs. An ancient biblical song, Isaiah 55, speaks of wisdom that quenches thirst. I hear that wisdom, that word, as a river-song. Not a lecture. Not a system. But a shimmering breath that calls us to be braver, more courageous, in our everyday lives.
Poetic theology, for me, flows in this key, in the ache of longing, in the improvisation of grace, in the rhythm of rivers that rise again and again to call us to be bearers of justice-making and transformation in this dry, desert land.
In the Key of Thirst: A River Rises
an improvisatory poem based on Isaiah 55
Listen.
She calls.
Sings.
Full of ache—
And mercy.
She sings—
Come—you with dry tongues
And empty pockets.
A table is set—enough
And more.
No ticket. No toll.
Just the hush of a listening heart.
She calls.
Sings.
Justice
Falling,
Cascading,
Rolling away stones,
Saturating—dry souls.
Soaking into fields cracked open
From heaped-on
Loads of dusty promises
That weigh almost nothing
But choke out life—
She sings.
And the river rises up—
Singing.
Opens her arms,
Not to cleanse,
But to claim.
Can you hear her?
Feel her misty breath
On your tear-soaked face?
Jazz notes played in reverse,
Riding a single reed,
Curling through the serpentine horn,
Up and out a tilted bell
Into this old world’s midnight.
No chart—just a shimmer to inhale
And follow—
Sometimes running,
Sometimes stumbling,
Sometimes dancing
Toward freedom,
Toward home.
She sings—
Rain finding splintered openings,
Soaking hardened places.
She sings—
Spirals outward,
Inward,
Sounds circling up,
Embracing stormy skylines
With rainbow arms,
Greening the earth
With sprouts of life.
Listen.
The river rises.
She always does.
The smoky voice of longing—
And loss.
The holy heartbeat of memory—
And desire.
It shall not return empty—
Not the song,
Not the breath,
Not the longing
That brought you here.
The river will rise.
She always does.
The river rises
She always does.
Always—
In silence
In song
In you and me
What songs are stirring in your spirit these days? What rivers are you listening for in the midnight hush? May the river rise in us to water the world.
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