Some Poems from the Book of Leviticus

 The Long Lobe of the Liver

“The Lord called to Moses and spoke to him from the tent of meeting.” Leviticus 1:1

In those infrequent times when God speaks to me,
it seems vague—a sense that I am to do
—or not to do—some thing. Most times
the inner nudge hovers just on the edge
of discernment. Briefly so.

With Moses it was different.
A loquacious, long-winded, and very specific
God gave Moses all the details he could ever want
and then some. Consider:

--do it at the entrance of the tent. No where else.
--the people do this; the priests do that. No confusion of roles.
--here’s the recipe. Follow it to the letter. Don’t dare leave out the salt.
--include the long lobe of the liver. You’ll know it when you see it.
--cut off the fat tail close to the backbone. Not a centimeter further.
--give the fat back to God. Don’t ask why.
--sprinkle the blood seven times before the curtain of the sanctuary.
Count on your fingers if you need to.
--Memorize the categories of sin and guilt. Chose the right offering.
Don’t mix them up.
--break the pot that boiled the meat.
--banish anyone who eats fat or blood. Don’t be wishy washy about it.
--wear clean linen underwear.

Sometimes I’d like a specific word from the Lord.
Just not so much.

Fire on the Altar
“The sons of Aaron are to put fire on the altar.” Leviticus 1:7

I remember when the Sintons, Irish Quaker evangelists,
visited our small church and preached the gospel.
It was fire on the altar. They invited all of us
—habitual church goers, old, and young like me—
to come forward, surrender all,
and kneel in the flames. I let the Holy Ghost
consume me. I carry the scars to this day.

Holy Theater
Leviticus 8

The consecration of the first high priest
demanded high drama with a captive
and captivated audience.
The setting needed impact—
the entrance to the tent of meeting,
the holy place where God came down,
where decisions were made, destinies determined.
The costuming needed to be elaborate—
tunic, sash, robe, ephod, fancy waiste band,
breastplate bearing the mysterious Urim and Thumin,
turban and sacred emblem. No matter
that Aaron would hardly walk under the weight.
It dazzled. The special sound effects—
the lowing, braying, screaming, grunting
of the supporting cast of beasts held beholders
breathless. Nothing left to the imagination.
Then came the sensuousness of blood
splashed on the altar, painted on the priest’s big toe,
poured into the base. Followed by the fire.
And the aroma of burnt fat, the homey smell
of baked bread. Pleasing. It engaged all the senses.
All in all, the seven-day extravaganza
was a performance no one would ever forget.

Strange Fire
“Aaron’s sons … offered unauthorized fire before the Lord.” Leviticus 10:1

God vindicated his holiness
by holy consummation.
God was right, of course.
Aaron’s sons had offered strange fire.
Yet God’s fire seemed strange
to this father.
God seemed strange,
his holiness harsh and sharp edged.

Forbidden to publicly grieve,
the human father
banked his sorrow,
sat at the gates,
shivered with more than cold,
and gazed into the wilderness.

I Entertain a Doubt

He tentatively knocks at my door.
Come in, I say as I open my house to him.
I’ve been expecting you.
I invite him to the living room
but he says he prefers the kitchen;
the heart of your home he calls it.
He sits at the table while I make the coffee
and set out the morning-glory muffins
I’ve especially prepared. Then we talk.
Doctrines and disciplines, family history,
ethics, race—nothing is out of bounds.
We spar, debate, tell stories, and laugh
as the world comes apart in our words.
When we next meet, we’ll put it back
together, we say. In what seems no time,
he stands to leave. I walk him to the door.
I’ll be back, he says. I know you will, I reply.
I feel like I’ve made a friend.

 

Poems from 2 Samuel

 Take Not Take Not Your Holy Spirit
2 Samuel 11-12; Psalm 51

1—David

You call me to be king
yet you made me human.
You gave me the eyes of a man.
How could I resist?
It was the middle of the night
and sleep eluded me. I went
to the roof, as I so often do,
to pace and pray, and there she was
below me. Once again, flesh
trumped spirit. It’s so easy,
Lord. I’m king. I get what
I want. And I wanted her.
And now—the remorse,
the bitterness of soul.
Forgive me, forgive, forgive.
How can I be who you
want me to be? Do not take
your Holy Spirit. Restore Joy.
I bring you my brokenness.
Change my heart.

 

2—Bathsheba
I had no choice.
When the king’s servants
came for me, I knew what it meant.
I didn’t protest. We exchanged no words.
I submitted to him as had others
before me. Honor, shame, and longing
did battle, with no winners.
Now I carry his child and my future
is uncertain. I’m frightened.
I’m so sorry, Uriah.
I’m sorry for all of it.

3—Uriah
The king honors me, sends for me,
has me brought in from battle
to inquire of the war. Who am I
that he should show such favor?
Me, a foreigner, an adopted son
of Israel. I don’t deserve this furlough.
In remembrance of my comrades
in the field, I will not go home.
I will sleep at the palace gates.
I am a soldier. I am a servant.

4—Nathan
Rank means nothing when the word
of the Lord comes walking.
I will go to him.
I will approach from behind
and tell a story.
I will say, You are the man!
and wait for the fallout.

Poems from 1 Samuel (stories of Samuel, Saul, and David)

Peninnah, the Other Wife
“…[Hannah’s] rival kept provoking her in order to irritate her (1 Samuel 1:6)

I have a friend who named her pet dog Penina
after Elkanah’s other wife.
Penina was a small dog and, like her namesake,
yipped and snipped at people she didn’t like.
She didn’t seem to like anyone.
A mean-spirited fur-ball of bitterness
only my friend could love.
I live in another country now
and don’t know what happened to the dog.
Surely dead by now. Peninnah, the spiteful wife,
also disappears from the story
No one sings any songs about her.

Two Mothers, One Song
1 Samuel 2:1-10; Luke 1:46-56

Hannah and Mary,
both mothers of miracle babies,
praise God in public song,
and treasure the mystery,
knowing all along
to whom these babies belong.

Sometimes It Takes an Eli
“… if he calls you, say ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening’” (1 Samuel 3:9)

Samuel had no idea
who wanted to play hide-‘n-seek
in the middle of the night.
Who else but Eli
would wake him in the dark,
strange behavior even for him.
He went to his mentor,
confused but trained to obey.
Eli, also confused by the interruptions
of his sleep, sent his ward
back to bed, until he finally understood
that God was on the move.
Wise mentor, he instructed Samuel,
and the young boy began
to hear the voice, began
to know the Lord.
Sometimes it takes an Eli.

A Focus for Anger
“Samuel was angry and he cried out to the Lord all that night” (1 Samuel 15:10-11).

An angry Samuel
cried out to the Lord
all through the night.
Was he angry at Saul
for forsaking the letter
of the law, falling short
of unreasonable brutality?
At God for his incomprehensible
command, his apparent desire
to destroy beast and baby alike?
Or did he aim his anger
inward, frustrated at letting
himself be pressed
between Saul’s incompetence
and God’s intractability?

More poems from Ecclesiastes

 Under the Sun
Ecclesiastes 4

There be dragons
on the margins of old maps,
warning not to venture near the edge.
But perils also threaten
within the borders.
Under the sun there be

--the disposed in southern Gaza
and the armies that keep them there
--bombed out villages
and the scorched fields of Ukraine
--homeless in Portland
and refugees on the border with Mexico
--urban loneliness
--politicians whose ambition
robs them of integrity

Meaningless, the preacher tells us.
All misery on the third planet from the sun.

I half believe him.

Be Quiet
Ecclesiastes 5:1-2

The monks and the Quakers
have it right.
Best not to disturb the silence
of holiness. Be like a squirrel,
tail in the air, stone-still,
alert. Worship is dangerous.
A lot is happening
on the forest floor.
Above your head
more than the leaves are moving.
Be quiet. Listen.
He's coming.


After the Dissertation
Ecclesiastes 6

I wonder why I did it.
All that work. All that money.
All that time. And for what?
I briefly became the world expert
on an infinitesimal piece
of human knowledge
that became obsolete
within a year.

I now have a title
which, Quaker
that I am,

I never use.
Stupid.

Party
Ecclesiastes 7:1-2

Instead of a baby shower
I’d host a death shower
except that I know
my dead friend
won’t bother to come.

Meaningless! Poems from Ecclesiastes

What a Way To Start
Ecclesiastes 1:1-2, 12-14

Teenage angst and naïve hopes
converge as I enter the classroom.
Philosophy 101. Not a prerequisite.
An elective I freely elect.
I want to unravel the strands
that tangle the universe.
I’m a serious, if young, scholar,
an earnest seeker after Truth.
A freshman with dreams.
I sit in the second row,
not wanting to be obvious.
I wait, notebook and pen
on the desk. Ready.
On the brink of wisdom.
At 10:00 on the dot
he walks in, looking the part
in jeans, turtleneck, and beret.
He adjusts his glasses, looks us over,
and, without introduction,
enters the heart of all things.
Utterly meaningless, he tells us.
Everything is meaningless.

Timing Is Everything…
Ecclesiastes 3:1-11

when it comes to beauty.
The patterns shift
in God’s choreography.
There is, we’re told,
a season for everything.
In its time, note the loveliness
of war—the splendor of explosion,
the precision of plans of destruction,
the music of lament, and the cleansing
of the earth. Hatred wears its apparel
magnificently—storm-cloud tones,
stark colors of spite, dark and terrible.
Beautiful the timely exchanges
of laughter and sobs, of having
and losing it all.
Physician and terrorist take turns.
As the wise ones say,
Wherever you are, be there.
It might be your time.

Three Perspectives on Chasing the Wind
Ecclesiastes 4

1. The preacher

Why chase the wind
if you can never catch it?
Go ahead. Become a follower
of tornados, camera in hand,
after the big story.
But know that the wind
is not to be trusted.
Even a small flower-ruffling
breeze will betray you
in the end, leave you holding
a fistful of nothing.

2. The poet

Why not? I’m not a grabber.
So much loveliness flies
out in front, ineffable, flirting
teasing promising nothing.
Nothing is fine with me
as long as I can keep reaching.
Believing in someday.

3. The fool

Holy or not,
I’m the fool.
I’m giving my life
to chase the wind
until she finally
catches me.

Ageism in the health care industry

 We live in a time of medical specialization. We learn about the family doctor by watching ancient “Little House on the Prairie” re-runs. Where once one doctor oversaw all medical care and actually knew their patients, now it seems there is a specialist for each body part. Add to that the reality that as we age our body parts start malfunctioning; thus we end up seeing a lot of doctors.

Right now I’m in touch with my primary care physician (PCP), an audiologist, a neurologist who specializes in migraines, and a dermatologist. I accompany Hal on his visits to his urologist, gastrologist, an orthopedic specialist in hands and another one who focuses on backs. I may have missed one. All of these doctors are young (from my mature perspective), in their 40s or early 50s. Curiously, my doctors are all female, which I have nothing against. But Hal’s specialists are all male. We have the same PCP, a young woman in her 40s.

Another fact: more often than not these days, when we go to see one of these doctors, we’re likely to instead get the physician’s assistant (PA), usually someone in their mid-30s.

But we need their help, so we humble ourselves before the wisdom and skill of youth. And hope for the best.

I’ve been reading a fascinating book by award-winning scholar and geriatrician Louise Aronson. The book is entitled Elderhood: Redefining Aging, Transforming Medicine, Reimagining Life (2019). Aronson, herself a woman in the prime of life, traveled a twisting path before choosing geriatrics as her specialization. She tells this story in her book.

Among other topics, Aronson gives a penetrating view of ageism (age discrimination, especially against the elderly) in the medical system, beginning with the training of physicians. She writes that

Over their four years in medical school and three to ten years of residency and fellowship training, doctors in training are taught that human beings come in two age categories that matter: children and adults. After required classes and rotations elucidating differences in physiology, social behaviors, and health needs between those two age groups, they choose whether to work in children’s hospitals or adult hospitals, and as pediatric specialists or adult specialists. If they happen to notice that older adults make up to 16 percent of the population but over 40 percent of hospitalized adults, or that patients over sixty-five are the group most likely to be harmed by medical care, that knowledge will be tempered not only by medicine’s predilections for saves and cures but also by comments from their teachers and mentors such as “Unless you really like changing adult diapers, don’t waste your time” learning geriatrics.” (5-6)

Aronson goes on to show how this kind of discrimination in training carries over into medical practice, with many doctors treating and medicating older persons just as they would younger adults, without considering that the aging body has different needs and reactions. She claims that “The second-class citizenship of older patients is entrenched and systemic” in the health care industry.

At this point I need to stop and say that all of my doctors have treated me with kindness and respect. (I can’t say the same for some of the PAs). I’ve detected no obvious ageism.

Yet there is something subtle going on, an uncomfortable itch that only gets worse as I scratch it.

About eight years ago, just as I was entering retirement age, I began experiencing symptoms of head-pressure and dizziness. (I’ve told this story in other blogposts.) I began reporting it to my doctor. Aronson notes that “When a patient uses the word ‘dizzy’ most clinicians will tell you that something inside them clutches, if only for a second.” Even more so if the patient is older. After several years of my mentioning this (probably not forcefully enough), my doctor began ordering tests and referring me to specialists. Lots of them. After two years of exploring the options, every doctor involved told me they found nothing wrong. One even said, “Don’t worry. Most old people have some degree of dizziness. It’s aging.” My PCP said, “I’m sorry. I can’t do anything for you.” And smiled sympathetically.

It felt like no one believed me. So I changed insurance plans and found a neurologist at a research hospital who finally gave me a diagnosis. Like I said, I’ve already told this story.

I really don’t know how many of the obstacles in my journey were due to my age. Probably not all of them. Even so, having read Aronson and made my own observations, I recognize that age discrimination is widespread.

Here are some preliminary conclusions I’ve reached:

1.     I am thankful for people like Louise Aronson on the forefront of a change of attitude in the health care industry, a positive change I believe is coming.

2.     I will prepare myself better for each medical visit, reminding myself that I am a person of value, that my health matters as much as anyone’s. I will gently insist on being heard.

3.     I will prepare to treat my doctors with respect, no matter how young they are, a respect I trust will be returned, no matter how old I am.

The quote at the beginning of Aronson’s book is by Cicero. Apparently ageism has been around for a long time. He said that “Old age will only be respected if it fights for itself, maintains its rights … and asserts control over its own to its last breath.”