Heart of Dixie says . . . so that you can see clearly to take the mote out of your brother’s eye
Peach State says, “I would have to say the writer of this poem may be in a very deep valley. His life is just going in circles. He cannot seem to forgive a person, situation, or himself. I thought the poem was very sad.”
Heart of Dixie answers . . . No, I don’t think so. I see “motes” right off the bat. There are a lot of people who cannot see that they have motes in their eyes. But the light swords through it. Sometimes violence is required to take away sin. Also, didn’t Jesus say that anger is the same as murder. The man is simply human: he has anger in his heart. There are a lot of people who think they are sin free, but we aren’t. None of us are. Anyway, the motes are frightening in their numbers. Our sin problem is so big.
Lots of violent images – stabbing, swords, “discomfort” (the word I am most afraid to hear from a doctor). By the way, the sanitized word discomfort to describe wrenching pain is analogous to the way we sanitize sin. “We confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed. By what we have done and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole hearts. We have not loved our neighbors as ourselves . . .” is way off from “I have murder in my heart.”
Also I think the hand wringing imagry is interesting for the passing of the peace. Hand wringing implies worry – a realization that we are flawed, perhaps, and that someone will uncover our secret.
Also people are doing a lot of things to try to get to God, but nothing WE do can take away that murder in our heart. I think it’s a realistic look at the human condition. Church is not a production, but an experience. If we view it as a production, it will never help us get to God.
Yet, the church itself if a sanctuary. It’s a place of refuge despite the flawed people. There is more. Look at it again. What do you see?
by Mark Jarman
After the praying, after the hymn-singing,
After the sermon’s trenchant commentary
On the world’s ills, which make ours secondary,
After the communion, after the hand-wringing,
And after peace descends upon us, bringing
Our eyes up to regard the sanctuary
And how the light swords through it, and how, scary
In their sheer numbers, motes of dust ride, clinging–
There is, as doctors say about some pain,
Discomfort knowing that despite your prayers,
Your listening and rejoicing, your small part
In this communal stab at coming clean,
There is one stubborn remnant of your cares
Intact. There is still murder in your heart.