Like a cancer, we spread across the land,
stretching ourselves to the furthest extent,
in our beautiful, mysterious home.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
There’s a better way of living:
one that doesn’t exploit
We can live
upon the land:
This good gift from the God
who loves us even though
we are bent toward wreckage,
who sees us in our quiet and our despair,
who knows us in our ugly and sublime,
who calls us to be filled
as new creations
That is our only hope.
That is our only path forward.
As a new kind of humanity.
This is where I belong:
Amongst the birds
and skittish squirrels.
Out here where wind
through leaves is more
common than human voices,
where the noise is a susurrus
that does not break
but amplifies it,
and makes it more
This quiet is not silent,
and is better for being filled.
I wonder if the quiet of God’s voice might flow from non-coercion. God will not force our hand, and so he will not shout. God will not demand our attention, will not force himself upon us.
And noise is a kind of force. It demands attention, distracts us, and forces its way through our defenses. God speaks for all who would hear, but does not draw attention to it.
The speech of God is no assault.