Posts in Poetry
A Word Concerning The Table
At the Lord’s table, Christ is not merely remembered; he is encountered. He is not passive in this meal. Many view the table as a venerable way to pay respect, like visiting the headstone of a loved one. Instead, we ought to see the table as an altar where our Beloved recites his covenant promises to us again. There, we as the bride receive his words by the Spirit as we listen in wonderment of this great love that our Beloved has for us. The paradox of the table is this: as we act, we are acted upon. That is why we call it communion.

call to ministry

On a previous occasion I was asked to describe my call to ministry. Befuddled by the gravity of the question, I retreated to this: I would rather be a fisherman, but woe unto me if I preach not the Gospel, for it is welling up in my bones and ready to burst forth. Since then, I have had some more time to consider the question further, however, I cannot. What I can do is attest to the fact that I once was blind, but now I see.

I was in bondage, but now I am free. I loved my sin, but now I loathe it.

All truth was subjective, but now all truth is subjected solely to the objectivity of the only Truth.

Indifference was my anthem, but now my heart never ceases to be full.

My god was my stomach, but now all I long to fill it with are His Words.

My head was full of nonsensical attempts at declaring myself innocent, but now I willingly trade my ashes for something much greater.

I was a good man, but now I know that without His goodness I have nothing to measure my goodness with.

This is my story and I long to share it.

PoetryDavid KakishComment
save my life. lose it.

The past is spent; a vivid memory grows dimmer daily. My regrets are increasingly regrettable, cemented in the sea of time.

They are unable to be altered, only dreamed differently.

My former self offers no hope, so I run away with every breath,

attempting to seek refuge in the present.

 

Oh, but the present is a fickle thing; I will find no safety here.

For now is but an instant and like that, it becomes then.

Who I am in this fleeting moment is but an amalgam of the era I despise.

How I long for something else, anything else but the person I am today.

I will invest my hope in the future, for I can mold myself into the man I want to become.

 

Time is a jester who derives pleasure from pain, but the joke is on me.

The future is but a mirage, a bleak reflection of the present.

The person I want to be is inescapably built upon who I am today,

but who I am today is liquid, with every new piece of information and encounter I revise.

As I inch toward the man I want to be, he disappoints me,

for he is a familiar stranger, whom I hate.

 

Woe is me, for I have built my life on the shifting sand of opinion.

In this static life I maintained one constant;

“There is no God“ has been my maxim.

It is clear now where I have erred; I have served a god all along.

I see him now, in the mirror.

 

I must lose my life, that I may find it.

 

The dead man I once was, seizes me from the grave, trying to shackle me with broken chains.

“You hero of sin, glory in your revelry, return to your debauchery,” he desperately pleads.

Oh, but that old man is gone; behold the new is here.

The past has been crucified; my former joys pale in comparison to the inexhaustible bliss of Christ.

My regrets redeemed, now swallowed up in a sea of infinite grace.

I press on to take hold of Him, who first took hold of me.

 

A lump of clay, once used ignobly, has been fashioned into a vessel of mercy,

a tangible witness to the existence of an incorporeal Savior.

My present, now an unmarked canvas ready to be painted by His Holy Breath

into an image in His likeness.

To deny myself is a glorious joy, for my identity has been buried with Christ, so that I may be raised with Him also.

 

Time is an obstruction, the manacle that holds me from eternity.

Death is inevitable, a broad sword that cuts us all; to die is gain.

But the life I now live in the flesh requires death all the more; to live is Christ.

Die for the world I love to hate, live for the world I hate to love.

 

So my hope is built upon the only eternal constant,

the rock of my salvation,

the immovable mover,

the infinite paradox.

The heavens are His home and I, His bondservant.

The God that I serve is not made in my likeness, but it is I who bear His.

 

I have lost my life and traded it for something immeasurably better, Him.

 

depravity

apathy our banner and pleasure our god, the things of this world belong to this world and none other.

why should one worry about that which one cannot see?

faith for the blind, love for the frail, but our hearts are content in themselves.

we glory in our lustful conquests, gluttonize on our possessions, and we titillate every desire;

for the only consequence we shall face is the lament that we did not have more time to revel.

who could have pity on such a wretched people?

who could satisfy this inexhaustible appetite?

 

finite stares into infinite and proclaims, inequitable!

the measure of our justice is in the unit of subjectivity.

we bow to the creation of our mind, an invention in our likeness.

we are kings in our hearts, but our empire is death.

our ears are hard and our hearts are closed.

we bathe with our filthy rags soaked in blood, so that we may be clean.

who could have pity on such a wretched people?

who could pardon a damned soul that has declared itself innocent?

 

our strength is spent, all day we toil for a wage that binds us.

the law is relentless, a slave master whose whip never ceases.

the war breaks out, but this battle is not fought in trenches.

the things we want to do we cannot, for sin has pervaded every fiber of our mind.

kicking and flailing with all our brawn, we drown in this sea of failure.

every breath gasps for freedom as water fills our lungs, but our yoke is hard and our burden is onerous.

who could have pity on such a wretched people?

who could pay this debt that has no end?