Boxes
I was moved by a great poem in Brian McLaren’s book, The Last Word and the Word After That.
Boxes We like things boxed. Cereal, Candy, soap, gifts, and corpses. They seem safe when boxed, as are We. As is God and other Potential dangers. So we Sleep in a box, awake in A box, shower in a box, Refrigerate food, store knives, Drive to work, work for hours, where We stare each day at boxes, In boxed lives. Boxed-in we live. Through boxed windows we look out, in. God, once boxed, broke out, broke free. But we keep pushing God back, Our Jack, popping out on cue, To music, though it’s not fair. Nests have birds. Dens have foxes. God will have none of our small Boxes. God is free, and we Are too.
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