Yesterday I opened my BBC news app to see the horrifying headline, "Sandy Hook victim's father apparently took his own life". Will this tragedy never end? The ripple effects of the 2012 Sandy Hook massacre continue to echo in the lives (and deaths) of those left behind. While I am in no way personally connected to this small community in Connecticut, as a human with a heart, I am gutted. This is the poem I wrote in church on the Sunday we all first heard the news. It was my way of grappling with the dissonance of worship on a day of such violence, grief, and loss.
PART 1
Your broken body
on the table,
your blood stacked neatly
in the trays.
We lay our children down
in your broken body,
our mangled, bloody children
into the sliced up loaf.
What other grave
can hold our love?
What other tomb
can bear such grief?
We lay our children down
on your table
with tears, and fists
and choking disbelief
We lay our children down.
Let your bread embrace them
in the warm and gentle comfort
of coming home.
PART 2
The front door bangs
little feet thumping
back-packs rattling
breathless to kitchen running,
famished and delighted.
Steaming slice of bread
salted butter sliding
big giggles on their sweet
little faces.
PART 3
O Jesus, Holy Loaf,
our world is not yet free
from sin and fear and darkness,
We tear your body now,
weeping that it seems for naught
on a morning of such blood.
Where can we flee from darkness?
Where can we hide from violence?
To your table we run.
Feed us, Holy Bread,
that we might live again.
Give us drink, Holy Wine,
that we might have courage -
courage to face the shroud,
the fresh taste of hope
burning our embittered tongues.