The Anger of Gods

I admit it. I am a very proud father. With good reason. God has blessed me with three wonderful children. Sometimes they amaze me with their wisdom, insight, and talent.

My fourteen year old daughter wrote this essay for her sophmore English class. I was astounded by her skill. So let me brag and show off. Later I'll get my wallet out and show you the pictures.

Yes, I did receive her permission to publish the essay.


The Anger of Gods


Rhythmically the bass would pound as though the drums of war were declaring the approach of a great battle. The signal was out. The guests ushered away. Family holed up and hidden from the attacks to come- this was the time of war.

Cries slowly began to rise from the depths of the earth, accusations of crimes committed pulsating with the anger and revulsion the shook the framework of the house from it’s shivering bowels. This, the bedtime lullaby given in the absence of a mother, was the source of weeping-my idols; my gods were waging a fierce battle. Like lions they would stalk, picking their prey with trained practice by day - by night. Like harpies their shrill curses were a signal to the onlooker to flee, spare themselves before the knife-like feathers flew.

I dared retreat from my safe haven above but once, fearful of the consequences for disrupting such an aggravated existence. Crawling down the steps one at a time I descended into the forbidden lands of the beast, haughtily continuing as though I were Hercules bravely striding into the realms of Hades. My silence was strained as I listened to the booming indictments that swelled in the hell-like fires of that buried corner of our so-called "home". My deities, brother and sister, growled as though they were hungry beasts fighting over fresh meat with such zeal that the rumbling from their throats throbbed alongside the quivering of my heart. Chokeholds on each other, their purple faces snarled into the others, spitting with loath and irritation.

Pain struck me, my heart and throat tight and aching, squeezed and twisted with rough hands; The tears that threatened to soak my horrified hands somehow were held back, welling up and flooding the valleys of my wide eyes but never flowing beyond. Stones rolled in my stomach, vicious sloshing causing my eyes to spasm and mouth burn with acids as I witnessed my advocates claw at each other, blood-lust in their eyes as they tumbled about, eternally searching for the upper hand in that demonic crusade.

The strength that had carried me down those steps had been soaked from my very bones in the moments I hung there, my limbs threatening to betray me as I tried to scramble back up - away, safe from the visions ahead. How I longed to rush down upon them and tear them apart, throw them away from one another with such force that never again would they challenge each other; as a child longs to conquer the creatures that taunt them from the shadows.

I had failed; I had succumbed to the suffocating fear that had latched itself to my mind as a hungry leech. I ran. I flew out the door as though it had been my life being bartered in that fight, throwing it closed with the force I had only dreamt of seconds ago and tumbling to the ground.

I plummeted to the chilling slap of life, chastised for accepting my fear with the most beloved of thrashings. The frozen snow, some war-god’s accomplice in reminding me of some unpaid debt. It was my fear that had stopped my weeping. My fear that kept me waiting at that doorstep, predicting the wounds to be bound at the coming of dawn in the absence of valor.

I Need a Mistake Tree

I am usually a bit behind the curve when it comes to keeping us with the latest trends and popular things. I really don’t remember how long it has been since I saw a current movie at the cinema. Usually I rent something months after it has been released on DVD. I finally have seen the movie “Because of Winn-Dixie”. It was a good movie, uplifting, humorous and it brought back memories of growing up in a small southern town.

One of my favorite scenes was when the character Gloria Dump takes the young Opal out to see Gloria’s “mistake tree”. The tree is covered with bottles and other containers tied with strings and hanging from the massive tree’s branches. I had forgotten about seeing those when I grew up. I never really knew much about them. My parents were very conservative and chose not to talk about the “sins of the flesh”. Odd that I can remember noticing mistake trees in the yards of people known to have had a hard life.

For Gloria each bottle served to remind her of a mistake she had made. A bad thing she had done. The bottles kept away the ghosts of her mistakes. Opal seeing the hundreds of bottles tells Gloria she is not a bad person and Gloria responds, “Yes but I have done bad things.”

Maybe I need a mistake tree. God, and a lot of other people, know I have done bad things. Some of my mistakes would need very big bottles to keep away my ghosts. Maybe I need to be able to sit under the tree seeing the bottles sway back and forth listening to the gentle noise as they softly brush against each other making the sorrowful music of guilt, sadness and remorse.

As the bottles move I can see the ghosts that would want to come and haunt me back to depression attempting to slip between the movement. The ghosts knowing that as they drive me deeper into the dark hole I am more likely to do bad things. Yet every time they are brushed back. Sent to some far off place where they are unable to harm me ever again. Sitting there, I can rest determining to change what I can about my life and myself. Finding ways to live so I may hang progressively fewer bottles.

The pastor part of me theologizes the mistake tree and my thoughts. I begin to understand the tree as another tree I have preached and taught about. The analogies develop. Analogies of mistakes hung and held away from me no longer allowed to haunt my thoughts. My mind begins to do its racing thing, formulating sermon texts, visualizing how to use the movie image in a worship service, planning when it would be most effectively used in my parish. And I realize I may need to get another bottle.

That’s the nice thing about mistake trees. They can calm and center someone. The realization that what is happening may need another bottle helps refocus thought. And just in case there is still a need to step back to what is real you can walk out under the branches of that tree and remember each of the bottles hanging from the long strings.

I imagine the members of my congregation wouldn’t quite understand if I began hanging hundreds, thousands, of bottles from the large oak trees that surround the church buildings and my house. It’s a small community after all and people would begin to talk. What kind of preacher do those guys have if he has done that many bad things? So even though I think I need a mistake tree it probably won’t happen here.

I can think of that other tree. The one my hero Martin Luther writes about and encourages me to gaze at and meditate on. I have one in my office. I found it stored in a closet. Somehow that is appropriate. Now it hangs on the wall sort of above my computer and next to the calendar. A place I tend to look at a lot.

As I look at that tree I can see my mistakes. I can see the ghosts of the bad things I have done trying to get to me. But they keep being pushed back. I’m glad and somehow I know that today will probably not have any regrets.

Now if I could just figure out how to hang a bottle on it…..