bethany besteman

Bethany Besteman is the managing editor of Reformed Worship, and the worship coordinator and church administrator at her church in Maryland. She holds a Ph.D. in English language and literature from Catholic University of America. Her poetry has appeared in Ekstasis, Presence: A Journal of Catholic Poetry, Reformed Journal, and Cable Street.

elijah

“As they were walking along and talking together, suddenly…”

It well befits a man of fire to reach

this end: caught up in that which I called down

upon so many others. Fruitless now

to wonder, worry whether judgments fell

on those they would best serve. I did as He

saw fit. The sword and immolation both

consumed at His command, not mine. Though, yes,

I do admit at times a satisfaction,

something less than holy zeal, when blood

was spilled or rain withheld or flame charred flesh.

For it was me who ran the miles in thirst

and hid in widow’s hut with meager oil

and flour for months. I lived in ditches, caves—

a raven’s gift away from death. And everywhere

I went, pursued. Having suffered so, can you

forgive my avid interest in the fate

of those who He saw fit to punish? Kings

and priests and soldiers—I have been

the Word of death to all.

                                        And yet, at times

no Spirit moved, no embers licked my heels:

there was a sort of peace. At one such time

I held the body of a boy whose mother

  wept. Against my better judgment I

invited down the intervention wise

men dread: life and fire filled his limbs.

At times I think I did the lad no favors

   interceding so. You think it strange,

no doubt, where my regrets are lodged.

But you will have them too: you’ll curse school boys

for baiting you, unwish a healing here

or there and watch your noblest instincts fall

apart and scatter on the wind in face

of petty spats. These people that pass now

into your care: intransigent and rough.

But He has said that they are His—to love

and to rebuke; to heat within the crucible

until they shine like stars.

                                        No comfort for

you now, perhaps, but having lived this life

with me you cannot think that at the end 

our talk would be of comfort. No gossamer

  robes for you, silk pillows, sweet perfume.

No. Take instead this ragged cloak and coarse

hair shirt to chafe your skin into a blaze

until you reach the edge of empathy

with those whose judgment you will speak.

The fire that drives you on, a breath away

from your demise; the difference you’ll find

is not so great between the ones you’ll curse

and your own withered soul—mere dust and breath

and blood kept kindled toward some future glory

when fire of God descends once more to light

upon the sacrifice, anointing Him

who greater still than either you or me

will spread the blaze so far no deluge could

or ever will those feathered flames destroy.

But that is still a dream away and here

our time is short. With Jordan at my back

I even now can hear the soundless beat

and trampling on the air: the storm in which

the Lord was not has come to take me on

to that still point, where I will dance before

the breath of God, a spark within His palm.

Read Bethany’s work and more in Solum Journal Volume V (forthcoming).