A Letter from an Old Man

By Casey Dwyer

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That which was from the beginning
         Which we have seen with our eyes
         Which we have heard with our ears
         Which we have touched with our hands
In darkened rooms, in Capernaum
At the seaside, Jerusalem
Along paths we’d walked 
All our lives, he was there 
Footfalls on fallen soil
Heart and hands and eyes of clay 
But behind, and in, and under each variegated moment
Not just man, but God as man, God and man

We cannot but share what we’ve seen and heard.

I
Tabernacled

Darkness, pierced by
The Light that first looked on me. 
Eyed eternity eyeing me
From ages past, peering through the black
And the darkness has not overcome it.
My sight, fooled by the apparent contradiction
Of Eternal Eye contained in mortality
          The manger bed, the infant cry, the brutality 
          Of a birth hidden, a life hidden, flying away 
          To Egypt, to the desert, to the wilderness
          To Nazareth.
Was his Light hidden? 
Yes—but only as the kiln 
Hides the fire. 

Moses saw a glimpse of this fire
But here, in Him, it stands entire
Kilned with hope of healing every eye
And breaking upon the darkness of each place we’ve seen
Lost and desecrated by the blinded hours;
He comes, and stands, and looks again

Eternal Light sees through mortal eyes.

II
Have You Not Heard?

Voice heard in upper room
Of him who first Spoke me. 
He, who is the voice of creativity
No, creation itself, 
The One who’s speaking
Is both speaking as knowing, 
And speaking as creating
Cognition and recognition
We did not recognize his voice
Though it rang, even with his accent, 
Of a song that was sung before time itself 
And a knowledge deeper than sun and moon
A language clearer than the birdsong
          And the dew in the valley. 

When I hear that voice
I start, dimly, to comprehend
That he is speaking me still, addressing me
And dressing me
With clothes that don’t fit now, but will
In a place where his speaking and what I hear will be one.

III
Touch, Thomas

Thomas, reach out and touch
Him who first laid his hand on thee. 
Go, don’t hide, put out your hand
For he feels, even now, your questions
Demands, lines drawn, objections 
That will only be satisfied if you feel
That he feels still, no ghost
But man, still full of flesh and bone. 
If you dare, you’ll feel both flesh and bone
In wounds on wrist and side, he urges you--
Feel their heat, Living heat, 
And touch the blood
          Let it stain your hand. 

That’s Mary’s blood, and ours now too
As it fell, a sign upon the skull of earth.
It united me to her, and us to him, 
And as it touched the ground, soaked in
A hidden memory, waiting for the day
When it will turn to gold what now is clay. 

IV
Patmos

All these years later
I’ve seen and felt ten-thousand deaths, 
All who have seen and heard are dead. 
Here I am, alone, listening but unable to hear
Exiled here to Patmos’ cave 
Damp walls echo my sorrows. 

Behind, I hear that Voice again, 
Sound of many waters
A hand on the shoulder 
Old eyes catching fire--
Behold! He who has ears to hear, 
Let him hear!

Old eyes are best suited to receive revelation 
For old men are sailors awaiting ships.
And now the world is old and waits with me.
 
Look! Spirals in the highest heaven 
And at their centrifugal core, a throne
And upon the throne, a Lamb
Still blood and bone, both God and man
With words as swords, heat and light
Enfolding as it was, is, and will be forever 
Into one motion, presence, and eternal will. 

There, one word fills a page 
To touch is to lay hold
And behind, and in, and under each variegated moment
The Kiln no longer hides, but reveals the Fire
Which soon shall burn new not just soul and desire
But us entire: 
Eye, and ear, and hand, and will.

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Casey Dwyer is a pastor, poet, and painter living in Monroe, Wisconsin, with his blessed wife, Danielle. He pastors Lena Free Church in Lena, Illinois, where he relishes in the art of preaching and pastoring saturated in the stories of real people and real places. At home you’ll find him painting in oils, listening to Dante and rejoicing in his garden. Oh, and above all things, laughing with Danielle. You can read a sliver of his work at Ekstasis Magazine or on his blog, revivalrenewal.com.