There is this saying in the field of religious studies that goes “science is like prose, and religion is like poetry: they can both be sources of truth, but speak in different rhythms.” Though I’m not sure how far this metaphor extends, it is used to justify a “both/and” perspective on science and religion, rather than assuming them to be inherently in opposition to one another. This morning, I reference it to investigate not religion or science, but poetry.

Why is it that some stories, some truths, are better suited for concise, lyrical forms, or forms all of their own defying the conventions of writing? Poetry, to me, can feel so spiritual because it captures ideas, senses, and experiences in less linear, less neatly boxed-in ways. Poets have this gift of letting the words choose the shape they will flow into, rather than trying to line them up into a correct sentence structure. Poetry, in this way, teaches me about freedom, about imagination being powerful because it can become manifest: on the page, in the world.

Here’s a fun fact about me that I don’t share often: in high school, I was on a competitive slam poetry team. Now, don’t ask me how they managed to turn poetry into a sport, or even what standards we were judged by. Whatever they were, I didn’t do well in the competitions, and I don’t plan on letting any of those poems see the light of day. 

But, at least for me, that wasn’t the point. I did it because poetry became a way to build a community, through writing groups and open mic nights. And poetry to my community and I, became a spiritual practice that allowed us to talk about our experiences in honest and beautiful ways. It allowed us to make meaning out of our mundane lives, by telling stories that weren’t neatly linear, though they had rhythm, and connecting through the shared medium, through the power of expression itself.

Poetry is intimate in that way. And it is often prophetic too. Poetry allows us to openly mourn parts of this world that is, and it is well-suited to imagining worlds to come. Joy Harjo, poet laureate, whose book I’ve kept in my backpack through years of travel in this life, writes really good prophetic poetry. She uses her words to tell hard truths about violence that has been done to her, about violence done to her people. And she unflinchingly reminds readers of the beauty, the importance, of this human life. And she writes of revolution too, of “Great Turnings” that might lead this human family back into wholeness.

I share this message today as an act of my own devotion to poetry as a spiritual practice. I don’t write often, and my library is probably less extensive than many of yours. Yet, I know that poetry can get us more in touch with our humanity, can tell stories that connect us across lines of division, and can provide comfort in times of great need.

I want to share with you a poem by Lynn Ungar, a UU minister whose poetry for these pandemic times has been a great comfort to me. It is entitled “Winter Solstice,” and is entirely fitting for this wintry day. Ungar writes:

This is the longest night.

It never seemed quite this long

before. We always knew there were

cycles and seasons, dormancy

and growing, shifting light.

We didn’t quite know that honoring

the quiet time the seed spends

in the earth would also mean

honoring so many who have

gone to earth for good. Silence

is suited to mourning. For this

night let the clamor and the sirens

cease. For this night honor all

that is underground and quiet:

not just the dead, but the turtles

dug deep in the mud and the

white filaments of fungus that

send silent messages tree to tree.

Who can imagine what they

might be dreaming? The earthworms

are silent, but not still. They are

busy tilling the earth for what

is to come. The whole subterranean world

knows what you have forgotten:

Weeping may endure for a night,

but joy comes in the morning.

Topics: Devotion