Focus

For behold, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble. The day that is coming shall set them ablaze, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch. But for you who fear My name, the Sun of Righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings. You shall go out leaping like calves from the stall. And you shall tread down the wicked, for they will be ashes under the soles of your feet, on the day when I act, says the Lord of hosts.

Remember the law of My servant Moses, the statutes and rules that I commanded him at Horeb for all Israel.

Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes. And he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers, lest I come and strike the land with a decree of utter destruction.

Malachi 4

I write poetry in hope of slowing down and seeing something more carefully than before. It is, for me, a way of praying. I work at writing worthy of being read aloud, the sounds of the words enriching and expanding the meaning. I cannot be certain I have obtained it. You may try reading the poem aloud, slowly. And see what happens.

The words of this poem started coming to me one morning at Park Cities Presbyterian Church. I was walking toward the Sanctuary. The doors were open. I looked in. Light poured into the space through stained-glass. I went inside. The Sanctuary was empty. Quiet. And a solid beam of light slanted through one of the higher windows and pooled onto a pew. I went to where the light landed and sat down.

The poem’s opening came from a conversation I had with a creative director who said that the pursuit of “next” without knowing where we are going is driving us crazy. The final line of the poem was inspired by a comment from my pastor and friend.

It is titled “Focus.” In common use, focus means the center of attention or clear perception. The word can mean a guiding purpose or motivation. In photography, the focus is where light converges in the lens. In pathology, focus is the point of disease. I wrote this poem not knowing it was for Advent. I now see that it is. The word focus in Latin means “fireplace.”  
                                                                                                                  — Brett Bradshaw  
                                                                                                                       Advent 2024  

Focus  

A stained-glass window seen from the outside may be drab and meaningless,
but seen from the inside it may be an apocalypse in jeweled points of light.
                                                                                                                  — George Buttrick

A sure sign of absurdity  
is to rush for whatever next  
without knowing where we are  
going or why or what it costs.  
Avarice sells exile as freedom  
for the price of focus.  

Everyone is busy now, never  
enough to allay our loneliness,  
ever after the upward prize:  
the artificial, the trivial, the amusing,  
as if the chief end of man  
is to maximize status and be  
anxious forever.  

The antithesis of speed, asinine ambition,  
and scale is the synthesis of understanding.  
In remembrance, we receive and rest.  

The Sanctuary is dimly lit except  
for shafts of shattered kaleidoscope mirth—  
rose pink, yellow iris, and Texas mountain  
laurel blooms—the slanting aureoles, stained  
glass; higher sheen strikes the words the world  
inscribed, inflamed, enkindles a wood pew.  
Stop and listen. Follow the Light anew.