Keith Holyoak --- Nine Selections from the Collection The Gospel According to Judas

Keith Holyoak

Selections from “The Gospel According to Judas”

Seed

Judas, I judge you not

Until I plumb your heart

And grasp your deep desire

For that is who you are,

The seed that starts it all:

Desire becomes your will,

Your will becomes your deed,

Your deed your destiny.

OM shanti shantishanti

Top Ten of Infamy

Surfing the Internet today I hit

Upon a top-ten list of evil men

Through history. I checked the names on it,

Fearing I’d find my own. Idi Amin

And VladDraculrub shoulders there with Hitler;

Two spots reflect the glory that was Rome—

Caligula, teamed with Nero the fiddler.

Attila the Hun—he looks right at home.

Ivan the Terrible and Joseph Stalin

Made Russia quake; Pol Pot’s got hell to pay.

Tomás de Torquemada, holy Christian,

Surely deserves his own auto-da-fé.

“Top tens” are always slightly arbitrary—

King Leopold might well have made the list.

How many men did Alexander bury?

Genghis Khan and Mao were somehow missed.

Pope Urban II started the Crusades,

Jerusalem of course the best excuse;

The massacres by Christians on those raids

Helped reconcile the Muslims with the Jews.

And Judas? I don’t really fit the bill—

My deed was too allusive, far outdone

By those who relished multitudes to kill.

I never slew a man (worst case, just One).

Beatitudes

      For those who wander

without a habitation

      I place the fixed stars

to mark your destination;

      For those who hunger

and thirst, unsatisfied,

      my banquet awaits

all guests who step inside.

      To those left weeping

alone in desolation

      I come with a smile

to join your celebration;

      To lions who walk

among the lambs in peace

      I send forth a child

so love and joy increase.

Songs of Mariam Magdala: Lovesick

Asleep at midnight, my heart is wide awake—

      beloved, I hear your knock!

He calls! “Beloved, my sister, my bride, open

      your garden and let me pick

Your orchard fruit, drink from your fountain flowing

      with honeyed milk and with nectar—

Already the night dew gathers upon my locks,

      bring me inside your shelter!”

Lying in bed the door is just out of reach—

      my garments are off, beloved—

My feet have been bathed, how could I rise and soil them,

      how stand before you naked?

Hearing him try the latch, I rise from bed

      and dip my fingers in myrrh;

In haste I reach for my gown, and drawing it on

      at once unbolt the door.

But oh! He has turned and gone into the night,

      gone, and my soul fails me.

My cry, “Beloved, my door has opened for you!”

      brings silence—nothing avails me—

The cobblestones are cold beneath my feet

      and no answer comes.

The watchmen find me searching through the city’s

      streets and catacombs;

They beat me, bruise me, rip away my veil,

      these watchmen of the walls.

I beseech you, daughters of Jerusalem,

      make him hear your calls!

Cry out, my sisters! Cast judgment as you will—

      approve or disapprove—

But seek my beloved! And when you find him tell him

      I am sick with love.

Sandy Hook

Riding the morning bus, they left behind

Mommies and Daddies, dolls and Thomas trains,

Dora the bold Explorer, trucks and planes,

Their talismans of home—the routine kind

Of schoolday bravery the world demands.

Cords holding children close must soon unravel;

We cannot guard all roads that they will travel,

Nor walk by them forever, holding hands.

But more is owed to innocents than this.

Though Judas learned a thing about betrayal

Gaping as Jesus writhed upon the cross

He never saw a prideful nation fail

To keep its children whole, to even miss

Its chance to be redeemed through shame and loss.

After Newtown

Citizens of this special nation

Mourn slain children in their fashion

With rituals that mark the slaughters—

After they bury sons and daughters

They curse the madman, not his gun,

And vow to God, “Never again!”

To help ensure this never happens

They print more automatic weapons

And pass them out so worshipers

All bear the arms their God confers

(For He has taught them guns are sacred

Instruments of love, not hatred).

A handgun with star-spangled holster

Is laid upon the highest altar

Where senators kneel down to pray.

Watching themgrievethis special way

Jesus cries out in holy rage

And Judas weeps below the stage.

Ocean

after Mansur al-Hallaj

Born to the earth, I made my way

Back to the ocean whence I came,

Drawn as the moth that seeks the flame,

And fought the waves by night and day.

I punched the breakers—they struck me,

Left me half-broken on the sand,

Until the ocean lent a hand,

Lifted me up and set me free.

And now I do not cease to swim

Buoyed up sometimes on waves of love,

At times pressed under waves above,

While beacons on the shore grow dim.

Judas Unmasked

      Perhaps I was

the blight that killed the Rose,

      a stain across

the countenance of God—

      Or did I make

the perfect sacrifice,

      stab my own soul

so that the Lamb’s blood flowed;

      Or was I just

a small embellishment,

      picked out to play

an extra in a crowd?

     

      I was perhaps

a splash of ocean foam,

      a dying leaf,

a clump of broken sod.

Benediction

Do not grieve overlong when I am gone,

Fearing that I have left you here alone.

The time for weeping ends; let tears be done.

Bow to the four directions—I am there.

I guide the sun, the moon, the morning star,

And catch the swallow falling from the air.

I am with you always, in the bead

Of dew upon the lotus, in the reed

Beside the lake, and in the mustard seed.