Where is the Prince of Peace?

by Mendy Knott

Where are you Prince of Peace?

We could really use you now and I keep seeing your followers

waving crosses and bibles and calling out your name

while they condemn lovers and activists alike

and refuse to let peace rest here.

We call ourselves Christians

but we take the name of the Lord in vain,

if you are, as you said, the Prince of Peace.

Some people think of you stuck between the covers of a book

ancient as Methuselah, unread except for all the juicy parts,

a book hardly anyone can begin to understand.

Others believe they've got you now,

got you figured out as the movie star you really are

from Lloyd and Weber to Kazantzakis to “The Greatest Story Ever Told”

and now Mel Gibson' s gonna show us the reality,

how it actually went down with “The Passion of The Christ.”

Now we can really experience those final days in all their gory detail:

a fifteen minute flogging, stumbling up the hill burdened by your cross,

crown of thorns, driving of the nails

(Mel did this himself, a metaphor for guilt I guess).

But tell me, can all this really hold a candle to what you watch us

humans do on a daily basis?

And isn't that what really hurts?

Christ. I don't believe this, that you're hung up in lines of scripture

or the newest writer's script. We keep nailing you to a cross, over and over

every year like some grotesque of “Groundhog Day.”

But this is what touches us, brings the tear to our eyes

your physical suffering long over and if it's true, you have a comfy spot

by God the Father's side.

Why is it you wring the compassion from us

who willfully ignore the starving children of the world

the tortured prisoners of war

women dying of breast cancer

men dying of AIDS

and all of us choking on our own filth and carelessness.

All we have to do is stop, look, listen, pay attention, heed the news--

why there's suffering galore. There's agony without the promise of

salvation.

What hope has the battered child that one day her Good Father

will raise her up on wings of angels and take her home

where she'll be safe for all eternity?

No matter how good she's tried to be

her hell goes on and on.

Oh, Prince of Peace

we look in all the wrong places

inside churches, between the pages

we worship an empty cross and wait for you to arrive

to avenge all our personal vendettas

prove to everybody we were right

and then float us up to heaven to gather round your feet

no matter how or even if

we practiced your beliefs.

Posturing Christians

we don't know who you are, where you are

or what you may be doing.

We only know you're always on our side.

As for me, well

I know how you appear to me in my hour of despair

in misery as I curse myself for my own iniquities.

I shut my eyes against the pain and you appear like magic

to me, who barely can believe in you.

And even though I tell you to get lost, go away

that you've never meant anything but trouble as far as I can see

you remain to put an arm around my shoulder

speak softly so I can barely hear you say “Be kind”

“Be gentle” “Be fair” “Be just” “Be at peace, child, be at peace.”

Eventually I succumb to the hum of your voice

hide my face in the folds of your old woolen robe and weep

and am allowed to see how many places you can be at once:

There you are in the cancer ward of Grady Memorial Hospital

where only the poorest go

and there in Iraq as you comfort some civilian that's lost his leg.

You walk barefoot among the wounded

not holding back your love from the abusive parent

blessing the weddings of San Francisco queers

forgiving the preacher who sitll wants to kill poor Matthew

though he's been dead for years.

There you are out there doing that thing I cannot believe,

will never achieve,

loving each and every one the same.

Who knows better than you, Prince of Peace,

torture is nothing new.

It's everywhere you look – in America, Israel, Peru.

There are a thousand ways to hang someone on a cross

and we've explored them all.

What's hard, what's really tough is lifting up the fallen,

leading home the lost. Forgiving your tormentor.

Refusing to take from those who can't defend themselves.

We each must do what's hardest and what's hard is

holding the one you hate in your arms stinking and bleeding

carrying him to safety, bathing his wounds

healing him and yes, saying we're sorry

for how long we have ignored, or even caused, his suffering.

Clothe the naked. Feed the hungry. Heal the sick.

Befriend the lonely.

If we dedicate our lives to this (as was suggested)

there would be no time for war.

Where is the Prince of Peace?

How many times Lord should I forgive?

Once, 3 times, 7? How many times to get me into heaven?

He said, “70 times 7.”   490, that's a lot.

He said “turn the other cheek.”

He said, “Love your enemies because that's harder than your friends,

most times.”

This is no vengeful god come to taste the fruits of retribution.

This here's the Son of God (remember Him?)

big idealistic dreamer with a soft spot for down-and-outers

imploring us to love each other and learn how to forgive.

This is the way to live.

Where is the Prince of Peace?

He's caged behind the ribs of humankind

(that's you and me)

where he beats out his injunction,

“Be peace, Be peace, Be peace.”

It's up to us to set Him free.

February 2004

Mendy Knott is a poet and peace activist living in the Western North Carolina mountain town of Burnsville. She may be reached by email at hillpoet@yahoo.com .