A Change, For the Asking

Once I leashed the impulsive pounce with a bully blog, snide in its sarcasm, a certain serenity slid over my keen eyes, like transitional glasses which change with variations in light. Miracle? A quick and easy answer to a change of heart dependent on visibility? A lazyman's response to the comfort of a loss of interest in the daily harangue of "news"? Just a despair that comes too readily from headline after headline over years?
The inquisitive mind always looks for reasons behind moods, even when self-evident as the lure of a chocolate and vanilla ice cream cone, once spring has decided to linger into early summer. Whatever. I saw within the slow but steady defeat of impulse and rebuttal, as well as surrebuttal and a string of surrejoinders, dependent on the volubility of this keyboard. Somewhere, along the downward path of dislike of professional churchmen, particularly the hierarchical kind, I felt a clinging crisis of faith, and noted that I had persistently tossed that back at the gowned ones with the stern contraindication that faith, hope, love are theological virtues, granted, given, instilled, simply offered by God. For the asking. So, I simmered, churlish at being poped out, then asked.
The tone of the "news" began to lose the wail of harangue. It lost its keen. A bishop spoke up. Another. Even a cardinal took on a cardinal, each one lofty on the ladder of apostolic succession. Change in the Church was following its steady historical speed of slow, real slow. And I knew I was wrong. Wrong in the volubility of the impulsive screed. Right in the desire to help rather than walk. Strangely comfortable in the obvious simplicity of the instinct to pray. For the Church. And the poem came.

The Theological Three

Bishops in flutter,

Cardinals mutter,

The steeple falls down.

Pope starts to stutter.

Agog on a blog,

I threw thunder

At Church in a lurch,

Crumbling asunder.

And yet I feel Faith,

Gloom  dwindles.

My Hope gone wan
Stirs. Love rekindles.