In my exposition, “Refusing Erasure,” I have referred to Carolyn Forché and her book, What You have Heard is True: A Memoir of Witness and Resistance. The book is her account of the way in which the wise, sly champion of social justice, Leonel Gomez Vides, had “recruited” her to come to El Salvador in order that she can bear witness to the corrupt violence of his society. Vides wanted Forché to come see, because she is a poet and perhaps a poet could bear effective witness to his unbearable social reality. He chastened her by saying, “You can’t just write poetry about yourself.” He urged her on, saying, “If you are going to be a poet, you must see the world.”

Her narrative report chronicles the way in which her exposure to El Salvador and its violence made her a very different kind of poet, just as Vides had anticipated. One can see in her new collection of poems, In the Lateness of the World, the impact of her time with Vides in El Salvador.

Forché did not have an easy time, at the outset, understanding the political, historical context of El Salvador that surely supplied “the conditions from which the poems arose.” I have pondered that phrasing about the condition from which poetry arises, and have concluded that good, serious poetry arises in contexts of extremity where prose articulations are inadequate. The “extremity” to which Forché bears witness in her poetry is the great brutality of El Salvador, brutality undertaken by both the government and by numerous guerilla forces.

I have no expertise concerning poetry, but I have the following notion about it. Good serious poetry is not about rhyme or meter or loveliness. I suggest rather it is daringly marked by:

• Thickness. This means it is bottomless in its significance, so that it cannot be exhausted at first hearing or confidently decoded at first glance. It is an offer of words that always evokes further attentiveness, a gift that keeps on giving.

• Elusiveness: This means it is filled with swirls of playful possibilities, so that different listeners will receive from it different significations, none of which can prevail, dominate, or grant certitude.

• Imagistic Richness. This means it appeals to the concrete quotidian realities of ordinary life. It permits each listener to evoke and trace out, and so to imagine worlds other than the one immediately in front of the listener.

On all counts, poetry then is an enemy of certitude and single meaning, thus refusing, resisting, and subverting the certitude of every claim. The work of poetry is so urgent and so difficult precisely because circumstances of extremity evoke a craving for certitude. Poetry thus becomes an invitation to live, ever more daringly into the extremity, to embrace the freedom required in the extremity, and to accept responsibility for engaging the extremity of risk and danger.

With that in mind, I am reminded that the Old Testament is, to a great extent, a book of poetry because it brings its reading community close to the extremity of a God who refuses to be boxed in by conventional expectation or reduced to conventional formulation.

This is evident in the great poetic offers of Job, Psalms, and Proverbs, but no less so in the great prophetic books. And even in the narrative accounts of the Pentateuch and the “history,” poems are strewn here and there at especially poignant pivot points in the telling.

In what follows, I will consider two poems embedded in Israel’s narrative recital and two poems that are representative of the tradition of the Book of Psalms, Israel’s most forthright poetic voicing.

Exodus 15:21: The extremity of emancipation.

This two line poem on the lips of Miriam is perhaps the oldest Israelite poem. It comes at the culmination of the inscrutable emancipation from Pharaoh’s brutal slavery. The Exodus narrative begins with the “cry and groan” of the slaves (2:23-24). Now it ends in a celebrative dance of freedom as the women articulate with their bodies what it feels like to be out from under the insatiable brick quotas of Pharaoh.

The poem/song is addressed to YHWH. This is the new God who had heard the cry and groan of the slaves and acted for Israel’s freedom (Exodus 24-25; 3:7-9). This is a God not known heretofore in Israel. Indeed, this God is not only unknown, but so enigmatic, so beyond human decipherment that this divine name has no vowels and remains unpronounceable (see 3:14). The women who dance and sing their freedom accept this “coded” God as is, and bear witness to the wondrous outcome of divine action.

Like most hymns in Israel, this one begins with an imperative summons to songs of praise. The imperative is followed by an explanatory clause introduced by “for” that gives the reason for songs of praise. The reason here is that YHWH is lifted up in power, might, and wonder. The second line provides concrete imagery that supports the imperative.

The poem imagines mighty Pharaoh on his horse riding into the chaotic waters of the Red Sea; or perhaps it is Pharaoh’s army; either way, the victory of YHWH is made specific and concrete. The way in which Pharaoh is “de-horsed” is that YHWH has ridden into the chaotic waters and has pushed Pharaoh off his horse to drown. Such imagery of course is a bit too concrete for most theology. But this is poetry! It wants to make divine power as concrete and as immediately available as possible. This is a God, so says the poet, who engages in the specific reality of historical power. Pharaoh is very big on horses, chariots, and other tools of war (Exodus 14:23); but he is not big enough. Not powerful enough. Not big or powerful enough to resist the force of freedom caused by this God of emancipation.

Later on, Moses, Miriam’s brother, will expand the imagery of the drowning of Pharaoh (15:4-8). In that derivative poem you can hear Pharaoh gasping for air! We may imagine this “warrior God” reached from his horse to hold Pharaoh under the water until dead. The emancipated slaves have been singing songs and poems to YHWH since then, still singing and dancing freedom.

If we look closely at the dead Pharaoh, we might be able to see, as the poem is transported, that it is in fact belatedly Mussolini hung by his toes in Rome, or Nicolae Ceausescu in Romania shot by a firing squad, or any other enemy of freedom who finally could not finally prevail in the world where YHWH presides.

The emancipated have continued to sing poems of praise to YHWH since then, still singing and dancing freedom all the way to the fall of the Berlin Wall. Singing and dancing because this indecipherable God of freedom is faithfully at work.

II Samuel 1:19-27: The extremity of grief.

Jonathan, son of King Saul, was heir apparent to the throne of Israel. In his deep devotion to David, however, he ceded his royal claim to David. He fought with his father against the Philistines, until he, alongside his father, was killed in battle (I Samuel 31:2). In response David, in this poem, grieves deeply. The imagery for Jonathan marks him as “swifter than an eagle, stronger than a lion (II Samuel 1:23). Jonathan was not only strong and swift; he is “beloved and lovely”:

Greatly beloved were you to me;
your love to me was wonderful,
passing the love of a woman. (v. 26)

The work of grief requires naming and characterizing the lost one. For all of his speed, strength, and loveliness, the accent is on Jonathan’s might (gbr). Grief work is repetitious, said over and over. So David in his grief will reiterate in verses 25 and 27:

How the mighty have fallen!

The death of the beloved prince in Israel is unbearable. It humiliates Israel. Don’t report the death! Don’t give the Philistines occasion to gloat. Be quiet about his death. The words urge to silence. So we get personal loss plus a concern for public reality. The grief concerns a lovely, well loved man.

At the same time, this thick poem invites us to host a great company of the lost who have been well loved. When I read it, I thought it referred to John F. Kennedy, lovely and beloved, killed in a way that shattered national wellbeing, as did the death of Jonathan.

But now today, as I write this and consider who it might be who is slain and grieved, I thought it was Police Officer Brian Sicknick, the one killed in the Washington, D.C. insurrection of Jan. 6, 2021. His family remembers him as a hero. Do not report his violent death in Gath or in Ashkelon or in any Philistine city; do not let the Philistines gloat. Officer Sicknick was indeed violently killed by “the Philistines” of our time. Do not let the Russians or the Chinese know how we in the United States are in ignominious disarray. David sang for Jonathan; Israel sang for its prince. We, after Israel, sing of loss and our shattered social possibility, as we take Sicknick as a sign of the failure of our social order. The mighty have fallen! They have fallen and continue to fall, because “the Philistines” always have their day. David grieves.

And then in the next verses he is made king (2:1-4). This is the story line of human possibility amid savage loss:

• Thus John F. Kennedy was killed — the mighty fallen! — and LBJ promptly enacted powerful, demanding legislation in his name that ran well beyond Kennedy’s own vision.

• Thus Officer Sicknick was violently killed by marauding Philistines — the mighty fallen! — and perhaps Joe Biden will promptly govern with emancipatory vigor and resolve.

In the book of Psalms we may readily identify the two extremities of awe, praise, wonder, and thanks and loss, sadness, anger, and rage. Comment on any hymn in the Psalter can represent the first extremity, and discussion of any lament-complaint in the book of Psalms will give voice to the second extremity.

Psalm 100: The extremity of awe, praise, wonder, and thanks.

I have selected this Psalm as the most obvious and familiar case in point, the one that is referenced in the “doxology” sung in many churches. This poem is a summons to recognize and acknowledge, by a joyful noise, by gladness, and by singing, that YHWH, the undecipherable God, is Lord of creation and of history.

The poem seems to assume that YHWH is made more fully and is recognized more broadly as sovereign by the active engagement of worshiping Israel. Such praise is designed to enhance and magnify YHWH.

As a follow-up to the three-fold summons, the Psalm affirms exactly who YHWH is known to be: YHWH is God! YHWH, unlike all other would-be competing gods, has a claim to both power and fidelity. Evidence of YHWH’s governance is that he made “us,” that is, Israel. Israel is the sheep; YHWH is the good shepherd.  This poetry is a means whereby worshiping Israel makes clear both its own identity and the identity of YHWH (v. 3).

In verse 4, the Psalm extends a second doxological trope. Again, the Psalm summons with imperatives;

Enter, give thanks, bless.

This triad is a glad, ready affirmation of who YHWH is. Verse 5, introduced by “for,” provides ground for thanks. The triad affirms that YHWH is good, practices steadfast love, and remains faithful. Thus, in a two-fold pattern, we get imperatives and reasons for imperatives.

Two images dominate the poetry. First, we get sheep-shepherd, a conventional image for kingship, but given particular substance in the familiar poem of Psalm 23, in the discourse of John 10:7-18, and in the inventory of Ezekiel 34:

I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, but the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them with justice. (Ezekiel 34:16)

The second image is of a liturgical procession of “coming in” and “entering,” in gladness into the presence of God. Israel is“on the move” toward YHWH’s governance.

The thickness of this poem is evident in our capacity to reuse the Psalm over and over to fund our ongoing celebrative worship. The elusiveness of the poem is unmistakable in that the sheep-shepherd imagery is open to rich imaginative possibility.

In the end, the sung poetry of Israel is fixed on the steadfast love and faithfulness of YHWH; this word pair in verse 5 most fully mark YHWH and YHWH’s governance. Indeed, this word pair from v. 5 is the most elemental claim of Israel’s faith. Israel returns to that word pair again and again:

The Lord, the Lord,
a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger,
abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness. (Exodus 34:6)

But you, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious,
slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness. (Psalm 86:15)

Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne …
steadfast love and faithfulness go before you. (Psalm 89:14, 33)

These two marks of fidelity distinguish YHWH from all other gods; Israel can never finish singing this. Israel can never stop poetry-making around this singular affirmation.

Psalm 58: The extremity of loss, sadness, anger, and rage.

Because Israel’s faith lives in the real world, it knows from day to day that the threat of chaos does not remain toned down and docile, even given the steadfast love of YHWH. In its singing, Israel knows about big trouble! In this Psalm, the trouble is from the “wicked” who are cast in despicable imagery:

They have venom like the venom of a serpent,
like the deaf adder that stops its ears. (v. 4)

This Psalm of extremity holds nothing back of deep outrage, for this is the God from whom no secret can be hid. The rage against the wicked cannot be hid. The deep revulsion at evil cannot be hid. The hope of brutal vengeance cannot be hid.

The poem begins in wonderment about whether God is morally reliable (v. 1). There is so much concrete evidence to the contrary. Nevertheless, the poem dares to issue imperatives to God on the bet that God has both the will and the capacity to right the wrong and to abuse the wicked in a way commensurate with their destructive action. The first imperatives are direct:

Break their teeth in their mouths;
Tear out the fangs of the young lions. (v. 6)

These are followed by jussives that amount to imperatives:

Let them vanish like water that runs away;
like grass let them be trodden down and wither.
Let them be like the snail that dissolves into slime. (vv.7-8)

That should finish them! This last image has to be among the best in scripture!

The Psalm is framed in confident expectation of God’s righteousness against violence (vv. 1-2, 10-11). In between, however, the poet goes “down and dirty” in vengeance and retaliation.

Israel knows that the capacity to live in covenantal faithfulness requires truth-telling from the depth of trouble. Israel does not flinch from offensive expression. It has no fear of offending God, because it knows that denial in piety is a non-starter.

Consequently, in the book of Psalms we get a torrent of emotive extravagance, all uttered in hope-filled expectation.

These four examples of poetry are sufficient to suggest that covenantal faith in the Bible is designed exactly to submit the extremities of life to the sovereignty of God. But these extremities cannot be “submitted” unless they are brought to honest, specific, daring speech. We are able to see that these several poems are indeed:

Thick in a way that requires continuing attentiveness;
Elusive so that we can appeal to them in many different circumstances, and
Imagistic so that we can readily picture the scenes of awe and rage.

This poetic legacy has been entrusted to the church along with other communities of faith. The church, however, has a strong durable itch toward prose. As a result, the playful poetry of the Bible and the thick, elusive, imagistic voice of the gospel get flattened, in practice, into a pattern of certitude.

Among progressives such reduction comes down to Enlightenment rationality which screens out much of what matters for the gospel. Conversely among fundamentalists there is the same reduction into scholasticism and a refusal of what is given as playful in the gospel. (Tellingly enough, a vigorous protest against such fundamentalist reductionism is termed, by its advocates, “Open theism.”) The outcome of this twin reductionism is that:

• The great epic hymns are brought down to “praise hymns” of seven words eleven times (7/11!), or to romantic ballad-like assurances;

• The great lyrical prayers become grocery lists for delivery by God,

• The great courageous proclamations are reduced to clever storytelling or earnest moralism.

What a loss! What an abdication shared across the spectrum of church practice!

In such circumstance, we may ask with Forché, “What are the conditions in which poetry emerges?” And the answer is, poetry emerges in extremity,

That refuses thinness that is unpersuasive,
That rejects certitudes that issue in denial, and
That shuns well-ordered didacticism that knows everything ahead of time.

It may be no wonder, given these choices, that the church has failed in its missional witness and become a bulwark for keeping things as they are.

In such a circumstance we may, in quite specific ways, reframe and reconsider that the “meeting space” of the worshiping congregation is an arena for poetic practice that responds to our unmistakable “condition of extremity.” In such reframing, we might dare to give voice to

The extremity of emancipation (as with Miriam);
The extremity of grief (as with David);
The extremity of praise (as with Psalm 100 and the hymns of the Psalter); and
The extremity of insistent anger (as with Psalm 58 and the laments of the Psalter).

Such a reframing might evoke a bit of vertigo in the congregation, leave us off balance or at least out of our comfort zone. But those who turn out to be the faithful carriers of the gospel are characteristically more than a little off balance, blown by the wind where they had never thought they would go.

Imagine these poets in conversation with each other.

Imagine what Miriam would want to say to David who grieves. She might affirm to the weeping king, “There can be a way out of no way.”

Imagine what David might want to say to Miriam amid her dancing. He might say, “Yes, there will be a way, but we will nevertheless notice a mighty loss on the way.”

We are surely in a condition of extremity, a condition wherein poetry may again arise.

Walter Brueggemann