Here’s the thing: somehow, I learnt something about the families in the bible. It must have been that phrase Biblical Family Values that I’d heard, and — because I listened to the power of the language, without studying the stories — I felt full of shame in the imagination that people like me, and the families we create around us, are somehow outside of the borderlands of such families.
And then.
And then I started making some Jewish friends. I was interested in the Bible, so I’d ask a question every now and then, and they’d look at me with despair. Why are you asking that question? One of them asked. Why not another question? Push your question. Make your question better. Plates shifted — over shared meals and on the landscape I thought I was standing on — and I found myself less certain about certain things and I loved it. They introduced me to Midrash and I felt like I’d landed into an argument of centuries: language that took the literature of the bible seriously, not literally; ways of reading the text that made me read my life differently. What was old suddenly felt new, and what was new felt like it was in conversation with the old.
I found myself wandering into some of the old stories of bible, not seeking pretty stories that were about one thing and one thing only, but seeking instead echoes of stories that were untameable. These stories loom out at us, like untamed jungles, with branches and roots and leaves and beasts and wild things all waiting for attention.
And suddenly, the stories began to show up in dreams. These were not dreams of gentle things. These were dreams of being tied to a rock while your father tried to murder you in the name of some strange God. And then there were dreams of soup and fighting and long years apart, and make-ups and break-ups and I wondered whether I was writing about the bible or about me. I wondered whether I was writing the poems or whether they were writing me.
In turning sideways into the text — taking what Emily Dickinson would call a slant reading — I found myself consuming more and more of the text, and searching out old Midrashic commentaries, and taking my own considerations and objections and devotions more seriously in light of taking the text more seriously than I’d ever thought I could.
Amen and Amen. And a poem. Or two.
In the beginning
there was poetry
And there still is
photo credit: Trevor Brady
Pádraig Ó Tuama
Poet and theologian Pádraig Ó Tuama’s work centres around themes of language, power, conflict and religion. Working fluently on the page and in public, Pádraig is a compelling poet and skilled speaker, teacher and group worker. From 2014-2019 he was the leader of the Corrymeela Community, Ireland’s oldest peace and reconciliation community. Pádraig is also one of the individuals behind INPUT. His website can be found here.
Family Tree
They say Satan teased Sarah while
her husband tied their son up on a mountain.
It's an old story: a man tests the limits of religion
while the devil’s on a mission to a woman.
The devil said He's dead! Oh wait! He's not!
Sarah heard a gunshot
and did the only thing she could.
She reached beyond herself and died.
Meanwhile Isaac sees a frenzy
on the face of a patriarch,
and an angel's screaming out a name
and everything's going dark. Afterwards,
they never spoke again. One went
his way and the other went another.
Isaac's mother dead, he followed Hagar
to the desert. Hagar married Abraham
but Isaac stayed away, didn't even send a
text. He pulled the blinds down, tried to rest.
Then his father died, so God blessed Isaac, Isaac
never quite recovered from the loss.
Then Rebecca came along and saw it all.
She'd studied Freud, so knew her boys would
tell stories that their father couldn't bear.
She tore her hair out, then devised a plan.
But even she was foiled; her boys grew up.
Her boys forgot the fights of childhood, spat out
bitter herbs, and limped towards each other
when the Angel settled down at last.
There may not be a God or a Sarah.
There may not be a garden or a man who
ordered soup up to his room.
There may not be a mountain.
But there’s always been a woman with the truth.
But there's always been a brother full of shame.
There’s always been a story, and there’s
always been a devil in the details.
“Family Tree” Originally published in Seminary Ridge Review. Copyright © 2017 by Pádraig Ó Tuama. Reprinted with the permission of the poet.
Jacob and Esau
One day I repented my resentment because I realised I’d forgotten
to repeat it. For a while—no, for a long while—it was like a prayer,
rising to the skies, morning after morning, like a siren that wouldn’t quiet
And then I remembered other things: the way I walk lighter these days;
the way you never knew my story of divorce; the way I am tired of being
forced among the new; and the way I miss having someone to speak to about
things I don’t need to explain; the way we shared a name.
So I decided.
I took a flight and hung around the areas where we used to meet.
I loitered with intent. I was hungry with hope but couldn’t eat alone.
I missed the home your body was, even though we’re grown now,
I missed your smell, your wrestle, your snoring breath.
And when I saw you, I saw you’d changed too.
So much behind us we didn’t need to name.
“Jacob and Esau” Originally published in Seminary Ridge Review. Copyright © 2017 by Pádraig Ó Tuama. Reprinted with the permission of the poet.