My God, Send Another—Andy Patton

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My God, Send Another

by Andy Patton

John Calvin 1509-1564

I.
These three years, the pain hasn’t lessened
But it visits me less. In Geneva,
Men gave their dogs my name to kick them.
I was hit with a bottle,
But do not know who threw it.
When the children found me
On the way to chapel, they made small jokes
Like those a razor makes.
There were always anxieties buzzing
Like flies. I waved them away
And they returned in the wake of my hand.
I was never good at hiding what I suffered.
My head ached continually. I barely ate.
At night, I dreamed I was carried to the pulpit
But could find nothing to say.
Though I never doubted your love,
And cast myself upon your word,
I moved from fear to fear to fear.

When those same people knelt
To take the bread and wine
It was my own bloodcoin I gave them.
I placed the bread in their mouths
As my own flesh.
They cursed me and thrived.
They dipped their fingers into my wounds
And mourned and hated me for it.
Repentance ran like quicksilver
From house to house those years.
Men swore themselves to Christ.
Everywhere things burst to life.
But I was cast out.

II.
In Strasbourg, you have been kind.
I live beside the baker and his bread wakes me
Through the window every morning.
The coffee is here. My books are here.
I can write. The room is quiet.
Beyond the room, Idelette is making breakfast.
Her children call me father. In the garden,
We have laid bulbs in the ground
And they will soon return, first the snowdrops,
Then daffodils, then crocuses, then all the others
Until we cut the last blooms in late summer.
In the afternoon, I will have a glass of wine and walk.
In the evening, I will preach again
And pray with my small congregation
Who have also fled here.
I do not know if this peace is a reward
Or a punishment for having suffered
And wanting it to end.
I gather it with both hands nonetheless
And wait for it to grow, 
Like the flowers.

III.
When the letter from Geneva
Summoned me back, I prayed
And could not sleep.
I paced in the garden behind the house.
I raised my empty hands to you and fire fell
On the small maple I planted three years ago,
But it did not burn.
I staggered back, “My God,
Send another,” I begged.

I came to myself on the ground,
Thrumming, shoeless, dazed.
The dawn was rising, but
All the birds fell silent.
I heard a voice call my name
And turned, but no one was there.
I answered, “Here I am.”
Things inside me stilled
And I thought: enough.

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Andy Patton is the creator of the Darkling Psalter, a collection of creative renditions of the Psalms paired with new poems. He writes about biblical theology at Pattern Bible and co-edits a newsletter of cultural resources at Three Things. He holds an M.A. in theology from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. He works for the Rabbit Room and is a former staff member at L'Abri Fellowship in England.

Photo by Jiri Benedikt on Unsplash