LOST FOR WORDS. Not something that pastors and preachers often have said about them. But words are like floodwater. There are times when words pour forth, sometimes for good – blessing, cleansing, healing, irrigating, quenching thirst; and sometimes for ill – damaging, inundating, pontificating, superior, sweeping aside.
And there are times, actually many times, when, achingly, one is simply lost for words – good or ill, from our genesis to revelation.
Poets frequently find themselves lost for words. Poetry is born out of silence – out of a sense of something lost that needs to be found. There’s pain to be borne in the bringing to birth of good poetry. There’s a reaching into the depths of things that’s required. And sometimes, in our religious attempts “to bind, or to make whole” we’ll feel ourselves quite overwhelmed.
How grateful I am to have found a godly reflection by the Unitarian minister Bill Darlison:
All religion is poetry, and the rules of poetry are not the rules of logic
And what marvellous and extraordinary poetry I was awed by in Friday evening’s sunset here – a poetic being lost for words; an invitation to trust that with or without my help evening’s rest will descend and a new day will dawn – until we recognise ourselves as so deeply loved, so deeply and eternally alive that we’re by now beyond either words or logic. Home. We’re the poem …