to borrow from mr. brueggemann -- "finally comes the poet"

My transition to San Francisco is going wonderfully. My first week here I had to pinch myself and remind myself that I was living in San Francisco. Today (and the past couple of days) I’ve walked out and felt like I was apart of the city. Like it was starting to open up to me and tell me the story it is meant to share with me and why it brought me to its residence.

I’ve also been getting used to my weekly activities, and so have my legs. My legs have had to get used to walking everywhere…although it has been wonderful to be in a place where the weather is agreeable enough to walk. There is so much to share, but I wanted to write something down before it left the freshness of memory.

Last night Adam, Amy and I went over to the Cal-Berkley area to meet Steve, a friend of Adam’s. We were meeting there to watch one of Adam’s favorite performing arts – it’s one that he has even taken part at other venues on other nights. But, tonight he was not performing...we were at this venue to investigate and check out the caliber of the entertainers

We had arrived to enjoy a motivating and humorous night of “poetry slam”. This location in Berkley was rumored to be one of the best poetry slams in the area – so much so that the event happened every week. In San Francisco the major venue for having poetry slam only host once a month – but in Berkley a good showing of almost 75 people piled into the room to hear the eloquence of the poets.

Now I have been to poetry slams before. I remember one at a local coffee house in Waco one night, which really wasn’t that bad. I mean, I’m not about to say that Texas doesn’t have poets as good – Austin, after all, hosted the national poetry slam competition last week. However, what I will say is that the poets from the night in Waco do not stick in my mind as well as last night’s bards.

The night’s inaugural speakers were not bad, they were a good start. (I say this in comparison to the night’s later performers, not because I could do better, or that I am an expert in this art – because I’m defiantly not, and admire their boldness to share their creations publicly) If you have never been to a poetry slam be cautioned that there is no censoring, so if you don’t like crude subjects and foul language I suggest that you try to see the beauty in the art (or just bypass the experience altogether, which would be regretable). The topics varied from political statements, personal confessions, rants about nothing, lamentations about lost love, and sexual exploits. And sometimes all these subjects at once.

There is such a beauty to this type of speech – a rhythmic pentameter and wit that moves the listeners, whether they like or agree with the statements. If there is one thing that can be said about these prophets it’s that they are raw and authentic with their discourse. There is no guessing what they are thinking or feeling – it is in their verse, in their tone, in their delivery, and in their body – their art is apart of who they are, and the spectators get to enjoy the outpouring.

In many of the poems there were rumblings and hints of revolution – a feeling that something was on the threshold, and these poets wanted to be the voices that helped start the movement. And maybe they will. Sitting listening to these 2-3 minute poems moved my inner being more than some sermons have. I was not alone.

After the poems were finished, and the night concluded we all went to chat. On our drive Steve was sharing how he was interning at a church in Oakland, and how he had just returned that day from a retreat with his pastor. This particular retreat was a gathering of many pastors and church leaders from major churches in northern California, Oregon and Washington. Steve talked about how much of conference bored him. He stated that there wasn’t a sermon he didn’t fall asleep in. He was talking about how it seemed that most of the leaders there just did not get the upcoming culture or the reality of postmodernism.

All of what Steve said I was listening to, but one statement struck me. In a moment of frustration he said, “I just spent four days on retreat with the leading pastors in the Northwest…I’m suppose to be inspired after something like that right? But none of them moved me as much as these poets did tonight – I’m ready to start the revolution after that.”

Why is it that true revolutionaries are rarely noted for what they are, or why is it that prophets are never really listened to. It’s no suprise that these prophets reside on the margins – speaking to an audience who long for something greater than what they’ve been made to settle for. It seems to have been this way for a long time though – the prophets speak, and the voice is not heard.

When we were in India Dr. Stroope would refrain, “What is India teaching you?” Mark also takes the same approach – he is always asking, “What is the city teaching you?” Last night the city was teaching me that the prophet still exists – but it is not always in the church. It is in the creation of the culture that is around it, if we will listen. It is in the creation’s art, its music, its movies, its paintings, its verse, its books, its poets. On this night I heard the prophets screaming for redemption, justice, understanding, and love. It was moving for us all…and for me, in the verse of these profane prophets…God was near.