When I don’t even know my full place in the problem
I hold a space for quiet, humbled listening.
I tune my ears to the persecuted poor in spirit
and hear the cries of the kingdom of heaven.
I hold a space for lament.
There among the bruised and beat down
is one who kneels to breathe peace
even as he overturns the tables of privileged profiteers.
Can we look through his tears
and see the painful truths of our whitewashed sepulchres?
