Poem: Glossolalia

Glossolalia

 A sounding brass, a tinkling cymbal,

The tongues of men and of angels,

Un-understandable language

Sounding out its emptiness

To the Universe.

 

But it is a gift, this babel

Every bit as intelligible to

The Father as baby talk is

To the doting parents

Of the Universe.

 

We cry out, “Abba, Father!”

In a senseless reverie

Of intense meaninglessness

Glossing the emptiness

Of the Universe.

 

In hopes that He will

Hear our cry in all the

Emptiness of our existence

Building towers destroyed

By the Universe.

 

So that all we have left

Is this empty cry to

A father we hope will hear

Our meaninglessness

In the Universe.

 

A sounding brass, a tinkling cymbal,

The tongues of men and of angels

Interpreted by the I Am

Our very present help

In the Universe.

 

February 2022

 About This Poem

There is always controversy about religious practices and speaking in tongues (Glossolalia) is no different. It is not part of my religious tradition, but it is something that happens in Christian circles. This poem is my attempt to explain how it isn't necessarily that different from any other mutterings we do as humans, so do we really need to pretend people who speak in tongues are a little crazy (because if you've ever been to a service where it occurs you might feel a little uneasy...).