Diné Deliverance

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Loren was a member of the Navaho nation, otherwise called Diné by those who are members. He was a frequent visitor to the church I served in Albuquerque. I think he was unhoused, though he may have had minimal shelter somewhere. He would usually have a piece of cardboard on which he had drawn stylized symbols combining Native American symbols like an eagle feather with Hallmark card art like a valentine heart. He sometimes wanted to talk, but he usually just wanted to sell his art for $5 and leave. 

One Sunday he came by the church five minutes before worship started. I was already robed and at the door greeting arriving church members and guests. He came and wanted to talk. I apologized that I couldn't at the moment, but I invited him to either join us for worship or go back to the reception area and have a cup of coffee and a cookie. He grew angry that I couldn't talk right then, so he started yelling, "Fuck Jesus! Fuck Jesus!" I couldn't reflect on the content of his message at the moment, but ushered him away and down the sidewalk as quickly as possible. Recently, however, with time and distance, I have been able to speculate about the content of his message and what he might have been trying to say.

This poem, Diné Deliverance, was published on September 20, 2023 on the Literary Heist online literary review.

https://www.literaryheist.com/poetry/dine-deliverance/

 

Diné Deliverance

“Fuck Jesus! Fuuuck Jeeesus!” Loren spews
his Diné fury calling the congregation to
nervous worship, spilling the anguish of
too many years walking ashamed
in the Anglo’s shadow.

He has come today to take us to church.
He won’t abide our hiding behind
a blonde, blue-eyed Jesus again.
“Fuck that guy!” He slurs and lurches
to clutch my arm and make his point.

“White Jesus,” he says, “Is a rickety
prop. What about your pale skin makes
you think you’re special? This lie
gives rise to unholy practice and
then it collapses from lack of heart.”

Hitching his pants, he squints one eye, and
points a finger to the far horizon.
“Hózhó,” He says.
“Walk with me in beauty. Forget duty.
Forget privilege. Forget the blessing

you hope to wring from a disapproving
Father. Your skin is thin and could be
thicker. Your vibe is winter to the seed that
needs it warm to grow. Let it go.
For fuck’s sake, let it go.”


 

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