Rachel Rising

	Rachel Rising
	A cycle of poems
	Dedicated Ash Wednesday 1997 to the One True God, whose words these are.
	© February 1997

Painting: "Reuben's Relation" by SONNAI FROCK-ROHRBECK

These words will be delivered as a sermon on March 29, 1998, at Pilgrim Congregational Church at Broadway East and East Republican in Seattle, Washington. If you are in the area, you are cordially invited to attend.

Introduction	V	XI
Prelude	VI	XII
I	VII	XIII
II	IIX	XIV (Finale)
III	IX	XV (Coda)
IV (Intermezzo)	X

Introduction

The intention of this cycle and the story that goes with it is to let people know that maniacs do exist, and do prey on vulnerable people. And, yes, that it could happen to you, whether you are male or female, if you allowed it . That, for me, was one of the most agonizing and frustrating aspects of the whole situation: that I, who was always considered "the strong one", could be vulnerable to an attack such as this one. Masterful, it was. The beast knew my weaknesses, knew what buttons to push, and pushed them expertly. He lied, and lied, and lied... Little by little, he caused me to doubt my own instincts, to second-guess my own insights, and finally, when it was almost too late for me to realize what had happened (I say "almost" because I did, in the end, get out), he had me fully isolated and silenced. And that was when he did his worst damage.

Possibly the entire story is too long to relate here. It happened over the space of a year, and I am still (and no doubt will for a long time) putting the pieces into place. There is much that I do not remember, because I was deprived of sleep, starved, tortured, and regularly beaten... one's memory tends to leave merciful holes. An outstanding therapist once told me that I had been a prisoner of war, and I suppose that is true. The man who did all this to me and others was himself the son of a Japanese man who had been placed in a concentration camp -- an American one! -- during World War II (our history is just as guilt-laden as Hitler's though we dislike to admit it). This poor man -- pity him -- was tortured himself, perhaps worse than the torture he heaped on me and others like me. Of course this does not excuse what he did, because we must all be responsible in the end for our own actions, despite what our courts say in these modern times. It does, however, offer some explanation for how it might have happened.

I still grapple with horrible memories, and fears not yet laid to rest. And anger. Blind, unthinking, fang-baring fury. But time passes, and memories fade, and it becomes part of who we are... I would not be who I am now, were it not for this journey through hell.

And now I have been given a moral imperative: you must be told. I cannot experience a journey such as that, and keep it to myself. You must be told. Were I to remain quiet, and not even try to save someone else from experiencing the same thing, I would be as guilty as he that did it to me. You must be told. The rest is up to you. For the knowledge that it can happen to you is for me the motivation for trying my best to prevent it from happening. If I can affect even one life, if I can touch someone enough for them to realize that there is life after hell, then I have done what God gave me to do. If I can do more, I will. You must be told. If I can help someone survive, if I can teach you that you can stand on your own again, I have done what God has given me to do.

I give these poems to the world. They are not mine, but God's, so it is not my right to benefit materially by them. Take them, read them, share them with friends you think might need them. Only remember that the story, allegory though it may be, happened to a real person, and continues to happen to other real people. I intend to make as public as possible the awareness that justice is not in there, in the courtrooms, but in your own heart. True justice is this: you can go through hell, come out the other side, and LIVE.

Prelude

I am not a poet.

I am not a playwright.

The story and the poems that go with it are very simply, the truth. This happened.

And I want to tell you the truth because the truth needs to be heard. Perhaps to prevent this experience from ever happening to you. Perhaps to help you free yourself if it is happening to you now. Perhaps to help you free someone else. Perhaps to teach you to have a sympathetic ear if you know someone who has been through a similar experience. Perhaps to prove that life is hard, but not impossible; bittersweet, not bitter.

My parents named me Rebecca, and God himself has named me Rachel, which in Hebrew means "Ewe", the female sheep.

And how is it that I can say that God has named me? Think of how Native American children are named: an adult meditates until the child’s name suggests itself by some sign. And when the child is raised to adulthood, he or she chooses a name, or it chooses itself based on that new adult’s personality. In Celtic tradition the name comes to the newly initiated adult during the initiation, from deep meditation. And in the Biblical tradition, God has renamed many of his chosen: Jacob, whom God named Israel... Simon, whom Jesus named Peter: "You are Peter, and upon this rock shall I build my church..."

And while I was writing the poems in this cycle, I was brought again and again to Rachel, until finally, in fitful sleep one night, after writing twelve of the fifteen in a blind and senseless frenzy, I dreamed that I was singing the "Agnus Dei", which in Latin is the prayer to the "Lamb of God", and woke up in tears in the middle of the night.

I think I have been Rachel for a long time. But that is another story.

In all cultures, through all times, there is a myth which describes a descent into hell (by whatever name) as experienced by the hero (by whatever name).

Hell itself has many names and many descriptions, many moods, all of them dark. One common element runs through all of these hells: humanity. It is part of us, as necessary to our growth as the light of hope and heaven is. It generally involves the facing of one’s own potential for evil.

Something else these mythical stories of hell have in common: redemption.

The darkness is not total.

As we begin with hope, so can we end with hope; perhaps more hope than when we started this journey, for with the ascent out of hell comes awareness of our own strength, and clearer vision of our destiny. We face our own evil, and embrace it; aware of it, we turn it to good if we can.

For me, and many others – dare I include myself in the same company as Jesus himself? -- the ascent out of hell has also meant a constant reminder of God’s presence and mercy.

Sorry if this talk of redemption and all these other so-called Christian terms offends. Call God whatever you need in your own mind. If you do not believe in God at all, may I suggest looking at a sunrise?

Look, for a good long time.

Watch, as the rising sun turns the night sky gradually from deepest black to that rich, infinite indigo, and from there to deep gray. And from gray – keep watching! -- it explodes into red, and gold, and pink, and pale blue, and so much more...

Is not God the greatest artist, whom our own greatest artists can only imitate in the smallest measure?

But I do not wish to proselytize, but to tell you a modern tale of hell and damnation.

And redemption.

And although these words came from my pen, the hand that moved the pen was not always completely in my control. Call it inspiration, call it divine intervention, call a creative flood... these words were not always mine.

Ah, there is music!

To open one’s mouth

In praise of... anything...

To utter the sounds

That describe one’s soul

When words fail.

That is God’s gift to us.

To open one’s mouth

In keening sorrow

To utter the bleak places

To sing the screaming in us

When screaming will not do

That is God’s gift.

The descent into hell began

When I forgot what music was.

The devil came to me one day, and said

"sing for me"

I sang because I love to sing.

The devil heard my voice, and in it the

promise that God made to me

And the devil made a promise of his own.

The same promise he has given for time

out of time.

Riches, and fame, and all those things

which strike some ill-begotten note in us.

These things which seem to call to us.

"Just this once."

"It will do not harm."

But what the devil was promising was

to destroy God’s promise.

III

In the heart of darkness

When there exists nothing

But shadow

And sorrow

When what you see

Is what you must believe

Because it is all you have

When the devil,

By whatever name,

Has finally convinced you

That God is dead, and music is meaningless

You are in Hell.

IV (Intermezzo)

Close your eyes my sparrow.

Do not cry any more

Look out over the water

And watch the waves crash to the shore

Then smile and feel the rhythm

Of the wind that blows before you,

Then turn to me for comfort

And do not cry any more.

I will sing to you,

I will open up my mouth and

Pour out the contents of my heart

I will sing to you,

I will sing to you, O.

And if you feel sorrow

And need someone to care for you

I hope you will learn from me

That I am always there for you

In your darkest hour,

Your burdens will I take for you

My lantern I shall lift

And light the path I make for you

And

I will sing to you,

I will open up my mouth and

Pour out the sorrow in my heart

I will sing to you

I will sing to you, O.

Now lift your eyes from darkness

And place your foot upon the road

Take my hand and walk with me

Come and let me share your load

Sing with me in joy

And feel the wind that blows before you

Turn to me for comfort

And do not cry any more.

I will sing to you,

I will open up my mouth and

pour out the joy in my heart

I will sing to you,

I will sing to you, O.

But that was one voice,

singing alone,

Outside of the nearer insanity of voices

Babbling, chittering,

Screaming, laughing,

There beside me in the darkness of hell.

The devil still stood beside me

And whispered lies in my ears.

The Prince of Lies.

Giving with his words

And taking with his hands

Giving with his hands

And taking with his words.

Giving once

Taking twice

Taking thrice

Taking

If I am to die today,

If this is my appointed hour,

I wonder:

Will God still be watching?

Or has he truly turned his back,

Giving me up for lost

Dr. Faustus, I know your dilemma:

When the devil has been at you,

You trust no one.

Not even God.

VII

There!

A beacon of light,

A needle,

A shaft.

Do I imagine it?

Have my eyes

Succumbed to lies

As well?

No!

There is another.

Even in the pit

The darkness is not total.

There is a single,

narrow path.

Is that it?

Or has the Prince of Lies

been up to his tricks again?

Creating hope where there

can be no hope.

Allowing belief

and then destroying it.

I will watch some more.

IIX

Send your mother away,

said he.

Do not speak to your father,

said he.

You can trust no one, he said,

but me.

I will protect you,

said he.

You are only safe in darkness,

said he.

You cannot leave now, he snarled.

You

owe

The time has come to leave this place

Truth has defeated the dark one again

His true nature is revealed

His words become nothing

The laugh of a hyena

The mindless cackle of a toothless beggar.

But fear remains,

A subtle companion.

Bury me, Lord, as you yourself were buried.

For three days let him think me gone

Until freedom becomes a habit

And terror only a dark memory;

Then shall I stand in sunlight,

The only shadow the shade of your wings.

For he remains

Lurking, brooding.

He conspires in his darkness, his sunless cavern

Trying even now to lay a trap

Which would shutter in shadow all that is good.

Scheming, twisting;

This time he has failed.

This time

But still the devil followed me

With claws around my throat

There, in summer sun

I read the contract that he wrote

My heart was frozen hard in fear

Again he showed his skill:

"I own those things you hold most dear,

to do with as I will."

Then opened I my mouth to sing

Alone beside the water

And still he sniggered in my soul

"But you are Satan’s daughter."

That quiet voice, that vicious whisper

Echoed, sneaking, in my head;

Where once I sang the angels’ songs

Now croaked the voice of the dead.

"Thief," cried I, "I want it back!"

But Thief would only mutter.

He said, "Come take it if you can!

I’ll destroy each note you utter."

I held the contract in the sun

And prayed that God would take it,

But Satan said, "You broke God’s gift

And you cannot remake it."

I took a breath to sing again,

To shut out Satan’s words;

And from my own mouth came a voice

Which only once I’d heard...

... I will sing to you

I will open up my mouth

And pour out the sorrow in my heart.

I will sing to you,

I will sing to you, O.

XII

Last night I had a dream:

I lived in an old house

On a graceful old hill

Overlooking a graceful old city.

My friend and I raced

Through all the rooms

Opening up doors and windows

To let in as much light as we could.

At the top of this house was a door

That led to the roof

Where we could sit and drink coffee,

Where we could watch the sun set

From the graceful old hill

Overlooking the graceful old city.

Exploring further

I followed steps down to a mysterious corner

Where a mysterious door,

Dust-covered, unused,

Nearly rusted shut,

Beckoned to be opened.

"Another door!"

thought I.

"Perhaps there is more light behind it."

I opened the mysterious door

To a great old dusty space

Which – better and better! --

Opened onto a dusty tiled terrace.

There was more light

Here in this mysterious hidden room.

And, o! when I took a broom

To sweep away the dust

From this long-forgotten room

I found

His severed head

XIII

Now face the east

Stand in the light of

the rising sun

And know the peace

of morning

The coming of a new day

Joy in potential

Not sorrow at endings

Avalon lies west

And it is too soon to go there

That is for the ending of your days

And not before

Now is the time to

Look for new things

To inhale the scent of spring

To cast off the pall

Of darkness

Open your arms to the warmth

Of a new day.

XIV (Finale)

Ah, there is music!

I open my mouth

In praise of... everything...

I utter the sounds

That describe my soul

Where words fail.

This is my offering to God.

I open my mouth

In keening sorrow

And utter the bleak places

I sing the screaming in me

when screaming will not do

This is my offering.

The descent into hell is over

I remember what music is

And I am come home.

XV (Coda)

Why do you wear these scars?

Because the devil touched me

And I lived to tell the tale.

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Introduction