Poetry and Prose

A favorite poem of many is Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night.” Here is the poem.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The occasion was the dying of Dylan Thomas’ father. Mr. Thomas was angry with his father because he felt his father wasn’t trying hard enough to fight his oncoming demise. He wanted his father to fight against death. He didn’t want his father to die.

I get to where I want to scream this poem out to our churches today. So many seem to be laying down and letting the fog and darkness of cessation slowly envelope them. Perhaps like the accident victim who has suffered a trauma they are weak from the blows they’ve suffered and don’t realize they are slipping into unconsciousness and then death. The end descends peacefully upon them as the final breath is breathed.

Perhaps it’s weariness that is overwhelming these churches. It’s true it has been a long fight and here I do not mean the kind of fight where brother is pitted against brother. No, this fight is one where brother, and sister, stood alongside their sibling and contended against the forces of destruction that are increasing their attacks against our loved and their despised institution. The soldiers see the battle excruciatingly closely and sense the defeat coming. Their bones tired and their spirit disheartened they wait, very consciously, for the enemy to overrun their position and the only hope they have is that their post will not fall before they have passed so that they do not have to endure the defeat.

In either scenario the trauma victim nor the soldier realizes there are spectators and fellow soldiers screaming at them to continue the fight. Kindred spirits who have the additional grief of friends giving up the battle.

The semi-comatose have grown deaf to their band of brothers who are still in the fight. Perhaps in their semi-comatose state they derisively laugh at the foolishness of their companion's continued struggle against the dying of the light. “Enjoy sweet slumber,” they whisper.

So too the ones weary from battle suffer from limited vision. They cannot see the other troops waging battle successfully on the other side of the hill. Their reality is all that seems to exist. They slip into slumber not realizing that if battle tactics were changed the fight could turn. That if they would press on replacements and replenishment would arrive to sustain the post. If they would but receive current orders and not insist on outdated ones, the enemy could be defeated, and the townspeople saved. Faithfully and stubbornly, but foolishly they cling to outdated battle plans and ineffective missions.

In their depleted vision and memory, they do not see their leader advancing. They do not hear the words of encouragement that they are conquerors. They do not remember that the battle is won, that the enemy is defeated and that the attacks being lobbied are the death throes of the enemy not the successful advancement. If only their vision could be improved. If only their hearing were sharpened perhaps then their strength would return. Perhaps then they would not be nattering nabobs of negativity. Perhaps then the dimming of their eyes would see their city shining bright.

If only their faith in their leader could be renewed. If only their confidence in their commander could be restored. If they could realize their efforts are not in vain. If they could value saved lives more than their life’s comfort. Perhaps then the battle could turn. The commander continues to speak, He is ready to strengthen wobbly knees, He is ready with replenishing resources. His storehouses are not emptied but His laborers are few.

He's waiting to see if there is sufficient faith. He’s waiting to see if there are trustworthy individuals. He’s waiting to hear the shared call for help. He’s listening for unity. He’s waiting for the fervorous call and the submissive obedience. He’s waiting to hear the call for new orders and to have the confidence they will be followed.

Church – Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Your personal ending is not the end of all. Fight as long as you have life and help the rest to live!