Whom God Has Given Faith Poem by Gary Witt

Talk to those whom God has given faith.
Ask them when they knew this gift was theirs.
One will say a gentle, graceful touch
Warmed her shoulder, then her soul;
Another heard a calm, sure voice within,
Or felt a steering column fold in half.
He has cast aside a metal halo,
While she with arms outstretched
Embraced and smothered cancer.

Ask then ourselves why we believe,
Not once or twice, but seven times seventy,
Drilling down through strata of because,
Daring to open wounds of why,
Peeling back the onion skin of conviction,
Weeping if we must, as layer by layer
We ask each separate, corrosive question.
The answer will come:
We have been chosen, or else...
Lacking that singular anointing we see
There is no other hope or comfort in this world.

This godless world seems sad and alone,
Governed by the sublime mathematics of chance,
The chemistry of chaos that daily spills
From the sun’s golden chalice upon lips
Thirsting for holy certainty, love, and guilt.

This godless world dreams not of power,
But merely imposes her will;
Knows neither right nor wrong,
So offers no shame,
Seeks no redress, renders no judgment,
Favors no cause, is loyal to none—
Save probability, her only son.
As a die repeatedly cast
Will find all permutations, so
Eternal forgiveness and rest
Are found in the arms of her infinite space.

Talk to one secure in God’s care.
Ask him of God’s glory and His plan.
He will speak of heaven and its body:
Time is the skeleton, space the flesh,
And we the corpuscles that feed God’s heart,
The electrons coursing through His brain,
The bile of God’s righteous bitterness.

These judgments we make
Both for and against
Are every day based
On the smudged contents
Of a swatch of parchment
Read by bearded men in solemn robes
Who say, 'Be thou therefore thankful
For the beating thou didst not receive.'

Who then shall be my God?
Whence does he come, whom does he love?
Will he speak in tirades or whispers,
Has he called his children to war today,
Inciting them on to commanded dispute
With another god, another country?

Do his children know his will so well
That they take up arms to erase
The mistakes of another,
More careless creator
Now redoubtably angry at his clay?

Is the blanket of his comfort so meager that,
Shared, it leaves the feet of some
Uncovered and cold in the grey, whirling dusk?

I have prayed without response
Save the quiet motion of the planets;
I have meditated, serene
Before the slow rhythm of the sea.
And now, assured as one
To whom no god has spoken,
I listen still, and resolve to steal
Solace from silence,
Comfort from chaos,
And hope
From the sublime mathematics of chance.