Elegy for an apologist

This is a little something that came to me some months ago. I couldn't have actually posted it on the occasion of anyone's death, devilishly tempting as that would be. But with gossip about the shake-up at FARMS making the electronic rounds, now seems like an apt time.

For the record: I recognize that whatever truth there is in the following coils back to rebuke me as well.

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ELEGY FOR AN APOLOGIST

What will you do with yourself

when you have passed the angels who stand as sentinels

to take up your eternal residence

in a realm where no apostates are admitted

and error is no more?

How will you pass the endless hours?

I see you sitting in a white-upholstered parlor

beneath a crystal chandelier,

head cradled in your hand,

staring wretchedly into space,

while all around you

saints converse in quiet whispers,

perfectly orthodox,

perfectly correlated.

How will you endure it?

Will you seek an audience with our Heavenly Parents

(through the proper channels, of course)—

request to be sent as a ministering angel

to some lower world

where you can serve

by waging intellectual battle

against heresies yet untrammeled?

Will Heavenly Mother take off her glasses

smile gently,

and say:

“---, dear,

we know you mean well,

but that isn’t what we had in mind

by ‘ministering.’”