A Dirge for Aberdeen, the city of my childhood

 Hear this, as I take up for you a dirge, O my people

You have fallen, You will not rise again—

Rural America, town of Aberdeen.

She lies neglected on her land, there is none to raise her up.

The port city that was once thousands strong, full of ships and timber and fish

Has only hundreds left, with tent cities on her banks;

The one that had a thousand workers

Has only tens of unemployed left.

Thus says the Lord to the town of Aberdeen,

Seek for hope, that you may live.

But do not resort to methamphetamines

Or come to crack houses

Nor place yourselves at the mercy of drug lords

For the DEA will certainly take you captive

And the poor will come to jail.

Seek for hope, that you may live

Or the wind will pass over and you will be no more

It will blow over a desolate ruin.

Because of those who turned justice into profit

when they exploited workers to fell the giant forests

And then cast mercy from the earth

when they left them to starve when the forests were gone.

The one who made the wind and clouds

And sends the sun to restore the felled forests

Who deepens the shadows as new trees revive the land

Who calls the waves on the rocky shore

And crashes them on the rocks

The Lord is the one.

Who destroys the oppressor and the strong

So that destruction reaches the great cities who have extracted your wealth.

They hate the worker who speaks for his rights

They mock the simplicity of his words.

Therefore because they accumulate land and houses throughout the town

And impose heavy rent on the poor or leave them empty

Though they have beautiful condos and vacation rentals

They will not stay in them

They have preserved their vacation parks and well-kept forests

But they will not walk in them.

For I know their transgressions are many and their sins are great,

They who profited off of the labor of your forest workers

But walk past them now as they beg in the streets.

At a time like this, we can only keep silent, for it is an evil time.

Seek out the impoverished worker and not your luxury, that you may live

Then the Lord will be with you as you ask.

Hate neglect, love action

And establish justice for the small rural towns.

Perhaps the Lord may be gracious to the remnant that is left.

Therefore, thus says the Lord,

There is weeping in the city parks and in Wal-Mart parking lots,

 and in the streets people cry; “We are screwed.”

The farmer whose land lies fallow is called to mourning

And the migrant worker who waits on the corner is called to lament.

And in the forests and tree farms there is wailing

For the work that sustained the community is at an end.

Alas, you who are waiting for the end times

For what purpose will the world end?

I hate, I reject your supercilious services

Nor do I delight in you sumptuous liturgies said within closed doors

Even though you offer up prayers and collects

I will not accept them

And I will not even look at the solemn processions of your services.

Take away from me the noise of your fancy songs

I do not care about the music of your thousand dollar organs.

Let justice come down to my people

Let mercy be found for my small towns.

In a seminary class last year, I was asked to rewrite a section of Amos for the audience of my choice. I wrote about the land and people where I come from, wondering what the words of the biblical prophets might be to them. This piece captures my love and sorrow for the places so close to my heart.