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What if all the great ones were imperfect:
the Jesus who spent his last night in terror
and crying, “Could you not stay awake with me
for one hour” to disciples nodding out on wine?
The Buddha, who from excess in the palace
to austerity in the woods
comes back to center and holds all:
“I am awake,” he said and never did he say perfect.
In fact what if God herself were imperfect
and depended on our longing to be whole,
to make some sense of this bittersweet
we’ve been given. Could we not
stumble better together through the briars?
copyright 2015 by Doug Anderson