Show us the Father, you pled, And that will be enough for us. He looked into your eyes and, with All the gathering frustration of the teacher Who day after day is ignored, who teaches Quadratic equations that they be forgotten, Beats out iambic pentameters that They be lost in the drumming numbness of heads, Said: Philip, you see me. Whoever has seen Me has surely seen the Father. You looked back then with the blankness of one Who hears, and hears nothing. His words to you were a strange, stern dissonance: A voice without sense, barking orders that cut Right through the logic of numbers, Claiming, among other things, that Five loaves plus three fish made a feast. You heard the promise of his words to you all, Words swarming, coalescing in pictures: A mansion full to bursting with rooms, Places soon to be prepared at tables Full with the feast born of mustard seeds And all our nothing made wonderfully Everything in him. The promise beat into your blackboard-hard ears, You who then could not know or conceive Of the radical grace that would grab you, Emblazon you, sear your conscience and soul. But somewhere in the ether of noise and confusion You saw your reflection in his eyes fixed on you, And held in that mirror, these two blaring symbols: A cross bearing two loaves, And a basket, full to the brim with bread.