I read a poem at a poetry slam once. The slam was held every other Thursday at a coffee shop that called itself the Magic Bean. Everyone else called it the Tragic Bean. Their coffee was awful. The magic was allegedly in their brownies, if you get my drift.
When it came time for the slam, everyone went outside, walked around to the back of the building, climbed up a flight of stairs, and stooped into a poorly lit attic where tiny desks--purloined from a university dumpster--were set up in front of a small stage. The rule of the slam was given by the event’s host: “The only rule is no props.”
When my turn came, I read my vivid and well-written poem about a butcher who killed and chopped up his own dog rather than punishing the pack. It was a metaphor. I hoped my poem was interesting enough to keep the judges’ attention; my presentation was boring.
One of the better slammers stomped around the stage in a circle with the rhythm of his poem. The audience was roaring with laughter while he huffed and puffed and stomped and tripped and tried not to burst out in laughter himself, all the while reading his poem, which I believe had several "Star Wars" references in it.
The last poet started his presentation by lighting a cigarette. Between lines of a poem about how great it is to smoke, he took long drags on his cigarette:
“It’s been a rough day.”
A long drag on the cigarette followed by a long, slow release of his indrawn breath.
“I need to relax.”
Another slow, deep puff on the cigarette.
“They say smokin’ ain’t good for you.”
Again with the cigarette.
“I don’t care.”
A final, longer drag on the cigarette and a longer, slower release of breath amid wild cheers from the crowd.
He was the only poet to break the only rule in the slam, and he won it.
I mentioned that my poem was a metaphor. It is probably obvious that it was a metaphor for Christ’s death on the cross. Writing that poem, and even reading it in that attic, were acts of worship. The other poets--and most of the audience at that slam--were worshiping, too. They cheered the smoking poem because it was about breaking the rules. It was about independence and self-idolization. That poem meant that they didn’t have to answer to anyone but themselves. As DA Carson would say, each of them had placed him or herself on God’s throne, which is the definition of idolatry.
Not every poem has to be about God in order for God to be happy with it, but every act--especially every creative act--worships something. Every poet, every musician, every painter, every athlete, is trying to please someone, whether that someone is a beautiful woman, a friend, a parent, or one’s self. If you act to please someone else, you have placed that person on God’s throne, and your creative acts are acts of worship toward someone that is not God. Everyone worships someone.
