The Father of Lies

 by Brett Rutherford

1

A wrong deed
is almost always
self-evidently wrong.

A thing done
impulsively,
half-witted drunkenly,
or in a sudden rage,
burns on in the soul.

One may declare
that he has done this thing,
and, with an offering
be pardoned.

If others cry out
some inadvertent wrong,
faced with the truth
in clear light of day,
one can still make amends.

The lie is the father
of evil. The lie
denies the universe
its very existence.,
“I will” erasing
the ultimate “What Is.”

One kind of lie
denies a thing already done.
“I did not do this.
I have no idea who did.”

Another lie is a promise
one has no intention
of honoring, an oath
made in vain, a smile
concealing an adder’s tongue.

Another deceives:
sawdust in flour,
or chalk to whiten milk,
false medicine,
a thing so badly made
it will come asunder.

Another kind of lie
embellishes the self
at others’ cost. False
pedigree, a sham degree,
some claimed connection
to the wise and mighty,
or a private channel
to the thoughts of the Deity.

The father of lies
will assure you he is never wrong.

2

In Persia, among
its noble class, anyway,
the punishment for lying
was death, so high
was personal honor placed.

The Code of Hammurabi
enumerates
how lying itself
becomes the crime
of false witnessing.
Who lies under oath
accusing another
is severely punished.

One sees in Leviticus
that all manner lesser lies
can be obliterated
by public confession
and the gift of a bull
or a lamb or a goat,
a strangled turtledove,
or even a sack of flour.

The sons of Aaron
will attend to that.

But for the false witness,
a more profound justice
emerges.
He who accuses another
of law-breaking and crime —
if he be found a perjuror,
shall bear the same punishment
as though he had committed
himself the very crime
he accuses another of.

 

3

Words mattered once.
Once, unrepentant liars
were shunned, object
of scorn and ridicule.

And now? And now?
Father of lies,
     false witness,
           denier of all that is,
look where he sits!
No wonder we are going mad.

 

 

The Poor Man's Leviticus

by Brett Rutherford

1

The rich, when they want anything
blessed or approved — a deed,
the joining of two houses,
or a transgression forgiven,
dress up in all their finery
and make a show of it.

The rich man himself
rides humbly behind
the unspotted bull.
His steward goes first,
waving for all to see
the sun-bright blade
and the gilt handle
of the sacrificial knife.

Must he, the magnificent one,
once at the altar,
take up the knife? Must he,
with his own hand,
do the efficient thrust
that brings the bull bellowing
to its swift demise? Must he
with his own hands withdraw
the steaming entrails
for the burnt offering?

Who gets the rest of the cow?
What do the priests do
on days of hecatomb
with all that beef and bone?

Why is the One above
so fond of burning entrails?

One not so rich
may make an offering
according to his station.
One lamb,
unspotted, submissive,
is easy to lead
to the altar. One thrust
of a knife, and it is simply done.

Another man,
possessing some crag
or cranny with olive trees,
if he can corral a goat —
he too may make an offering
if that is what it takes
to amend his ways
or ask some boon of Heaven.
Leading a goat to altar
is no small feat, to be sure.
The effort counts for something.

Pity the townsman
who comes to Temple
with a clucking load
of hens in a basket.
He’s waved away
but then returns
with turtledove in hand.
The priest consents to watch
as he wrings its neck,
and, poor limp thing,
it is added to the pile.
Yet even he is blessed.

Woe to the poor,
who have no life to give up,
whose mouths groan out
in hunger all days
except the Sabbath.
Yet such a man,
if he have need
of the blessing of Heaven
will wend his way
to the smoking altar,
and take from his sack
one handful of grain.

Put to one side,
in shallow bowl reserved
for the poorest of the poor,
it is nonetheless weighed,
and counted, and credited.

 

2

Toppled and gone,
   the Temple is no more.
The priests, as a class,
     no longer exist;
heirs plying other trades
    still bear their names,
     the sons of Aaron.

If you, a stranger,
    and friendless, come
to this shining shore,

call first at the poor man’s house,
for there, from that last sack
of the grain of the fields,
a blessing a thousand times multiplied,
he will give you bread to eat.

 

3/12/2026