Sunday, July 14, 2013

First Day of the Week

I don't need a greeter
obligated by duty
handing me a bulletin -
proof positive
that visitors are
welcomed to this
business institution.

The microphoned
message is recorded, then 
podcast to the masses 
who don't listen. They
already know more about 
what's being taught
 than they know
 what to do with.
 It hurts my ears.

 I can't hear the voices
singing next to me 
because the music
 coming through speakers
drowns them out. It's like
a staged concert that
leaves the participants
stymied, mere spectators 
 confused about when
to repeat and repeat
words supposed to get
 the spirit roused enough 
to do some mighty work like
redecorate the sanctuary
or trade the empty pews
for comfy chairs. I don't
want forced to stand and
raise my hands by a worship 
minister who thinks that what
he's suggesting is the
best way to usher
our hearts into sacred

I want to break bread
at my own table and pass
it to you - so you and the
person sitting next to you
have the chance to give and
receive from each other - 
maybe touch hands, 
whisper, smile, or
graze shoulders -
until it comes back
around to rest
 waiting empty
in the quiet middle.

I want to fill your glass
more than once
with sweet wine - 
tilting the sharp,
flat world
soft and round again.
I want to hear
why the tears fell last week
and listen while you share
 the blessings 
that rained down upon you 
in spite of them.

Let's gather round the piano
with the poet's smoldering pipe
smoke curling us together
as we sing four part harmony
into each other's lives.

Let's hold each other's
aching, full hearts tenderly -
and laugh at how futile it is 
to try to do anything
other than
be the beloved.