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
inhospitable

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

places.

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.