Church

Like many today, I practice my faith naturally; 
quietly, I step outside and enter the book of nature, the first book.
I go to the church of Bow River, Elbow Falls, Big Hill Springs;
I’m greeted by sister Willow, cousin Maple, and brother Balsam,
and by a trembling but wondrous assembly of Aspen.

I kneel in moss among the northern ferns and lift my eyes
to the conifer boughs, through to the greenish blue of a patterned sky,
and say, aloud, the heavens declare the glory of God, and feel
the presence of Love, the Christ, the Holy Spirit, the Sacred Heart.

Despite all this notable company,
I don’t look for greatness in myself; how can I?
but simply, for a generosity of heart, a surrendering soul,
for it strikes me that the Creator of all this beauty, has added to me, 
the gift of beauty’s apprehension, and in some inscrutable way
sits with me — enjoys it all, with me.

We are made, I have read, not much inferior to the angels,
which gives one hope, yet I fear that too often, that not-much
is further than my will with its hidden desires.

It cuts me quick and lays me open, 
that gospel of peace,
and forgiveness.

And I see, behind a heavy veil, within myself, there lies
a kind of malignancy that darkly delights
in whatever news confirms my prejudice —
that hollow height, that, like hatred,
can only thrive when stories and contexts are ignored.

As context calls for reflection, and a breath of humility,
to see oneself at a distance
as one among many.

And in that distance, I hear the bells in steeples,
calling me to quit the forests, lakes, and rivers,
and reenter the splintered community of souls,

where, Mary and task-full Martha, Judas and cunning Caiaphas,
the wasted prodigal, the jealous elder, the fine Samaritan,
ruthless Herod, hand-washing Pilate, Peter and the struck-blind Saul,
are all, well represented in the local parish.

And all of us, discreetely drawn to follow Mary Magdalene,
to that ancient tomb, and wait for the unknown gardener
to speak our names.

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