Church Shopping

Today we went back to the Episcopalian Church. There's something comforting and safe about it. I love the high, vaulted ceilings, and the long aisle. I imagine many people can't relate to the high-church liturgy, but there is something that arouses awe in me in the dance of liturgy; the hand motions, the gestures, the raising of the Bible over the acolytes head, the kissing of the Gospel page upon reading. The tone of the bell echoed through the dark wood and stone sanctuary after the words of Jesus at the Last Supper were remembered out loud.

I had to smile at the layperson who read the Epistle lesson while balancing a toddler on her hip, or the woman who sat next to be wearing a wide-rimmed hat with black feathers that was a stark contrast to her snow-white hair. She was... elegant. In front of me sat a long-haired man with a bald spot, wearing a worn-out Harley Davidson T-shirt and jeans, escorting his elderly mother. He knelt in reverence during the prayers and bent his knee upon entering the pew. There is holiness in all of us.
I watched the young kids come back from receiving communion, some of them sucking the wine out of the wafer, others slipping the styrofoam-tasting wafer into their jeans pocket. There was a small child chewing and chewing, trying to get it down, wincing, I imagine, at the sour taste of the wine.

But most of all I loved the music. Pipe organ music that reverberates throughtout the atmosphere. It reminded me of my childhood, where our church had a German-made organ built by the very designers. They lived in the church basement for 3 months building that organ into our balcony. I remember as a little kid hearing that music as it shook the floor beneath my feet, and vibrated in my chest. Other times I got to be in the balcony and see our organist wrestle with the musical beast, using both hands and both feet to orchestrate the music within the many pipes.

There is something of a mystic in me, perhaps it's the poet in me as well. I love mystery and magic. I love reverence and holy, standing before what is bigger than me. It reminds me of when I got to be in the new Coventry Cathedral in England and standing before the massive tapestry of Jesus on his throne with the cherubim and seraphim at his head and feet. "In the year that King Uzziah died,..."

It's nothing short of a miracle that my heart can be stirred in church. My heart is still crushed. Broken. Tentative to approach. But in the sounds, smells, touches and tastes of the holy today I was comforted and reminded by the prophet Zephaniah, "I will bring you home."

It is Advent. There is hope. Anticipation. Expectation. And lots of surprises.

I'm From New Jersey

I’m from New Jersey
the Turnpike
Garden State Parkway
the Pine Barrens
and Jersey Shore
I’m from Bruce’s state
Asbury Park
Sandy Hook
Ocean City
Across the River
from Philadelphia
West of New York City

I’m from Rollo and Margaret
British India
and Southern Mississippi
tea in the afternoon
and black-eyed peas
for supper
I’m from Homecoming picnics
after church
picnic tables on the edge of the graveyard
fried chicken
and okra
mountains of potato salad
and slabs of cornbread
pasted with butter
I’m from man-made fishing holes
and water snakes
I’m from sticky humid
country walks
dirt roads and dairy farms
Malcolm’s General Store
Coca Cola in glass bottles
redeemed for a dime
and fried catfish

I’m from mystery places
in a different land
banana trees and mango trees
cows walking the streets
too sacred to eat
cobras serenaded out
of baskets
marble temples
built for dead queens
wonders of the world
children begging in the streets
men and women
bartering in the marketplace
women in saris
red dots marking their foreheads

I’m from ancient
I’m from new
I’m from places
wanting independence
I’m from farmers and
ministers
homemakers and teachers
I’m from fundamentalists
and liberals
Baptists and Methodists

I’m from New Jersey
sand in my shoes
the smell of the sea
the crashing of waves
cotton candy melting
on my tongue
reduced to gritty sugar
salt water taffy
and hoagies
splinters in my feet
from the boardwalk
I’m from crowds
of people
six-lane highways
mulit-ethnic populations
at rest stops
the hum of various languages
the rainbow
of mixed cultures
together yet separate

I’m from New York’s
suburbs
refineries and trains
corporate villages
and business suits
road rage
where The Finger
is an official hand signal of the culture

I’m from New Jersey
Garden State
the Eastern Shore
right in view
of
Lady Liberty.

pmr 12/6/09

birthing

the first stirrings deep in
my middle

took my breath away

live person
inside of me

growing

then kicking
you’ve always hated
being hemmed in

one day there was blood
doctor casual

“might be a miscarriage”

as if my world wouldn’t
shatter
my heart cease beating with yours

as if

I hadn’t already
claimed you
named you
planned the party

you continued to grow
past that brief
near-tragedy

you stretched my skin
stretched my vision
scarring me forever with life

you arrived early
interrupting dinner out
gray and bloody

entering strong
demanding and giving

life

pmr

Church

“why toss a bird in the sky
& not allow her to fly?”
-Matthew Shenoda, Countryside

you did it
you prepared the ground
planted the seeds
watered them
with music, spirit, prayers
there was wine
there was bread
the smell of sulphur
just after the lighting of the candles

touch
taste
velvet red cushions
under my knees
symbols in rainbow colors
around my neck
you
were home, my Garden
birth and death
water and blood
ashes to ashes
palm-branch crosses
pollen-saturated altars
at resurrection sunrise

you made me fall in love
you gave me a floor to dance
find my voice

yet when I started to soar
you clipped my wings
knocked me out of the sky

but now I know the rhythm of the wind
and I will find a new way to fly.




pmr