How is Church? (poem)

I grew up sitting on a

polished bench- shiny but hard.

Lights lower than the preacher’s

voice. Church was a mixed-up thing.

How is it a hospital

can, now and then, wound you worse?

And a garden can sometimes

toss you out like you’re a weed?

Not always - often enough -

the Beatitudes weren’t read

aloud. Instead: new crusades

and endless building campaigns.

How is it that sacred didn’t

mean set apart as much as

it meant isolated and

afraid – a new golden calf.

Every so often- at least

often enough- something might

happen. The miraculous?

Where small ones became vital.

How is it that this thing, or

place, or people -depending

on how you look at it- goes

on, with so many trying

to tear it apart from the

inside. Always the inside.

Like a black hole swallowing

itself. How does that make sense?

How is it? It’s usually

good. Sometimes lovely. When a

hospital digs a garden

for sick flowers to flourish.

BH