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when they found the body gone,

      but the last pregnant day of possible,

      uterus of a new creation,

      cervix of eternal stone.

      Deep inside the shining darkness

      believing dies and trust, unborn,

      unknown and knowing, waits alone.

      Mr. H’s Ordination

      Do you trust in Jesus Christ your Savior, acknowledge him Lord of all and Head of the Church, and through him believe in one God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit?

      —the first question for ordination in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)

      Well, do you?

      It’s not a choosing, or a being chosen,

      not a choice but the end of choices.

      It’s the wild mounting desperation

      of holding your breath under water

      until the will submits, is overcome

      by the mindless lungs’ irrational demand.

      Even if it drowns you like a rat.

      Do you trust like that, Mr. H?

      Who cares a fig for Lords and Heads?

      This is existential, not ecclesial.

      We’re talking oxygen, on those days

      when a body’s desperate to breathe,

      days when everything comes crashing,

      when the sacred All-in-All amounts to nothing

      and Christ’s Body yields its neck to the guillotine.

      Do you trust when times are lean, Mr. H?

      Three in one and one in three: an axiom

      of theology. But the only Trinity

      we trust is world and death and fire

      (as often smothered as smoldering).

      In the pitch-black cave-dark, we intuit

      light. Reach out and touch the triune rock:

      creation’s basement, our prison, and reprieve.

      Is that what you believe, Mr. H?

      These skittish truths we harness to our stars

      come uneasily to words; they bolt

      like rabbits down a hole or flit

      like wrens to branches just beyond our reach.

      Best teach the tongue restraint and watch your feet

      along this darkling path we’re following.

      It’s easier to stumble than to rise.

      Will that suffice to make you wise, Mr. H?

      It Is No Small Thing

      It is no small thing to say

      god bless this our land.

      Blessing might well be

      curse when pronounced

      by the wrong god.

      It is no small thing to name

      the child, god-with-us.

      Like a gladius

      it cuts both ways

      when rightly swung.

      It is no small thing to cry

      Hosanna, when we

      can so rarely think

      of things from which

      we need saving.

      It is no small thing to claim

      he is risen when

      anyone can see

      the stone-sealed tomb

      is undisturbed.

      Compline

      To the star-flecked Darkness

      he said, for no apparent reason:

      I have nothing of any use

      to say.

      The night went on

      around him, solar winds

      chasing constellations through

      the corridors of shadow

      to obscure destinations.

      Aware of his irrelevance,

      he remembered fervent days

      when he prayed prayers

      that mattered, moved the world.

      But these night-winged words

      are just balloons inflated

      with helium-colored hopes,

      full of squeaky certainties;

      when they burst, as they will

      if ever they rise high enough,

      the Darkness laughs.

      He thought,

      maybe I make the Darkness

      laugh. At least that’s something,

      isn’t it?

      Gods of Small Things

      Let us be gods of small things,

      lords of mice and roaches,

      bastard sons and daughters

      of happy, smiling gods

      who bless their acolytes

      with touchdowns and close-in parking.

      Let us stand to the ends of things:

      parting notes of postludes

      in empty sanctuaries,

      apologetic exits

      whispered at the door,

      the echo of the deadbolt.

      Let us walk the hallways after

      light and hope burn out,

      read from silent liturgy

      prayers addressed to no one,

      hear from mislaid hymnals

      music no one sings.

      Let us raise the chain link fence,

      last fence around the Table

      that bars the way to all

      lest any come unworthy

      to take the meal, until

      the meal is taken from us.

      Let us be the wrecking-ball;

      swung from moral heights

      we bring down the house,

      then hang condemned when done,

      the evidence against us

      stone not left on stone.

      But let us be at last the rain

      that falls on wrack and ruin,

      washes out the stain

      —see, even now it falls—

      and waters wheat and vine

      and pools in broken fonts.

      A Prayer Before Advent

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