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Poem

For over a year quiet it lay,
the big gray stones in the walls
framing what seemed more
empty tomb than church--
the stained glass windows
did not sing out their beauty
for no one was there to hear...
well, God, as He's everywhere,
but not his priests, nor sextons
nor ushers, and no worshipers as 
they were all sheltering at home.

But isn't a church [or temple or
mosque] the home of believers?
Why did they all stay away when
the terrible storm plagued all 
parts of an unprepared world?
When Jesus slept in the boat
as a tempest plagued his men,
men who saw his work every day,
who knew his power, his other-
worldly love, his lonely communion
with his Father, yet still they feared,
like children terrified of the dark.

And then in their cowardice they
scolded Jesus for falling asleep!
For leaving them naked to the 
brutal wind and stinging rains...
and his heart must have cracked
a bit to see that his chosen ones
were still blind and deaf and dumb.

Yet our church, our lovely stone
church built in the Anglican style
of the last century when faith
was still central to most lives,
welcomed us, the handful or two
of mostly aging or old worshipers 
who came to talk to God as one,
to sing to God as a single voice,
to listen for His ever so quiet Word,
just a whisper, so easy to miss...

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