Like many today, I practice my faith privately,
I go to the church of Shell Beach, Hart Lake, and Slack Point.
I’m greeted by sister Maple, and cousin Douglas,
and by a small but wondrous, assembly of Arbutus.
I have kneeled in moss among sword ferns and lifted my eyes
to the conifer boughs, through to the greenish blue of a patterned sky,
and said, aloud, the heavens declare the glory of God, and felt
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.
For we are made, I have read, not much inferior to the angels,
which gives one hope, yet I fear that that distance
is greater 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 context is ignored.
As context calls for time, and a breath of humility,
to see one’s self from a distance, as one among many.
And in that distance, I hear the bells in steeples,
calling me to quit the forests, lakes and beaches,
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, discretely drawn, to follow Mary Magdalene,
to that ancient tomb, and wait for the unknown gardener,
to speak our names.
Whether on the beach, in the forest or in an actual church, may you experience the Divine today.
Thank you, Don!
… and wait for the unknown gardener
Gorgeous as always!
Thanks so much, Laurie!
This is beautiful Stephen.
Thank you, kind, Diane!
So moving, Stephen. Reading your words is like looking into a mirror, showing me the best and worst parts of myself and the longing to be tended by that unknown gardener, myself. Thank you.
That means a lot to me, Ann. Thank you!
Thank you for these relatable words, Stephen. I often feel closer to the Divine when I attend nature’s cathedral too, yet He calls us to “reenter the splintered community of souls”. Ours was only a community of nine this morning, while the world careened past our door. The unknown gardener tends this small patch of faithfuls, so why should I lose heart?
I used to live near that abandoned stone church on Tzouhalem Road. I miss the arbutus trees and the ocean. Now I breathe in golden wheat dust under vast prairie skies … another kind of cathedral.
Your poems and prose swell my heart. Thanks for writing as you do.
Thank you for this wonderful response, Valerie. I was raised on the prairies and know the wheat dust, and the vast skies, another kind of beauty, “another kind of cathedral” indeed. Thank you for reading and for your kindness.
So many times I’ve been tempted to abandon that “splintered community,” but He just won’t let me. I’m reminded of a friend who stayed in a difficult community not at all to his liking and when he begged God to let him leave he always got the same answer – “you don’t love them enough, yet.”
Thanks for this Marcia. I think that sometimes, and for some, leaving may be necessary, and for others, like your friend, the apprenticeship of mercy is not yet complete (if that’s even possible).
Thanks for this profoundest of your pieces.
I keep hanging with the splintered community of souls…. somehow feel a sense of belonging….
And all the other members also have names called and waiting to be heard…
The voice that calls one out – church: ekklesia, the called out ones.
Thank you for this, Sam. Your witness, is far reaching.
‘The splintered community of souls’, that feels right and just a touch hopeful. If only we could see that we, each of us, are splintered we might find the divine right there among us. All in need of mercy.
Thank you for using your beautiful words to bless and challenge.
Thank you, Sue, for your insight, and kindness.