A few parishioners didn’t appreciate
his pluck. At all. But most of us did,
once we got over the shock and slid
our butts out of pews. I didn’t hesitate.
After that hangdog year, I couldn’t wait
for the Holy Spirit party. Like a kid,
I skipped as the new priest skidded
on the polished chancel, then regained his gait.
They’ve never sung in a gospel meet,
I thought, never seen someone with twenty-
five years of spinal pain jump out of a wheelchair,
sprint around the auditorium right
into the preacher’s arms. A cognoscente
of Michals. We didn’t care.
The Michals despised us in their proud hearts
but we carried on. Instead of Latin,
isiZulu, instead of plainchant, house, in
the house of the Lord. What miserable farts –
we could have judged them for not taking part,
but we were having too much fun:
Jerusalem, on Christmas Eve, come down.
How unrestrained, the order of their hearts
poo-pooed the fusty ones, as we straightened
up our ephods. How’s that for a solemn
benediction? quipped the curate with a shrug.
It was all I could do not to hug
him as I tumbled into the street. Decorum
won out; besides, he looked concerned.
Concerned at blotting a two-millennia
copy-book with a song gone viral.
He needn’t have worried: All will be well,
as Julian of Norwich reminds us – a
funky line-dance before the altar
isn’t, rumors aside, the broad path to hell.
We haven’t lost our way, our spiritual
compass isn’t broken, our Father
understands we can’t be pious always,
doesn’t He? Even monks and nuns took up
the challenge, spilling out onto monastery
courtyards… From Zumba® in Melbourne suburbs
to shantytowns to beaches in Dubai,
we fell in Africa’s step.
Stepping out in African time, we nevertheless
surprised ourselves: Issa’s dewdrop world,
and yet… we clung, bonded as a Word,
an entity. We linked limbs, fire ants
acting elastically, flew as swallows
in arching murmuration, one bird,
differences suspended as we soared.
And then, sacred bread, we broke in pieces.
Now, in the brackish pond of January,
the newsletter confirms it: some found
our bold exuberance déplacé;
the expression of our joy un peu risqué
as though doctrinally it were not sound:
the Host had only just been put away.
The Host, thus put away, immobile but
not inert, till Wednesday’s adoration,
was (surely?) not offended; affection,
in its proper context, is incarnate –
we cannot show it otherwise. From that
monstrance window, The Unblinking Attention –
alas, no specific instruction.
I persevered, scrolled through the text: “In Lent,
a woven basket will be set in place
with colored paper flowers, where those
who wish to make amends can write the names
of others who have wronged them, to whom they offer grace;
by this, we hope to watch forgiveness bloom –
though how long for, God only knows.”
God only knows. Of course, I made that up –
my personal fail, certes, is cynicism.
What kind of newbie fosters schisms?
I’ll bet my own initials soon pop up
on various frail petals. A blip
on the radar, Protestantism
is difficult to shake, enthusiasm
overflows my hot Pentecostal cup.
The presbytery ladies smile but say
they couldn’t clap their hands, although
the trees and rocks will praise if we don’t dare.
They’re comfortable with cassocks, mass, liturgy,
Paschal Candles, a complex affair –
and who’s to rule such ritual should not be so?
Such ritual – in fact, I quite adore it.
Dismal classrooms swapped for stained glass windows,
incense, and medieval churches,
pilgrimages, mystic visions, a saint
on every corner. Out with Hillsong, in with quaint
refrains, Sanctus, choirboys, bellboys, statues
of the Virgin, orderly processions.
The common qualm is choosing where to sit.
Instinctively, I pick the left-hand aisle
(like this, I’m on His right, or so it seems),
third row from the front, end seat,
close to any action. This way, I’ll
be the first to join those flash mobs by the pulpit
that certain dull parishioners find extreme.