In Terris Sicut In Caelis

Chased into the church by the storm

I walk into the empty, dusty spaces

And breathe in the smell of wood and candle smoke

The evening service has long since past

And everyone,

including God,

has gone home to rest

bells and hymns ringing in their ears

like so many whispers of ghosts.

~*~*~*~

I, too, wish to go home

But the storm doesn't care much

what I wish for

so I'm stuck here for a few minutes at least.

I bow my head to the virgin

but she only has eyes for the smiling infant on her lap,

plaster halo around his head and a blue swaddling sheet

strategically placed, of course.

Briefly I wonder if Jesus ever soiled his diaper when he was a baby

but soon discarded this idea as too ridiculous to even think about.

The statue of John the Baptist looks at me disapprovingly.

I stick my tongue out at him and then feel silly.

~*~*~*~

Stained glass windows stretch towards the rafters,

Displaying every martyred saint

In gruesome detail,

A spear through the belly,

Twenty arrows through the chest,

Torn apart by lions,

Each with a right of light around their contorted, anguished faces.

~*~*~*~

Their tortured faith is horrifying to behold.

And yet I find that I am more comfortable with them

Then with the marble angels that stand at attention

Along the outside rows of wooden benches,

Their skin smooth and cold as frost,

Enclosing,

Capturing,

Never giving their secrets away.

Their white gowns glow sickly in the darkness.

I look at them and curse their perfect bodies

Which are made of pure intellect and reason

And hold no passion, no fire, no spark,

The closed, bow-shaped lips that imply

That if you were to ask them 'why?'

They would say back to you 'because'

and nothing else.

~*~*~*~

Sister Bethany always said

That when the heavenly choir sang

God listened and nature wept

Or maybe nature listened and God wept

Either way it makes no difference

To those of us down here

who are singing songs we don't know the words to.

~*~*~*~

I envy the angles

Who only have to open their mouths

To command the attention of heaven and earth

While those of us here,

In the mud,

Must be shot full of arrows for our halos

And have to pause to breathe between the hallelujahs.