This afternoon, I attended the candlelight service at the West Cummington Church (congregationalist, I believe) in West Cummington, MA. This is the third or forth year I have attended this service, because either one or both of my children have sung in a school chorus that performs at this service (voluntarily, of course! Their school music director is the music director at this church...). It is a beautiful service, full of Jesus and full of Christ far more than I am usually comfortable with. But the minister has such a humble way about him. The small village church and his unassuming ways move me. This year, moved me to write this poem. -- KJ
Formidable, his voice booms
shoulders broad, jaw sturdy,
simple grey suit magnifies solid stature.
Yet his finger is bandaged
signaling translucent vulnerability,
his and our own.
He calls his compassion foolish &
invites us to join him.
Such gentle force straddling
earthly & godly realms.
In this church there is no scolding god
to fear, though Christ is everywhere.
No certainty in this message or
arrogance in the messenger.
He is of us, among us,
& his gift stands him apart
just enough
to ignite light.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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1 comment:
Your poem reminded me of a passage in Annie Dillard's book "Holy the Firm".
"...The higher Christian Churches---where if anywhere, I belong---come at God with an unwarranted air of professionalism, with authority and pomp, as though they knew what they were doing, as though people in themselves were an appropriate set of of creatures to have dealings with God. I often think of the set pieces of liturgy as certain words which people have successfully addressed to God without getting killed. In the high churches they saunter through the liturgy like Mohawks along a strand of scaffolding who have long since forgotten the danger. If God were to blast such a service to bits, the congregation would be, I believe, genuinely shocked. But in the low churches you expect it any minute. This is the beginning of wisdom."
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