Gathering on a Sunday eve, the score
of seekers finds seats while trading stories
of battles fought and wounds endured before
the minister begins. Inventories

of sins committed are not asked for in
this sacred space. No flame is turned away
from divinity’s bonfire, but within
the blaze is rekindled so it convey

once again the light and love that smolders
in our hearts. Fingers plunk at out-of-tune
piano keys as wondrous grace shoulders
into awareness. For one hour immune

to the cruelties of the world, they cocoon
resting as the Christ-gaze of neighbor’s eye
reflects their shared pain. From mud and blood hewn
to emerge in beauty, able to fly

into another day. God’s veil stretched thin
by bread and wine, a glimpse of mystery
quickens Spirit. After last hymn has been
sung and last amen uttered, liturgy

slips into fried chicken, stewing crockpot,
and apple pie. From tattered cloth is weaved
community imperfect. We need not
score the gathering on a Sunday eve.

©2019 Kenneth W. Arthur