I estimate forty of us—
spread like thin gravy
over the dim sanctuary.
My own Baptist flock
honors the noontime
crucifixion, so tonight
my son and I are free
to join these Methodists
who have hired four
Gregorian chanters from
the Catholics up the road.
My son was attentive
at first, but is now
rifling through items
in the pew rack:
offering envelopes
prayer request cards
“What Methodists Believe”.
The tiny choir is giving it
their all with Dubois’
Christ, We Do All Adore Thee
but are hobbled
by a soprano whose high G
doesn’t quite clear the bar.
The man across the aisle
is fighting to keep awake,
his head swinging
like a censer.
What a pitiful clot
we are, curdling
beneath the cross.
We chant our confession:
We love darkness rather than light
and I reckon
my own brambly heart
as exhibit-A.
For on this night of nights,
as sorrow and love
flow mingled down,
I’m still fuming
at the seminarian who,
just yesterday,
misspelled “Maundy”
on our church marquee
and whom I (rightly)
castigated just before
the foot-washing.
Yet now,
in the cover
of this half-light,
the memory
of his wounded face
pierces me.
The choir is lumbering
through the Palestrina
Kyrie while the man
across the aisle
softly snores.