The Uneven

Even the holy seems to come out uneven.
At the close of communion, there is extra;
Not exactly God's abundance, but more than enough.
Bread ripped into fingertip bites;
Jesus leftover.
And I must take some of the blood also
To wash down the dry and crumbling body
And still speak out to the crowd.
It takes some Jesus to swallow Jesus;
More in the mouth to digest the sacrifice.
But not too much
Since the blood makes me light-headed
And sleepy.
So some of the wine remains to be poured into the ground.
And the earth communes also.
Who communes and consumes?
Who is fed?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Even the uneven is feast.

Here's a few more pictures to meditate on from the stained glass at Christ Church. See the post for March 13 for more a poem to help oil your spiritual wheels.

I led a short, quiet Lenten retreat this past Saturday called "Light in Lent." We looked at the light in the beautiful stained glass windows in Christ Church, Smithfield. Below is a poem about my experience with the light and the glass.

Stained glass.

Playful brokenness.

Impure glory.

Windows that do not allow us to see out

But call us within and beyond.

The reds in Jesus' robe don't match,

But drape in beauty.

The cobalt blue background around the pillars

Is so bold that the pillars themselves recede in weakness.

So many painted eyes looking, searching you,

As though you were a window too.

So many feet and toes to remind us of our humanness

And glory in our bodies.

The emerald leaves over there seem to move

On a distant breeze not of this world

Or with divine breath.

Light speaks, sings a symphony.

Word glows with emanating power.

Truth lies

Mysterious

In the communion

Of the broken

Glass.