While we grieve our closed churches

While we grieve our closed churches

I wonder if, maybe,

Just maybe,

Jesus is happy.

He’s been let out of the constraints

Of the physical church building

For a little while,

Free to stretch His long limbs of love

In the world.

Since we can’t go to Him,

I imagine Him coming to us.

I imagine His neck stiff

From resting His sacred head on our stone altars,

His elbows cramped

From bending to fit into the transepts,

His holy feet

Always pressed against the doors to the narthex.

I imagine Him bending double

To step through our low entrances

And out into crowning wreaths of cherry blossoms.

I imagine Him traversing our cities,

Wiping away tears with the hem of His robe,

Offering bread to those who need it,

Keeping vigil, fingertips blessing blazing foreheads, 

With all those who die alone.

We long to return to our churches,

Incense sanctifying our plaster and stone,

But Jesus lives and breathes out here among us

And every molecule of oxygen

Is holy air.

Amen.            Cameron Bellm

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