I do not buy those words, sacred and secular,
They’ve rent the world in two.
They take the magic from how a speck of dust catches the light
Or how the cadence of footfall is poetry.
They make too much of church casseroles
that do not feed the multitudes.
Blind adult eyes
Miss the current of wonder in each atom.
Imago Dei, we walk around
Blind to veiled glory
We use our hands for the washing up—
Slathering lotion, we repair our raisin fingers
Blind to the miracle
Of water, soap,
and how all things can be made new.
It’s so like dust to forget—
We look in the mirror and God
Is made in our tired image.
We see him in our liturgies
But cannot find him in the dirt and dirty dishes.
Dust to dust.
But what is God
Other than our dust,
our bread and wine?
How do we know God—
Except through blood and water?
Let me grasp the stuff of earth to find the stuff of God.
Poets, draw lines in sand, show me the beauty of dust.
Singers, play the music of the Star,
But give me, too, the magic in the straw and blood of the manger.
Preachers, show me the poetry of shepherds running,
How the good news makes our tired lungs rejoice.
It is all holy.
Teach me to feel the divine spark on an ordinary Wednesday.
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