Quiet. Holy.

You sigh in the cathedral and that, the softest of sounds,
echoes back to you, the natural reverb of arches, stone an,d glass
working their magic.

The service is done. The hymns sung. The last echo
of the last prayer has faded away. Someone diligent
has put out the candles.

It is silent. Empty. With no people in the pews,
God alone fills the space, except
for the tiny corner in the back where you sit.

Finally, you can worship. Without the distractions,
without the noise. Beautiful noise but
noise nonetheless.

There is, you decided long ago, something wrong with you
that the stirring music and words, so many words
that inspire the rest of the faithful, bring them comfort,
stir them, lift their hearts, lift their prayers in supplication,|
heartfelt and deep and real,
do not seem to do the same for you.

Still, you go. Every week you go.
More days than not you contribute to the words,
sing the songs, pray the prayers, lead the gathered
in teaching and sermon and stumbles.
You go, knowing that isolation is not healthy,
as bad for your soul as too many people,
too much noise. So you go. Do your best
for everyone else whose souls soar at such things.
You know together is more powerful, healthier,
an agent for inspiration and change that God,
in whatever form you envision him, wants.
Lives are changed in these places.
People find their way to God there.

Just not you.

It’s a silly thought. We all know God knows all,
that he can hear voices in the cacophony
that calls out to him, millions every moment,
in thanksgiving, in supplication, in pain, and fear
and every other human emotion in need.
You don’t know how it is, but then that is why he is God
and you are not

So it is silly to think he can hear you better here,
in the silence. In the empty chapel where you go
to church a second time, It is silly, but it is how you feel.
The worry is less that he will not hear me,
but in the noise, without the silence,
I will not hear him.

About this poem

I spent the latter half of this week at Annual Conference for the Methodists in New England. A large room of people worshiping, singing, and at times wrestling with the business of the church. It’s the first time I have been in person since the Pandemic,

It was both exhilarating and for an introvert like me, totally draining. By church this morning, even my small, loving, wonderful congregation left me drained. Introversion may not make for the best pastor, though most of my flock would not likely describe me as an introvert.

So it is that often I go into my church in the off hours. Or in the woods, and pray. It is there, in the quiet, I feel holiness, closeness to God, happen.

This is not a whack at church. I love church and think our world is poorer for largely leaving church. A lot is lost. Less for the churches than for those who no longer have a church family. I have learned that through the ones who have come back after a long time away. No,I love church. But it simply is not where I worship best. For me, it seems, both are important. And so, I do both.

I have no idea what church I took the picture in. Unfortunately, I did not note it. It is in Italy somewhere.

Tom