Feels Like Pentecost

Save for a cruxifix hung from the ceiling
there is nothing familiar here.
There is incense and robes and chants.
Paintings on the ceiling. Light through
windows tall as half a dozen men.
People. So many people.
All speaking their native tongue
which has nothing to do with yours.

The chapel is not on your tourist map,
tucked away in the city. The people here,
all except you, belong. You can tell.
They stand, kneel, sit, pray on cue,
the ritual steeped deep in their hearts,
in their muscle memory, Even now,
at two in the afternoon, the sanctuary is full.

Nothing is familiar except the spirit of worship.
Time taken out of their week, or their day,
because it is Thursday, not the Sabbath, Time
to leave behind and approach the holy.
It feels like Pentecost, where the consecrated
and sinner alike hear the good news,
while you, the eternal stranger, hears.

About the poem

Inspired by the picture, which is of a church I stumbled into my first day in Rome. It is reflective of the many churches, large and small, in my country and others. Even temples of other Gods, The holy lives in the places we set aside as holy. Nothing else matters.

For those of you who are not Christian, the Pentecost refers to a day when the disciples/apostles were filled with the holy spirit of God, and when they spoke, all, no matter their nationality, could understand them. You can find the story in Acts 2.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom