CHURCH

I began the writing yesterday after church. Although there was nothing in the service, except maybe the recitation of the Apostles' Creed, that should have caused me to remember an old Gospel song: "This world is not my home, I'm only passing through." Of course, it is obvious that this world IS my home; and that while it's true that I'm only passing through, I'm not counting on the heaven described in the creed that I recited in unison with a thousand others, who may or may not have been paying attention to the actual meaning of the words. I found myself trying again to reconcile the prettiness of the church environment with what happens in the real world. I had read in the morning paper about a bomb blast in a marketplace in Bagdad, a horrendous act plotted and executed by people who claim to be doing on earth what they believe a god in some kind of heaven wants them to do. One hundred thirty people were brutally murdered and many others were wounded. The photographs and writings in my journal for the day are futile attempts again to make sense of things. The first photograph was taken on Thurday last week as I went to choir rehearsal. The other photographs are from earlier times.

The Kyoto photograph was taken in early March 2005. On the day I took the photograph of the Shinto nun walking across the temple grounds, I didn't spend much time inside. On a visit years ago when I stayed a week in Kyoto at Myoranji, a Zen temple, I spent a morning sitting on the floor of the main temple trying to be invisible as I watched priests and supplicants move through their acts of devotion and worship.

The photographs from Vietnam were taken in 1970. From Da Nang where I was working, I drove out to Marble Mountain during the day when American Marines held the countryside. At night the land belonged to the Viet Kong. The temple is still there, of course; and I hope to go back someday soon to see it again. It was a most marvelous sensation to come into the darkness of the cave from the atmosphere of war outside and feel peace in the coolness of the temple. In a village at the foot of Marble Mountain there was a woman crying where she had been brought out and forced to watch as the Viet Kong shot her daughter for alleged collaboration with the Americans. Other villagers said she had been wailing there for more than a week.

The Hindu Penitent was honoring a pledge he had made to walk in the Thaipusam festival in the multiethnic Republic of Singapore. The year was 1973.
EPIPHANY, BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

Today I let go the requirement that church make sense...
like turning loose a tethered balloon struggling to be free,
I released my grip and let it go, let it rise, let it float out of sight.
Out of mind is another thing to work on.

Sitting in the cocoon richness of the sanctuary
I unhooked my mind and watched the eucalyptus dance
behind light fringed pines and a million mirrors
that were leaves of an olive tree behind the church.

In Kyoto at Heian Shrine I watched, understanding nothing,
as solemn Shinto priests said prayers and moved softly
through orange pillars and banners with text I could not read
and was transported beyond truth and knowing;

Long ago on Marble Mountain in Vietnam with war raging
I retreated into a temple carved from solid rock in a cave
and found my soul strangely still, my fear lifted, my mind at ease
despite the absurdity and chaos of a battle outside;

I stood close once as a Hindu penitent was pierced with hooks,
and rods and tiny spears, skewered senselessly. His body
like Il Sodoma’s St. Sebastian shot through with arrows
did not revolt me but filled me with awe and wonder.

So why have I resisted priests and ministers at home in robes
parading, posing, positioning themselves to speak to God
big G when I have had no trouble suspending reason
when watching priests and supplicants in faraway places?