It’s Sunday. Kneel to pray and stand to sing,
the rhythms of the service soothe, preset,
always the same (at least if you weren’t in
the hall where final plans are improvised –
who’s here to read? do we have acolytes
enough?) – the Eucharist is coming, scrap
of bread and sip of wine, and does it mean
a thing? Yes. Yes, it does, a promise and
a danger, to be led beyond what you
intended, easy yoke, light burden, but
still yoked; but easy, light. At last, we’re sent
“into the world in peace, to love and serve.”
Who knows what love and service might demand?
Our lives? Our selves? All that we have, or are.