The room, replete with what is about to happen,
is full as well with coughing,

sneezing, blowing noses, a full body bonanza.
It’s not in spite of.

Belly fat, pustules, failing pulchritude—it’s all here,
it’s all holy. They’re here too:

the stooped, limping, athletic, hopped-up, hormonal,
meditative, ripped, and anything

but strong, along with the frightened and frail,
protectors and the wise, fraudulent,

failures, and fools. Something in the musculature
of that Jesus on the cross

calls to mind my brother, who observed his ritual
of running miles and miles

then guzzling beers and smoking weed. Here too
are survivors of ecclesiastical abuse.

I won’t keep silent for some notion of institutional
integrity. I care nothing about

institutional integrity. We need breakage so growth
can occur. Smoke of smoke, everything

is smoke, and sacraments make nothing happen.
Sacraments are about opening

to what is happening already. Reconciliation,
a monk said to me, is not about

God forgiving your sins. That has been done. It’s about
integrating that forgiveness into your life.

When my brother died, his son and I kept our hands
on him as his breathing ceased.

His spirit lingered in that place as rumors
of the divine broke in.

You can hear a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by Matt Marzorati on Unsplash