For all their quirks and quibbles, all their foibles,
squabbles, even downright donnybrooks,
I find my people there.
Recalcitrant, to be sure, concerning this issue,
or that. As reluctant as those first followers
to accept what fairest Jesus brought to life.
Yet singing the same sweet songs.
Murmuring familiar prayers.
Admitting, as I must, that another week
has worn its way, no closer to the kingdom.
Hungering, across years of disappointment,
for words that ring so clear they melt
the frozen marrow, drag you back again –
despite – to trust, compassion, even resolution.
For all my weary, reasoned doubt,
the continuing disillusion and despair
of this already blood-drenched century,
for all my anger at her blind echoing
of the worst that hides in all of us,
come Sunday morning, somehow,
I still find myself in church.