What is this holy temple?
A place where we learn to feel better
About feeling bad about ourselves
Because the music is loud enough
To drown out the cries of the wounded
Who live in our chests
And the sermon delivered
With shouts and tears
And sometimes dripping with sweat
Also hints that we are not alone
And we are all bleeding out
Into the offering basket together
What is this holy temple?
A place where we are told
That if we just keep at it
Trusting God’s promises correctly
Reading the inerrant,
Infallible
Undisputable
Copyrighted
All rights reserved
Packaged and sold
Word of God
And keep sending our prayers to the wind
Like letters to Santa Claus
Postmarked correctly
Dotting our i’s and crossing our t’s
Then and maybe then
Our deep wounds might be healed
And if they aren’t
Well, then we didn’t do it correctly
Or worse
We might even be unchosen
Merely created so that our destruction
Will bring more glory to the saved
What is this holy temple?
A place where we are told
That for the healing
Of our deepest wounds
We must confess and confide
To one another
And yet our shepherds cannot confide
To their own flocks
Nor should they
For the damage it would cause
To the fledgling faith
Of the lowly ones
Those unwashed
Who aren’t worthy of the staff
And so these leaders
Must seek counsel
Only in the darkest depths
Of the lion’s den
What is this holy temple?
A place where we meet
The friend who sits across from us
With the torn paper sack
Worn as a mask
And when they lift it gently
To drink without ruining it
And in doing so
Reveal their true face
If only for a fleeting moment
That is when we learn
That going first
Is what it means to lead
What is this holy temple?
A place where our masks
Can finally come off
Where we can be the person
We truly are
And speak freely
And bear our open wounds
For examination
In the light
But only because
Of the confidentiality agreement
That was provided to us
When we made the appointment
What is this holy temple?
A place where nobody knows our name
Far from home
Where we can sit on the curb
Beside a piss-stenched stranger
And share his bottle of cheap wine
Concealed in a torn paper sack
And offer him our last cigarette
In exchange for his willing ears
While we get everything off our chest
So that we will finally be clean
Before driving home
In our narrow wooden box
One last time
What is this holy temple?
A place where light breaks through
Before we can leave
Where we can see the smile
Of the man we once looked down upon
Where we can see the understanding in his eyes
It’s not the wine
Or maybe it is
An unexpected communion
With the unwashed
Who knows exactly who he is
A man rejected
A man full of life
Living in a torn paper sack
Made out of skin and broken bones
A man with no earthly father to speak of
And yet also a man
Who knows that he is the son
And he belongs on this earth
From which his ears were formed
For us
What is this holy temple?
A place where the broken go
To finish breaking all the way
What is this holy temple?
A place where the wandering lost go
To find themselves in one another
What is this holy temple?
A place where our wounds
Are not simply our own
But belong to one another
Because we are all poured out
Like communion wine
And there is only one torn paper sack
That holds us
And hides us
From the law
And reminds us that there is no wound
That cannot be healed
In love
What is this holy temple?
It is you
It is I
It is us
