Well, I did not feel my own loneliness when I sat to write; but three hours and six stanzas later, it is plain to see. So, here I am, vulnerably longing out loud in a dangerous land.
If this blesses you somehow, I am glad.
Courage my dears. Love one another.
The longing for belonging
is an every present ache in me
desiring, as I do, to be
accepted, welcomed,
understood,
by a fully human
community
that does not
seem to exist
anywhere that
I can find on
this side of the
veil.
All I know, all I have learned,
is to go inside;
all I know is to belong to
myself, first,
and there to
give and grow,
be deeply known,
and thus find my
Self in the
loving and be-lovedness
of Mystery.
Yet still I am an
embodied creature.
I long for connection
with the embodied.
I belong in no church;
and I long for a church
to belong to.
The church that I
long for does not yet exist
in the structures
of churches all built
with doors, and
places where all
are not welcome in their
fractured wholeness,
not really, though
the choir may sing the
words so
beautifully, like
a dream yet to
be realized.
Am I the like the
man born blind, then
touched by Love,
and so seeing,
cast out by
systems and their sons
who fear the
vision of a
community of equity,
without hierarchy?
Where, O God,
is that home,
my home, except
in You. And where
are You except
in us, flawed and quaking
vessels of Divinity;
foolish hominids
meant to put down
our rocks and sticks
and heed Wisdom
as She calls?
Bless me with sight
to see my church in
all the world. Bless
me with belief even
when I do not yet see.
