Are you the hand
That I shake in the pew,
Or on my way out the door,
To the parking lot?
…
Are you the presence,
In the plate and cup,
Upon the altar,
That is given for me to consume?
…
Are you the dirty, scarred face,
Of an abused, homeless woman,
Begging on the street,
Around the corner from the grocery store?
…
Are you the gentle face and eager voice
Of the elderly man
Who comes to my front door,
Struggling to use an iPad to show a video?
…
Are you the pastor at the soup kitchen,
Who tells me the administrative position
I’m interviewing for requires someone
Who can shmooze with the volunteers?
…
Are you the book with all the stories
Spoken a long, long time ago,
Written a long time ago,
For people who lived a long time ago?
…
If so, I’m wondering:
What is your name? Who am I
In relation to you?
Why do you appear differently to all?
…
I’d like to pin you down,
Put your number and your address
In my contact list.
I’d like to feel you.
…
I know that’s not how you operate,
If you did, you wouldn’t be God,
Or would you?
Sometimes I wonder.
