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.