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Folks will come at the appointed hour
visit a bit, then settle into their familiar pews
expectant, ready for a song, a prayer,
a word or two of inspiration
to nourish their steady faith for a few more days.
Where are the words?
They are tangled up, bound, uneasy,
resistant to casual exploitation.
Feeble, not equal to the task
nor strong enough to emerge
from the morass of questions,
preoccupied with contradictions,
busy elsewhere with tweets and posts and shrillness.
Better to give them a break this once.
Better to ponder the vivacity of the children among us,
the blaze of yellow grass in the ditches,
the relentless, rhythmic caress of the waves on the lakeshore.
Worthy satisfaction for a Sabbath morning.