Easter Service
by M. Allshouse
My body has always been
an Easter service—
a one-time sermon where
people claim to love me,
but really they only attend
to feel—
better about themselves.
Maybe they do it
to feel—
loved themselves.
Or perhaps
it’s an act of charity,
something they can point to
and say,
“I go to church.”
But they don’t.
There will be another cathedral,
with newer windows
and comfier pews,
that they’ll choose
for the next Easter service,
the candlelit Christmas gathering,
or the random Sunday
when—
they feel—
especially bad about themselves.
Still,
I keep the doors open.
Who am I—
to ban worship
at my altar?
Didn’t I command it?
Or maybe I didn’t.
Maybe I asked nicely.
But what I was really asking for
was for them to become
the only member
of my congregation.
And yet—
they’ll visit me
on Easter Sunday,
and I’ll let them in,
absolve their sins,
until the service is over—
and they leave
again.
Easter Service
by M. Allshouse
My body has always been
an Easter service—
a one-time sermon where
people claim to love me,
but really they only attend
to feel—
better about themselves.
Maybe they do it
to feel—
loved themselves.
Or perhaps
it’s an act of charity,
something they can point to
and say,
“I go to church.”
But they don’t.
There will be another cathedral,
with newer windows
and comfier pews,
that they’ll choose
for the next Easter service,
the candlelit Christmas gathering,
or the random Sunday
when—
they feel—
especially bad about themselves.
Still,
I keep the doors open.
Who am I—
to ban worship
at my altar?
Didn’t I command it?
Or maybe I didn’t.
Maybe I asked nicely.
But what I was really asking for
was for them to become
the only member
of my congregation.
And yet—
they’ll visit me
on Easter Sunday,
and I’ll let them in,
absolve their sins,
until the service is over—
and they leave
again.