Photo by Metin Ozer for unsplash
When Covid descended
church time eroded.
Sunday became Thursday
as we filmed our worship services
in a sanctuary empty
but for preacher, reader, organist,
the videographer and my wife.
Determined to fill the pews,
we imagine an overflow
of virtual congregants
tuning in at all times of day
as if the Word had in fact broken free.
We do not feel liberated.
We are adrift and cut off
from the six days of labor
the Sabbath
the Great Thanksgiving
and the Amen.
Into the void You speak
evoking the exile
singing in the face of silence.
We turn and learn
the power of restraint,
the meaning of no.
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Beautiful
Thank you Rita.
So, so true. Thursday is not Sunday, an imaginary cyber congregation just can’t transmit the energy or deepen the silence. Thank you for your poem.
Thank you Wendy. May Sunday return before too long.