I wanna be churched

I want to attend a church/

that rings

a Bach cantata to call /

the congregation /

and where, upon the dais, the big book is an Oxford dictionary /

and the homily is a study of our most effective and dangerous tools, /

those simple words that define,/

creating gossamer cages and strong twined threads that bind us, sometimes together./

I want a church where old

women knit in the front pews /

and young long haired women twirl like dervishes in the aisles/

their skirts widening, flowering, with their joy. /

I want to attend a church/

where the sacrament is a stone or pebble, searched for all week, /

that is brought to church to add to the curl/

of a growing Tower of Babel,/

nurtured and masoned by the wise woman priest between/

her caressing the plants she grows. /

And if that tower were to ever reach the heavens/

I would be the first upon my knees to shake and kiss and grasp the hand of God. /

I want a church where at the end, /

when everyone has had their fill of thought, the congregation does not line up to shake her hand

/

but rather pats the shoulders of the lonely old men in the last pew.