On Sunday morning I love
the priestless ceremony
of Quaker Meeting.
The minister is each of us, ordained
by the power of simplicity.
Silence is the sermon,
Presence the ritual,
Breathing out, the offering,
Breathing in, the Spirit's gift.
No one even has to say, 'Amen'.
The wood thrush said it at dawn,
waking the world to this
First Day.
1 comment:
When I saw you on Sunday I wanted to call you Paul.
I know that is not your name, but something inside you was emulating "Paul",
Or something inside me could only see "Paul" in you.
And as I was momentarily lost in musing whether it was the apostle or the Beatle or maybe the actor in the film portraying himself with a misplaced soul (the only "Pauls" I could think of)
you said "Hello"
And your name wouldn't come to my lips.
And I almost said "Hi Paul"
Instead I said "Hi, how's it going?" as brightly as I could.
and you said "fine" and turned away, and the moment passed, and you were "Fred" again.
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