In the church I attend, one
warm summer Sunday during
worship, two large dogs ran
in through the open door.

Noses to the floor, they hurried
up adjacent aisles like impatient
ushers, circled the sanctuary
reverently, without barking

or growling, then exited through
the same door they entered,
ignoring their embarrassed owner
standing on the sidewalk
apologizing again and again.


In the church I attend, one
warm summer Sunday an
optimistic gray cat walked
in the open side door. Her

tail vertical, she veered straight
to the front of the sanctuary
even though no altar call had
been made. Fingers stroked

her fur as she walked under
occupied chairs and she
arched her back in a silent
amen, then smelling no

loaves or fishes, lost
interest, and turning,
departed through the
same door she entered.  


In the church I attend, we
often talk about life, about
our lives, the lives of others,
the life of our church. Lately

it’s the lives of indigenous peoples
whose land we worship on. Like
soldiers asking the bodies
of their victims to forgive them,

we pray for forgiveness, for
mercy and guidance; and then
leave through the same door
we entered an hour or two before.


In the church I attend, there is
a ceiling fan spinning over
head;  books line the shelves
of the library, thick with promise,

timely stories, and necessary
history. Candles flicker next to
banners depicting flames of
the Holy Spirit. But the love

present fills the sanctuary
from floor to ceiling, covering
and including everyone, like a
benevolent tsunami, then

renewed and enlarged,
moves outward to the world,
through the same door it
entered an hour or two before.