“I prefer a church which is bruised, hurting, and dirty because it has been out on the streets, rather than a church which is unhealthy from being confined and from clinging to its own security. More than my fear of going astray, my hope is that we will be moved by the fear of remaining shut up within structures which give us a false sense of security, within rules which make us harsh judges, within habits that make us feel safe, while at our door people are starving and Jesus does not tire of saying to us: Give [me] something to eat!”
While on my journey to find my Mother,
I walked along dark streets calling
and shaking awake the huddled throngs
of homeless, lost, beggars, and saints.
I saw one such figure curled against the night,
drew near to quivering shoulders and touch
the mound below the rags.
It stirred, and turned, and I drew back
with surprise, as facing me
rising slowly
on unsteady body
was the gaunt and bent form of an ancient Cathedral.
Clinging to her cane, covered in ash and dust,
her rising face a mesh
interconnected cracks and crevasses
with skin sagging on limp bones,
and eyes clouded with cataracts.
I ask uncertainly if she is the right one:
Pray, what is your name?
Why child, I am Mother Church,
was the whispered reply.
And I observed just then a whispered pride:
a glint behind discolored eyes,
titanium in flaccid bones,
steadiness in slumped brow.
You cower from me, she observes.
Is it my ugliness? Is it my age?
She cackles at my unmeeting gaze.
Oh foolish child, what
Did you expect the bride of Him in virginal white?
Did you think that I would remain unsoiled and unmarred?
That as I wrestled daily
with this world, help the dead and
dying, take beatings for the oppressed,
lose sleep for the ill, burn
and pine, mourn and play
and labour in preparation for Him I would remain clean-
oh, there look! She says, cut off at the word-
See my Bridegroom comes!
And she crouches over staff,
with gnarled fingers picks up her small flame
and hobbles to meet the coming figure through the dark.
Her crooked, toothless smile greets
a Man as broken and ugly as she:
With no beauty or majesty
Nothing in appearance
To make Desirable and appeal.
Yet she reaches out with oil lamp as the flame illuminates kind eyes,
and the aching desire in her haggard and hacking voice is unmistakable in her intimate call:
My Least of These.
You come at last.
And he reaches out cracked hands,
with fingers not fully opening in their arthritic pain
of scarred tissue surrounding wounds
in his hands through which I see the light of the lamp
and he reaches, gently caresses her marred face,
eyes shining with delight into hers,
and her light illuminates
Him who sees her whole
as he exclaims in warm ecstasy:
My beloved.
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