Holy Trinity

Ev’ry Sunday,
be it sweet-shining sun or angry sky,
they gather: and I with them.
In ones and twos we slip inside
(leave behind the cars, the trees, the world)
and carefully close dark slabs of oak;
the building, the people, the candles await;
the air, so full of tradition.
I breathe it in.

Smell the wisdom of the ages:
see how beauty manifests in the old.
In come the choir – robes in procession! – and
hear the voices of countless angels with them.
Heaven can hear the organ just as well
as any three-piece band.

On goes the service:
sit for some prayers,
stand
for others. But can you feel it?
Beauty manifests in the old.
Look beyond those ‘thees’ and ‘thous’:
there is a message in these words.

Imagine this is ritual not at all:
find your pleasure
in the joy of the ancient hymns
and in the deep solemnity with which
we share a taste, a sip.
Never mind the coldness of the stone floor
or the discomfort of carpeted benches:
don’t you see

the colour in the glass?
Do you not find the light beautiful,
a gift from outside,
an invasion of Creation?
The sun was made long before these candles.
Beauty manifests in the old.
Never mind outward appearances
– don’t let them distract you.
Breathe the air,
so full of tradition and hope and desperation.
Breathe it in.
Can you feel it?
People are meeting with God even here,
inside cold stone walls,
in ritual and ceremony,
and beauty manifests in the old.