Palimpsest

Song of a Heretic

 

Mary kneels at the foot of the cross

Weeping softly, silently, most pitifully for her son.

Who could not be moved?

But why would she weep?

For the resurrection had not yet come

To bring her peace.

The rock not yet rolled,

The cerements lay undisturbed

And the angels in white

Had not yet asked “Why do you weep?”

She had no answer.

Even Mary wept.

 

                  Stabat Mater

 

The equivalent of 17th century pop music.

Attend a cathedral of your choice

For a weekly dose of Woodstock 

And receive a spiritual high.

The crowds, the vibes,

The communal sharing

Of a myth that sustains them

Through misery, injustice and pain.

The host is a feast they will never attend

In this life.

The wine, a libation they will never taste

In this life.

Assembled,  drawn here

With nothing to bind you

But a common hunger for something.

You think it to be spiritual

Because there is no succour 

For the physical.

 

Penitents all,

Dressed in your finest,

Not to please God

But to impress the neighbours

They cry “Feed me”

In desperate need of real bread

Not the wafer transformed into the body,

Nor wine become blood.

The wine would be better served

In greater volume to relieve,

If only for a moment, 

The  baseness of their lives.

So, attend and take part.

All to be had for the price of a few Indulgences

To be seated front row centre before the alter.

Nearer my God to Thee.

The souls lying beneath your feet

Reach up to draw you in and tell false tales

Of immortality.

 

You assemble with nothing to bind you

But a common hunger for something

You think it to be spiritual

Because there is no succour 

For the physical.

 

And so you leave fed

But not satisfied.

You leave quenched

Yet you thirst.

The body of Christ is thin and dry

Despite the incense and the Mass.

Your faith declares it must sustain.

It is the Body and the Blood

Doctrine says you must return 

For nourishment

For you are weak vessels

And must be renewed 

And the means

Are not yours to deliver.

Pity.

 

Congregants come together for something

I can neither understand nor reason,

But for a shared immersion in elaborate ritual.

 

There is no evidence.

The music alone sustains me

And feeds a desire that is 

Mine alone. 

 

If I cannot reason a path to religion

I remain an unrepentant heretic.

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