TURD IN A PUNCHBOWL

I sit.

Third pew from the back

Near the window.

I listen

To the Sunday morning music

Beautiful it is, but my voice

Strains to a croak when I try to join in.

I tell you it’s the remains of a cold

But I feel my heart strangle my vocal cords.

Until all that comes out is dust.

It wasn’t that way not so long ago.

This was the happiest place,

The happiest time of the week.

I knew I was where I finally belonged,

And was warmed by the welcome

Of people I thought loved me.

I felt joy. I could sing….

Then you found out.

I told him you would-

People needed to know

He said no. It was nobody’s business

But his and mine.

I knew better.

I’ve been there

Truth up front is always best.

This was what would happen.

But he was my priest. I obey my priest.

An uproar; angry people shouting

Meetings…what to do.

Pitchforks and torches,

We’ve got to find the monster…kill him!!!

My input wasn’t wanted. It never is

Cooler heads allegedly prevailed

I would be allowed back

But my service was no longer required

I was declared unworthy, and unfit

To defile the sanctuary.

It was twenty years ago.

I’ve paid years for every minute.

I continue to pay-I accept that-

And I will pay for the rest of my life

Until I die, or will they refuse me

Requiem, and hallowed ground?

What I did, I did.

Do you dare think I want to go back there?

To hurt people I love most?

To undo twenty years of labor?

It has been hard, damned hard,

And there hasn’t been one second

Of one day

That I haven’t regretted the sins

Of twenty years ago.

Christians are supposed to forgive

Or is that just a theoretical construct?

I guess I’m tolerated

A few still welcome me-

They are visible manifestations

Of God’s grace.

Others want assurances

I’m no longer tempted

Or that my temptations are

Socially acceptable, whatever they think that is,

And I need further cleansing

So that they can bear to look on me.

Others think I should pay,

And pay forever,

Regardless of what God might say.

Make sure your face and hands are clean

Before you make an issue of mine.

You don’t know me, my struggles or my victories.

Nor do you care,

Unless I do it your way.

I’m hurting, I’m lonely

I need friends to stand beside me

As I walk the path only I can tread,

Not to judge because my path

Is different from the one you would lay out for me.

For those who still count me friend, I am thankful.

Others return my greeting, but the warmth

That once was there is no longer for me.

Some avoid me, and one or two

Have made it clear to me

I’m not to speak to them.

Am I a different person than the one I was

Before they knew? I haven’t changed.

God never changes. Why have they changed?

Give them time, I am urged.

I know myself to be impatient,

But even so, time is a commodity that,

In human terms, is in short supply.

If I am forgiven, why am I no longer worthy?

Or has the sudden knowledge of twenty years ago

Rendered me stupid, Incapable of understanding,

Incapable of receiving grace,

Incapable of passing on the grace I have received

To others?

Everything is now hunky dory

I have not been asked to leave,

They are too polite to ask me to leave.

But some are not glad I am here, and I know

Some wish I would take the hint,

Have good sense and depart

So they wouldn’t have to think about me

Or people like me, or what I did,

And they could sit, feeling comfortable

In their own righteousness.

But I can go only when and if

God tells me to go, and I haven’t

Heard Him give me those orders yet

So I sit,

Turd in a punchbowl,

Three rows from the back

Near a window, and am comforted

By the light streaming in

Enveloping me in warmth-

God’s sign that He loves me

And that I am

Where He wants me.

-Chip Bergeron

  2 December 2009