by Cameron Bellm
While we grieve our closed churches,
I wonder if, maybe,
Jesus is happy he’s been let out of the constraints
of the physical church building for a little while,
free to stretch his long limbs of love in the world.
Since we can’t go to him,
I imagine him coming out to us.
I imagine his neck stiff from resting his sacred head
on our stone altars,
his elbows cramped from bending to fit into the transepts,
his holy feet always pressed against the doors to the narthex.
I imagine him bending double to step through our low entrances and out into crowning wreaths of cherry blossoms.
I imagine him traversing our cities,
wiping away tears with the hem of his robe,
offering bread to those who need it,
fingertips blessing blazing foreheads,
with all those who die alone.
We long to return to our churches,
incense sanctifying our plaster and stone.
But Jesus lives and breathes out here among us,
and every molecule of oxygen is holy air.