“What is clergy?”
She asked pulling into the lot.
“I’m clergy,” I said trying to park.
What does that mean, to be clergy.
What do people see when I appear,
An apparition, a ghost like nothingness,
floating on the edge of reality?
Seemingly invisible to the naked eye,
like trying to discern the stars
at night in the city sky.
All washed out in in the bright,
artificial light, all washed out
in the bright artificial new age light.
Hands for blessing, for breaking bread,
hands for holding as a last breath is taken.
A human heart that breaks,
human tears shed onto cold, dark earth.
I’m clergy, I’m priest, I’m not a miracle,
nor some shaman with all the answers.
In the brightness I’m missed,
in the darkness I’m seen, briefly.
As I put on my cloak of invisibility,
black shirt, white collar,
going out into the world.
All eyes downcast, a sinners worst nightmare,
I the priest walk the streets,
reminding all of old wounds,
unrequited loves and darkness.
They are bound by these sins,
as tightly as Lazarus in his grave.
Not knowing that this priest to,
is bound by those same bonds.
A sinner who walks with them,
filled with fears, ghosts,
haunting every step, as the grave grows deep.
No miracles to be performed,
as prayer becomes dry and dusty,
the wilderness in the midst of life.
Longing to heal the pains,
powerless against the rising tides.