For Brother Paul
Drowsy
in morning light
filtered through medallions
of stained glass
beneath the stone tracery
of the village church,
in my fragmented listening
when the priest
recited the line of the Creed
about the communion of saints,
I heard commune of saints.
Which only proves the ear
is a freelance theologian,
editing eternity
to suit its present longings.
It wasn’t such a stretch.
This was just after Vatican II,
when balding pastors rolled their eyes
at long-haired deacons with sideburns,
nuns appeared without their habits,
and teenagers in jeans with guitars
led us through hymns
once carried on the upholstered thunder
of the pipe organ’s authority.
I imagined St. Anthony
running the commune’s lost-and-found—
though it was teenagers now,
not single socks and winter gloves,
who turned up at breakfast
squinting into daylight
from somewhere deeper in the woods
than theology recommends.
St. Jude was stationed near the cliff’s edge,
talking down the romantics
and those who had read too much Kierkegaard
the night before.
St. Francis negotiated
between the goats and the tomato vines,
occasionally breaking into song
with the sparrows
who had not been consulted
about the folk Mass.
St. Benedict posted a handwritten Rule
near the refrigerator—
concerning silence after Compline
and labeling one’s leftovers
in the spirit of charity.
St. Teresa of Ávila
hovered slightly above the herb garden,
explaining that ecstasy
does not excuse anyone
from weeding.
St. Joan of Arc
split firewood with unnerving focus,
while St. Monica kept watch
for the prodigals
who wandered off to discover themselves
and instead discovered poison ivy.
St. Sebastian,
patient as a clothesline in August,
stood near the archery range
offering himself for target practice—
though he gently suggested
that martyrdom, like communal living,
ought not be confused
with poor aim.
Even St. Joseph
repaired a sagging gate
with patient, carpenterly grace,
measuring twice,
as if salvation itself
required good hinges.
It seemed entirely possible
that sanctity required
no marble niche,
no Latin inscription—
only a long wooden table,
a pot of something simmering,
and the stubborn willingness
to stay with one another
through doubt, through song,
through the awkward tuning
of guitars.
Perhaps that is what the Creed meant
all along—
not a hierarchy of halos
arranged in celestial glass,
but a common life
stitched together
by the flawed and luminous,
arguing about dishes,
borrowing one another’s coats,
and passing bread
hand to hand
until even the most distracted among us
could taste
something like grace.
