When the pedestals have all been sold
and stand as lonely reminders
of a beautiful god
now manifest instead of adored
… when mass has forced energy
out of the Christ holiday
so that love and questions are all that remain
… when the certain shape of God
has been melted down
and dissipated into its billions of incarnations
… can we still sing praise?
Like Inuit in snowy spring
we grab onto rough hide
worn with years of pleasure,
pulling together on the strength of our circle.
Our many hands – some weathered,
some strong from sewing,
some weakened by the hunt,
some smooth with vital possibility
– secure us to the playing field.
We lean out, occasionally slip,
and rise again in shared power.
Our blanket is patchy,
secured by the tension of our alert presence.
And in the centre,
a place for joy –
where our collective radiance
spills laughter over each attempt at flight,
murmurs encouragement
as we show our skill,
our willingness to be tossed.
In gathering for play,
for honouring our circle
and the circles that extend from it,
we feel the glowing incarnation
and give voice to our genuine worship.