Sacrament Sunday

Poem about the taking the Lord's Supper.

They pass me Jesus on a plate,
His body bread broken by man hands.
Eat, they say, you will be more like Him.
Eat, I think, and I'll simply be
a fat Pharisee spending service
picking the Lord from my teeth.
Nah, man.  Jesus ain't a cracker.

But they all seem content to become
a congregation of cannibals,
munching on Jesus like He is the morning snack
before the midday meal of God
and the nonalcoholic Spirit.

So I take Him in a swallow Him whole,
soul food for the soul,
then stand between Adam and Eve
on the eve evenings began.
There, I begin again.

And with every new breath,
old sin seeps in-
a long, long list
ending with the lie of repenting
just a minute ago.

Dare I return in the Sundays to come
with a well-worn plea
resting softly on my tongue?
The answers, they say, have been delayed
as Jesus makes His way
in me.