On HIllside Picnics with Us

On Hillside Picnics with Us

(“There was a tent behind the second curtain called the holy of holies.” Hebrews 9:3)

Inaccessible, and how do you get there from here?
How do you ascend the throne of the one who sits
across every constellation and speaks to the galaxies
like children?

Once a year one would draw near. Yet the curtain deadened
the vision and muddled the sound of sacred rites hidden from view.
I remember pulling the shades at night so neighbors could not
see what I was reading.

Who hides in that tented room? Who awaits the approach one
afternoon of the year? Smoke obscures our senses, incense
increases our guesses.  We wait as we have waited for this day
for hundreds of years. Yet, though mystery is the density behind
the veil,
we long for the familiarity of family. When the curtains open again
the precious stones carried on his heart glisten in the sun. He is done
for the year. We dine together, a savory meal with god and our neighbor;
a communal meal that leaves us satisfied and still unsure
about the nature of Shekinah, glory, judgement, atonement and holy
moments which seem much too large for our containment.

But the curtain is mere fabric; the ark of the covenant mere wood and
earthy metal hammered by human hands and place silently. We stand,
and dare not breathe, and less to talk. Our children pull on our robes
wanting an explanation of the one made manna and manufacturers snow,
the one who sends the sun riding on the sky and the moon hanging like a lantern,
the one (oh the ages would tell) surrounding the expansion of everything and

hidden within the smallest quarks without names.

We sometimes miss the truth for the tradition,
unchanging incantations convince us we have met the divine.
But we do not know, or are slow to hear, that all this is play-acting,
a metaphor, a puppet show. We memorized the words and drew
our swords against any who would say different.

But here we have been invited, the hospitality of Yahweh,
the invasion of the Son into every space we thought was empty,
into every moment we thought ordinary and so unholy.
But his sandals dug the earth, his hands cupped the mud,
his eyes wandered to scattered sheep, his mouth kissed the wine.

And, if this time we will hear it, we shall know that dust is sacred
(we are built of it)
Seeds are sacred
(we begin with it)
Humanity is sacred
(we can count on it)

For the Holy one who dwelt among the cherubim
chose rather to dine on hillside picnics with us.