A collection of poems by Lawrence “Mack in Texas” Hall (Rated G)
Your Heart as a Tabernacle
From an idea by Blue Sapphire
The heart is a tabernacle upon the Altar
Within it reposes our hopes and dreams
We open it as sacrament, as sacrifice
A gift that in the end is given back to us
Stop Running
1 Kings 19
Stop searching. Hold still
Rest now under a broom tree
And He will find you
You’re Going to Be Okay
You’re going to be okay
Your feet hit the deck this morning
You offered up that cup of coffee to God
And He delighted in your happiness
The New Pastor Threatens the Congregation with Guitars
Our new pastor has visions, dreams beyond the stars
At Mass last week he informally presented
This suggestion: a choir. And guitars
But peace will still obtain, tho’ that twanging jars –
Guitars in church are why ear plugs were invented
Hallowed Be Thy App
“…that unmistakable English church-going pace…holding, bound in black lamb-skin and white celluloid, the liturgies of a half dozen conflicting sects…” -Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
One sees a Bible only occasionally
Even more rarely a Sunday missal
Which, with coat and tie and the mantilla
Are relics of a courtlier, more dignified time
The faithful now carry the scriptures as apps
The rosary the same (maybe next to Candy Crush)
An electronic conscience funded by an investment firm
And available at a low introductory price
A talking box – it must be Godly and true
And just as eternal as the Apple II
Disturbances in Church
The more I am disturbed by liturgical novelties
The less I am disturbed by God
The less I am disturbed by liturgical novelties
The more I am disturbed by God
All of which is logical, not odd
Grandmama’s Methodist Bible
“For all find what they truly seek”
-Aslan in C. S. Lewis’ The Last Battle
The well-worn Bible my Methodist grandmother loved
Sunday school pictures of Jesus, brave and kind
Chaplains who suffered with us in Viet-Nam
Prison pastors who bring Light into the dark
The ministers and faithful in contested streets
The priest who blessed my mother as she died
Those sturdy Baptist friends who bless my days
The Glorious Mysteries in the Rosary of being
I love The Story in word and prayer and song –
But those who force a Reichskirche upon us
are wrong
I am not God
About final judgement
Just give it a rest –
God does salvation
We do our best
“I Pray You, Remember the Porter”
–Macbeth II.ii.20-21
When I was a young husband and father
I served: on the parish council, taught CCD
Chaperoned bake sales, CYO, and youth trips
Eucharistic minister, lector, and greeter
(No one else could hand out a leaflet with such grace, such elegance,
such panache)
But with age, and one by one, I let them go
This morning I asked to be recused at last
From thirty years on the lector duty list
“God’s benison go with you…”
As lector
I lost confidence in sorting out the new ways of doing things
Of being where I’m supposed to be
And moving when I’m supposed to do so
And moving where I’m supposed to do so
Carrying the lectionary without dropping it
Mounting the Altar steps without tripping
Standing in one place for more than a few minutes
Seeing the words clearly (why is the print so small?)
Wreathing the verbs without thripping over my thongue
But I’m still a greeter – I can open the door
‘Tis my appointed skill level, but ‘tis one
As Macduff did not say
No leaflets, though; that stuff’s now on the InterGossip
I smile and open the door, admire babies, help with coats
Show visitors the way to the euphemism
Tell the kids how tall they’ve grown
(You’re a senior!? Why, I remember when…)
And it’s okay.
I am blessed with honour, love, and troops of friends
(as Macbeth could not say)
Honour, love, and troops of friends
All good.
Deo gratias
Who is the Third Murderer in Macbeth?
“But who did bid thee join with us?” –Macbeth III.iii.1
Two murderers are hired; a third one joins
The false lady, perhaps, or the tempter himself
As light and love both thicken near the rooky wood
“But who did bid thee join…?” Maybe we did
We have drooped and drowsed through civilization
Scorning the sacred texts of our several faiths
Approaching the Altar as a drive-through concession
The Body of Christ and maybe an order of fries
Who is the Third Murderer?
Rabbi, is it I?
Eight Lamps to Give Us Light
For the Martyrs of Bondi Beach
Hanukkah, 5786
For all the boots of the tramping warriors
and all the garments rolled in blood
shall be burned as fuel for the fire.
-Isaiah 9:5
The Temple in Jerusalem cannot be destroyed –
For all the bloody-booted conquerors
Who swagger and clatter and rattle over the Stair
Defile and burn and pillage only their own souls
Wherever a candle is lit, the Temple is there
Wherever the yad touches a davar, the Temple is there
Wherever Truth is honored, the Temple is there
Wherever children sing, the Temple is there
Temple and Torah, poet and prayer
Poetry, prayer, eight lamps, and love, and care –
the Temple is there
LogoSophia Magazine 