The Little Church
by Samuel Thomas
A solitary bell swings
in a tower on a church roof.
The white rooster’s red eye
watches the people pass through.
The tiny blue and white steeple
like a Greek villa transplanted
from Mediterranean shores
or colors lifted from a Quebec flag
holds her weight this Sunday morning.
Saint Raphael,
patron saint of happy meetings
guards the little church
under his folded white wings
and one of the priest’s dogs,
Raphie, moves gingerly
at the back of the church
appeasing ecclesiastic hearts.
A lady with a long overcoat
and un-kept hair shyly
shuffles past the front altar
to slip a coin in a box
lighting a candle for ‘Our Lady.’
The already small space
that is the church’s hall of prayer
becomes smaller still
when during Communion,
a soulful songstress enchants
through hallowed notes.
St. Raphael’s heart beats strong.
Its doors welcome
the weary and wandering
Pride spreads its smile
on the diversity
of its people.
The ‘Our Father’ is recited
by a small village of voices—
Dutch, Swahili, Cree, French, German
Spanish, English and more.
As the people sit and kneel,
the pews let out a creak,
the pictures of Jesus on the wall
seem ready to speak,
whispering words of perseverance.
Pages from a liturgy book
that once lay unbound
from time and use
are carefully taped together again.
St. Raphael’s Church moves
to its own beat,
providing sustenance to the poor
offering sanctuary to the fearful
and sharing spirit
with the forlorn.
A little church that has
withstood storm after storm.
A humble home
under the gaze of an angel
where song and prayer lingers
long after the organ
has stopped playing.
The Little Church (Part Two)
by Samuel Thomas
The Bishop’s shirt hangs on the clothes line
A few loose nails stick out from the pews
It’s another Sunday morning
The little Church holds its breath
As parishioners open its
Wooden front doors.
The Priests have side jobs here,
No stipends from higher ranks,
A breakaway Church with more
Heart and character
Than the regal Cathedral
Downtown.
Everything has its place
In this small house of
Worship
The busy walls of crosses,
The Jesus portraits, the plastic
Altar flowers, the candles,
The incense, even the
Cold air that seeps
Through the cracks.
Everyone is welcome too,
Of all colors and faiths,
Of all ages and backgrounds,
During the sermon, lines around
The Bishop’s eyes speak of
The struggles he’s fought
To spare his Church
His sanity
His parish.
From a boisterous laugh
To notes of stern rebuke
His presence fills the room,
Always final words of
Encouragement to be
Charitable, loving and true
A meekness of his Saviour
Filtering through
And as the singing peaks
And the hymn lifts up their hearts
Standing by the front door
With staff and smile,
The Bishop and the Priests
Kiss them on their way
To do good deeds.
A former customs official
With mixed ancestry
His deep caroling voice
His searching eyes, his
Broad chest,
As if to say:
Remember, I built this Church
On a rock. Like my body, this
Church was planted with blood
And nails – the same nails
That holds this Church together,
Holds my frame together.
The little Church is quiet.
The organ has stopped playing.
The shirt is sun-dried.
Blue paint peels at the front door.
A handful of nails lie
On the front steps.