A View of Good Sunday Morning

(Tonight, I begin another poetry class through Springfed Arts Detroit.  The classes have been invaluable, and I've learned how to strengthen my voice through them.  This poem, based on memories of my old school Baptist extended family worshipping with my very Catholic nuclear family as a child, will be the one I workshop tonight, looking for constructive criticism and feedback.  I'll be posting other assignments from the class on the blog later on.)

"This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice in it and be glad." - Call to worship, based on Psalm 126.

Good Sunday morning, spent not

at Mt. Magnolia Blood of Mercy 14^th Street Church of God, but
at Blessed Heart of St. Mary the Sacred Virgin Basilica.
Both right next door, both worlds apart.

Daddy was Catholicized, so

Babygirl, his big girl this big day,
was not sanctified like
Big Mama,
Uncle Daddy,
Pop Pop,
Aunt Ney-Ney.

They had to be told in patient, hushed tones:

A kneeler is not a foot rest, see
we bow before the Lord when we pray.
That big shiny safe (gilded gleaming, not gold)
sitting on the altar is the tabernacle, see
it’s the House of the Holy Host
Babygirl will be blessed with today
for the first time.
That’s no sink at the door; see
the water does cleanse, but with
the sign of the cross, not by
a swish of the fingers through its blessed bowl.
Don’t worry, Father Murphy (and Father God)
will forgive your failings, for you
did not know what you did not know.

Babygirl, stands with other girls, other boys,

all babies in elderly eyes,
shuffling and skittish in the vestibule.
Small suits, tiny tights, gloved fingers, patent shiny shoes
all make the same swishy, crinkly sounds as
Big Mama’s stockings as she struggles;
stiff in the knees, stiff girdle, stiff foundation
sturdy like the stone pillars supporting the sanctuary
to take her seat next to
Uncle Daddy,
Pop Pop,
Aunt Ney-Ney,
all the rest of family worshipping today, not

at Mt. Magnolia Blood of Mercy 14^th Street Church of God, but
at Blessed Heart of St. Mary the Sacred Virgin Basilica
this good Sunday morning, where
bespectacled eyes, clouded by cataracts,
scan the scene, seeking familiarity,
yet fall on foreign forms:

Habit free nuns, serene serious faces staring

intently at the altar reciting the rosary;

not one no-nonsense capped nurse clutching a box of tissue
scanning seats seeking sisters or brothers overcome with the spirit.

Crisp yielding paper missalettes, like liturgical magazines;
not one sternly bound timeworn book of King James
in the pews to guide prayers and scripture study.

Solemn statues of saints, standing

sentry over sin filled parishioners;

not one Sallman simulation of Jesus hung on the
walls, serene salvation in a silver frame.

This house of worship is not like home, it seems.

Then a bow to the Baptist beginnings of the many members of
Blessed Heart of St. Mary the Sacred Virgin Basilica,
tambourines shudder,
bass line bubbles under
snare drum thunder,
piano chords kick in,
Angelic babies stepping,
the choir calls to all declaring:

Step to Jesus!  Yes everything will be alright!

Step to Jesus! He’ll be your guiding light!

Aunt Ney-Ney can only excitedly exclaim,

“What the hell kind of church is this?”
Pop-Pop, clapping in staccato rhythm
says what makes perfect sense:
“I don’t know, baby…I ain’t Catholic!”
Big Mama stifles laughing.
Liturgy begins.

We sit, we stand, but Big Mama can’t kneel.

“Honey, God will just have to understand,”
she whispers sheepishly.  It’s okay,
Father Murphy (and Father God) will forgive
for we all are of one flock.

And when Babygirl is called to commune with

the flesh of His flesh and blood of His blood,

Uncle Daddy is moved to join in, calling out,
“Drank dat wine, Babygirl!  Drank it!”
Before blessing himself with a bit of libation
from a flask tucked into his jacket pocket.

Aunt Ney-Ney shakes her head as 

Big Mama smacks Uncle Daddy upside the head,
puts the pinched bottle in her pocketbook,
curses mumbled under her breath,
hoping the Lord don’t hear her sinning in
Blessed Heart of St. Mary the Sacred Virgin Basilica.

(See, at Mt. Magnolia Blood of Mercy 14^th Street Church of God,

she would’ve been able to say she was seized by Satan and
Deacon Douglas would’ve cast her sin – and Uncle Daddy’s trifling ass out.)

Sit, stand, no kneel; sit, stand, no kneel.

We pray, press flesh as a sign of peace,
pray some more, before
repast in the parish hall where,
just as Father Murphy begins to bless
these gifts, thy bounty,
Papa Doc (who will be late to his own funeral, I swear)
slides in through the side door,
smile wide, arms wide, mouth wide open, sayin’
“Bet y’all thought I wasn’t gon’ make it up in here!”

And though we shamingly shush him,

(and, again, Big Mama’s soft swearing),
Father Murphy (and Father God) fondly forgives him,
for all are family, Father says as he warmly receives him.
See, all are welcome at
Blessed Heart of St. Mary the Sacred Virgin Basilica,
especially the fine, flamboyant family from
Mt. Magnolia Blood of Mercy 14^th Street Church of God,
right across street, never a world away.
 
(c) 2011 – Tracey Morris, All Rights Reserved

This window, which can be found at Detroit's Spirit of Hope Church,

reminds of the stained glass windows in my now closed childhood church.

A depiction of Jesus befriending Mary Magdelene, the caption reads,

"He that is without sin among you, let him cast a stone at her."