On Sunday afternoons, we often watch recordings of livestreamed church services from churches where we have been members. Once we've done that, we often go to the recording of the Sunday service at the National Cathedral.
Usually, each pastor is preaching on the day's Gospel reading from the Revised Common Lectionary. But yesterday, the sermon at the National Cathedral was delivered by The Most Reverend John McDowell, Archbishop of Armagh, Primate of All Ireland and Metropolitan, Church of Ireland. His stole and cope did not match the purple of the others. No, his had gold shamrocks. He preached about Saint Patrick and Jesus, and what we can learn. I had not realized that Patrick and Augustine were alive at the same time.
The sermon made me think of a poem that I wrote long ago, "Coracle of Hope." Yesterday I went to look it up, and happily, having much of my writing online makes it easy. I think it holds up well, and I'll post it below.
The poem was inspired by Dave Bonta's experience with coracles in Wales, which I wrote about in this blog post years ago: "I found myself captivated by this post of Dave Bonta's about his experience with coracles on his recent trip to Wales. He reminded us of the ancient Celtic monks, some of whom set off without even an oar. Somehow, my brain made some connections to the modern workplace, and I was off, composing a poem."
This poem is part of my latest chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction . It seems like a good choice for March 17--happy St. Patrick's Day!
As my computer dings
its constant reminders
of meetings and appointments,
I think of those ancient
Celtic monks and their coracles,
their faith in fragile canoes and currents
and a God who will steer
them where they need to go.
Having given over my free will
to Microsoft Office, I allow
the calendar to steer
me. I rely on my e-mails as a rudder,
although I often feel adrift
on this sea of constant communication.
Perhaps it is time to ransom my soul
which has been sold to this empire
of the modern workplace.
I look to the monks
and their rigorous schedule of prayer.
Feeling like a true subversive,
I insert appointments for my spirit
into the calendar. I code
them in a secret language
so my boss won’t know I’m speaking
in a different tongue. I launch
my coracle of prayer
into this unknown ocean,
the shore unseen, my hopes
rising like incense across a chapel.
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