S T A V K I R K (Church of Staves) on the Island

a wooden Norwegian church,
dating from the 12th Century



Independence Day.
While the islanders
watch pagan fireworks
at the ball field, we pilgrims
seek an evening of prayer
in this stern viking church.
So strange to find this
medieval pagoda,
this tribute to conversion
of those Norse raiders,
here, under a glade
of maples where no ship
or shore or savage wind
meet. It is as stark
and unadorned as a
reformer's creed,
a Jerusalem Bible open
on a lectern, and folding
chairs, and suspended
from the rafters, like
some deus ex machina,
an empty sailboat
in the breathless
nave honoring a woman
who died too young.
Hard to imagine
a loving god here
in this frugal, dispassionate
space, hard to pray here,
and hard to seek
redemption or even
rapture in this barren
wood. Outside, as dusk
falls, we walk the garden,
retracing Gethsemane
while the sun sets
in violet and peach
and wine-blood while
the muffled fireworks
explode. In the forsaken
orchard of fruit trees
and wild wheat, juniper
and grackles, swallows
dive into darkness.
We penitents, idolators,
transgressed the coming
night, we pissed on
clover and stirred up
the bumble bees--we
were invaders, renegades,
transplanted evangelists,
zealots seeking, as
we all do, salvation.