Jesus doesn’t smell of beeswax,
plaster statues, or polished wood.
In this Franciscan church,
Jesus smells of unlaundered clothes,
of smelly socks, of sun-dried perspiration,
of soiled shoes, of urine and used underwear.
He smells of last night’s dinner, of stale beer,
of cigarette smoke and marijuana.
Here one smells poverty and weariness,
one smells not enough sleep
and lack of privacy,
and one smells the great, humble efforts
of pride and human dignity.
My mouth fills with sweetness
For the smell of God envelopes me.
There is no need for incense
to carry my prayers to Heaven.
God is here.
Monday, September 29, 2008
where god is
(saw this poem up on the wall in the break room @ the place i volunteer)