The Body of Christ is the incarnation
Of the One through whom the world was made,
The image of the invisible God,
Shaping the spinning dust, an elemental dance into forms.
The Body of Christ is bread broken and shared among the faithful
And also the whole throbbing, pulsing, groaning planet.
The tabernacle is no enclosure for Christ,
But merely a sign of Christ’s inner presence
In the heart of all reality.
As a farmer I have felt the often rigid lines
Between work and spirituality dissolve.
When I am in the fields under the sky’s cathedral ceiling,
And the great blue heron from the nearby stream
Heaves into flight
I know I am in the Body of Christ beyond churches.
Digging in the rich earth I awe at how wondrous
Are my fellow creatures, living out their natures,
Part of God’s plan and singing God’s praise.
My nature is to share a sacramental celebration
With the human community, so I worship at a parish church,
But even within those walls, I bring within me the awareness
Of farm and garden’s signs and symbols pointing irrevocably
Toward a God to wonder at and be still before.
Do the people in the communion line know
Where that wafer came from or how the earth was treated
To produce it?
For all they know those wafers might be tainted with pesticides;
Most of the Body of Christ is.
Our symbols are only as good as the realities in which they are grounded.
Christians have ignored their role as land stewards,
Removed themselves from the larger, cosmic Body of Christ.
Every act of eating could be sacramental,
If one knew the love of God shining through the food,
Smiling through the life of the earth.