you, poet, priest of nothing

I suppose I'm going to have to start writing more theologically in this space, as D. has claimed that I do so over yonder.

It is true that I am attracted to poesy that bears the weight of theological implications, but I am more interested in how the weight is borne than why or to what end. Process, not product. Doubt and imperfection, our personal crutches, mundanities rendered concurrently meaningful and meaningless, or merely rendered.

I would like to say my identity as an Anglican is different from my identity as an Anglophile, but I don't know why this would be a necessary distinction.

After all, a denomination is scarcely more than whatever jacket we happen to fancy, draped over the same body.

I'm a magpie like anyone else (at least any other poet): I like shiny things; also, captivated by smells, sounds, kneeling, sitting, standing, kneeling again - a litany of word, thought, and motion. Anglican worship, I've begun to realize, is like a poetic form I'm drawn to occupy - to love and to subvert. Often, subversion is my means of loving. Just as submersion.


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