The church kitchen door,
  dusted with flour fingerprints
    and dotted with traces of butter
      from the making of yeast rolls now placed
    within the quiet and dark oven
  to await their first rising,
channels a fluid traffic.

The women are in charge, of course
  so the trio of guys rolling out the round tables
    and washing pots as they come off the stove
      remember to stay out of the way.
Among these workers swirl many beliefs
  about when life begins, about Jonah and his whale,
    whom the church should ordain,
      and whether “God” denotes “male.”
But O, how they rally as one
  to feeding the hungers of the heart,
    re-enacting the ancient love feast,
      the first course of the Eucharist.
Fifteen minutes before the appointed hour
  of the Wednesday Night Church Family Supper,
    they coalesce into a poetry of unwasted motion,
      a wordless concentration of thought.
Tonight, the sit down dinner for 75 plus they prepare
  will include members of Christ’s Body more far flung:
    men and women and a few children
      from the homeless shelter downtown.

All shall eat and be satisfied,
  sharing hymns, prayers and poundcake,
    holding conversations over Scripture,
      and even the ramblings of schizophrenic Ned,
    whose medicine taking is a bit patchy,
  add spice and color to this taste and sight
of the goodness of the Lord.

by Dee H. Wade