Leaving the Church

At dusk I came to the church
as someone might come
to a place long promised to him.

The building stood pale in the fading light.
The windows held the last colors of the sun—
violet, red, a little gold
spilling over the faces of the saints.

A bell sounded once
and then withdrew into silence.

Inside, the air smelled of wax
and old wood.

Someone had lit incense.
It moved slowly upward
through the beams of the roof.

People sat quietly in the pews.
The organ began to breathe.
Voices followed it,
thin but earnest.

For a moment I remembered
the feeling of my youth.

That early belief
that the soul might rest somewhere
without questioning.

The comfort of thinking
one had already arrived.

But as the service continued
the language changed.

Nothing violent happened.
No accusation.

Still, certain phrases
closed the space around them.

The warmth of the room
seemed reserved
for approved words.

I understood something then.

To remain here
I would have to make my thoughts smaller.

Belonging required
a certain narrowing of mind.

No one said this aloud.
Yet it was present
in the careful order of the sentences.

The sermon moved forward
with admirable balance.

Each idea fitted neatly into the next.

But I sensed a boundary
drawn quietly around inquiry.

Thought was permitted
only if it did not wander too far.

Like a small candle
placed safely before an altar.

But thought does not behave that way.

It does not obey a choir
or fall silent at command.

When the time for communion came
I held the bread in my hand.

The wine touched my tongue.

I waited for the old astonishment
I had once believed would come.

Nothing answered.

Only the familiar taste
and the quiet of the room.

The service ended.

People gathered their coats.
They spoke kindly to one another.

I felt already
as if I were standing
at some distance from them.

Outside the evening air
was wide and cold.

The sky above the street
offered no instruction.

I placed my hand
on the wooden door.

Its grain was rough and real
beneath my fingers.

I closed it.

Not in anger.

Only because I understood
what would be required
to open it again.

To stay
I would have to distrust
the mind that asks.

I would have to call
the dimming of reason
a form of peace.

I cannot do that.

If this leaves me outside,
then outside is where I will live.

I walked down the dark street.

Behind me the church
remained warm and orderly.

Before me there was only night.

It promised nothing.

Yet in that open darkness
I felt at least

that I had kept
myself intact.

The house of belief was closed.

The hunger for truth remained.

And so I continued walking
under a sky
that required no lie.