What Religion Smells Like
Sometimes
Early on a cold Sunday morning in the first quarter of the year
I will turn left and walk up the road to the church
Then left again through the gates into the garden
I will pace ten grey slabs of the path
And enter by a narrow opening,
One great oak door heaved back from another
Leaving the morning light behind
I will pass through a dimly lit lobby
And enter into a new light
The sense of sight now overwhelmed
By sense of smell
Bacon, eggs, eau de cologne
The common tang of one holy faith
Incarnate in toast and ketchup
Plates wiped clean
Of yolk
And baked beans.
Inhaling the incense of this fine faith
I will turn left to walk down the nave
At the chancel I will find a seat
Between someone with a home
And someone without
She who minutes ago left the soft bosom of family
And he who slept on this hard floor all night
I will smell tired clothes on tired lives
Aftershave fragrant with fry-up
The scent of a long day dawning
Sitting, standing,
Walking, waiting
Another night, another shelter, another floor
I will breathe in the resignation and the fear
Maybe the hope (maybe not)
I will not smell the gifts of bread and wine
When they arrive
But we will know them in another sense
As we know the sacred scent in all good gifts
This smell of breakfast in a church
The pungent holy ghost of a winter night shelter
The fleeting aroma of another kind of world
The smell of true religion.
Taken from Martin Wroe's BLOG http://martinwroe.com
