The pastor is preaching, is trying to hit
the heart today: What really is Mass, why
is it the center of our faith, why really do we
come? Familiar questions I’ve asked (though
minus the m.) Now this is interesting. He says,
this church is Bethlehem, the home of bread.

His voice is gradually becoming a mewling
through the microphone that annoys me, the
strings in his box tightening to a choke like
ends of piano wire, almost always to tearing.
I can’t see past the doxologizing, but it sounds that
this is why we come, his eyes might just have torn.

It is the day of the nativity of some
Lord, or incarnate God, or son—an almighty
Savior. I guess I’d be histrionic too, then, if I
knew there was something called my Salvation.
If all that was needed was to repent and believe
and be faithful and give yourself.

That’s not really hard if you never happen to
not know your sin or whiff at air or be betrayed or
fail to be gotten. At least something else is, though.
There’s a girl I spot I would like to ****. She is
attractive from where I’m standing, flirty I can
tell, leering at me and gossiping with another

cute girl. If I happen to meet her after the service,
I’d like not to have to say much to get her in bed.
That way, there isn’t the risk of exhaustion or
feeling pointless from trying to tell so much.
But that is always going to be hard. That is why
I’ll stop sometimes, just chew the bread.