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Christianity and Literature 518 June 1st Liturgy In the ordinariness of a day bright with just–because, we salivate, swill Bud, chew well-done chops slaughtered last week by your brother-in-law. Earlier, you made Bach bellow through pipes, pumped the organ beyond the ordinary stone walls of the nearby resort chapel. You do not believe the truth of our praise. The retired priest believes the words of your hymns, hums them into his sermon, stretches truth across a congregation chewing the Ordinary. Over barbecue, you stretch his life across a lawn that praises the ordinary, your words drained of rhythm but bright with what we slaughter. Christianity and Literature 519 At his retirement party, his first wife believed it was a closet, stepped in, two flights of stairs bellowing their rhythm across her spine and neck. What could she hum on the way down but hell, the bright dark of death praising the ordinariness of error? He remarried an ordinary parishioner, believed the bright hope of youth could bellow rhythms drained from his faithful throat. She feeds him creamed beef, hums him to sleep with hymns she wants to believe. We stare at the green beans and weeds in your garden, devour the rhubarb cobbler your wife feeds us. Christianity and Literature 520 As a child, you played “Funeral Director,” dreamed of orchestrating the ordinariness of death; instead you pedal hymns and belief at summer resorts. We believe everything in all its extraordinary rhythms, between Buds hum a liturgy composed from your leftover Bach. Marjorie Maddox ...


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pp. 518-520
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