Chalice

Not all are welcome! And who gave you the right

to speak for the Almighty? Did you ever think

that you might be too stupid to judge for God?

"Do not judge, or you too will be judged.

For in the same way you judge others, you

will be judged, and with the measure you use,

it will be measured to you.” Who said that?

Oh! Only the man you claim to be God.

But what does he know? He never led a church.

____________________________________________________

When you exclude others according to your own lights, you may find the lights going out.

____________________________________________________

Chalice

Light from the stained glass spread across the sanctuary floor in streaks of red and blue, like blood and bruises scrubbed into the tiles. The fans overhead turned lazily. A child coughed once, then stopped. Behind the pulpit and out of sight, the organ droned slowly in a somber minor key.

The priest raised the mic. He held it close to his lips, with the practiced reverence he displayed when raising the chalice to his mouth. “We come now to the table,” he said, voice smooth, amplified, controlled. “But not all are welcome.”

A murmur passed through the pews. In the back, the waitress from the nearby cafe stood, eyes fixed on the altar rail. Her dress was plain. Her son, expelled from the church school the week before, was not with her. She moved one step forward.

The priest’s voice rose. “There are those who mock discipline. Who cast aside the law. And they think they can come here”—he gestured toward the altar—“and take this holy cup as if they deserved it.”

The mic buzzed with a faint hum. His words echoed from the marble. He leaned into it, savoring the reverberation.

She stepped forward again. Her face showed no emotion, but her hands were clenched. A flush started creeping up her throat. Her eyes dropped, then locked back on the rail. She let out one quick breath and brushed her fingertips against the pew beside her. Then she took several steps forward.

The priest paid no attention to her. “Some of us remember what respect used to mean,” he said, eyes sweeping the room. “Some of us still care.”

A boy whispered to his mother. A pair of elderly women shifted in their pew.

The waitress reached the front. She knelt. A slight tremor passed through her shoulders, then stilled.

The priest paused. Sweat glistened at his collar. He looked down at her, then back to the crowd. “And yet here we are. The defiant, the disgraced—kneeling in front of the Lord like sin has no consequence.”

The mic popped. A high whine squealed, cut, then rose again, sharper.

He flinched and tapped it. “But God sees—”

The mic shrieked, then died.

Silence. Even the fans above seemed to quieten, their blades wobbling soundlessly in the thick air.

The organist did not play. The priest opened his mouth, but without the mic his voice sounded dry and tinny. He inhaled through his nose. His fingers tightened around the mic. For a moment, his hand trembled. His teeth gritted.

The waitress stood. She took the wafer, drank from the cup. She turned and walked back down the aisle, neither hurried nor slow. The colored light spilled across her like shards of broken glass.

Behind the pulpit, the choir stood, hands folded. No one moved. Eyes fixed forward, they made no sound.

The priest looked to them. “Let us sing,” he said.

No one sang.

He stood in the color-stained silence, the mic hanging from his hand like an unblessed chalice.