Dark Side of the Light
Todd Matson
he sits on the edge of heresy
somewhere between dusk and dawn
lamplight fading off to the right
leaving him in shadow
left of center
recycling the same sermon
he has preached a thousand times
about divine love and grace
the one message
he vowed in seminary
to deliver every single Sunday
for the rest of his days
before his days became
an insidious creeping darkness
threatening to engulf him
before he realized
people can become immune to preachers
like staff infections to penicillin
and when he realized that
a thousand Sundays later
he inadvertently, unconsciously
scribbled on his recycled paper
something truly dreadful
something he had never known
something he had never been
heard to preach on a thousand Sundays
something his parishioners
could not bear to know anything about
an unspeakable, unforgivable doubt . . .
about whether any of it is real . . .
and so there he sits
on the edge of heresy
somewhere between dusk and dawn
in desperate need of a pastor
praying for love
waiting for grace
lamplight flickering
fading off to the right
leaving him in shadow
left of center
on the dark side of the light
