The Line of Scrimmage

FCEF-cover-flat
The Line of Scrimmage

Yesterday, my high-school buddy’s
big Pentecostal Pastor’s
heart almost gave out, but his wife,

led by the Spirit, popped two aspirin
in him and drove
like hell to the ER thirty miles

away. Thomas played defensive lineman
forty years ago, and now—
according to Facebook—defends

his Full Gospel Ark of the Covenant
flock from gays,
Obama, gun control, conspiracy,

and ACLU threats to public displays
of the baby Jesus
at Christmas and the Ten Commandments

carved in stone. His charismatic
posts reveal a deep
love for cheese grits, trucks, Spock,

swap meets, Israel, and fish fries.
A real potluck Lord’s
Supper, even I must admit. The line

of scrimmage, and its concomitant
neutral zone,
seems to have narrowed for this

wiry-haired friend I still love
and wish well, leaving
so little room for the apostolic

doubt I find more and more catechized
in my own question,
question, and answer faith.