Knife in the Offering Plate

They passed the tray around like it was sacred. Like copper bowls could wash clean what they refused to admit they did.

He sat beside me. Buttoned shirt. Stained cuffs. Always too quiet during hymns.

He said give what you can. He said God sees intention.

He also said God sees everything.
Which meant He watched.
Which meant He knew.
Which meant He did nothing.

The first time I bled during communion, I thought it was normal. I thought maybe the crackers were sharper here. Maybe faith had teeth. Maybe I bit down too hard on the Body.

I put a blade in the tray once. Nothing fancy. Just a kitchen knife. Dull. Still wet. I wanted to see if anyone would notice.

They passed it along like any tithe. The ushers didn’t flinch. The deacon even smiled. Said thank you.

I put it in again the next week. Still nothing. Then again. Then again.

By the sixth week, someone else had joined me. I didn’t know who. But the blade was different. Cleaner. Sharper. And on it — etched shallow into the handle — a word.

“Yours”

I kept that one.
Slept with it under my pillow.
Never asked forgiveness again.

Sometimes, I still show up.
Sit in the back.
Watch them pass the plate.

And I wonder how many knives it holds now.