(“I will
never erase their names from the Book of Life, but I will announce before my
Father and his angels that they are mine.” Revelation 3:5b)
The tunes still haunt me
like dreams of waking to visions
that escape me later in the day. But the words, I cannot abide them,
at least not many. Why would I want to sing about how much
of
a wretch I am?
And, salute my nation’s flag right after reciting the Lord’s Prayer?
Never again!
My robes have not always stayed
white,
I am often clothed with a wardrobe of misbegotten
grains of sand that I never shook out of my soul after a day
of hearing of hell so much and
wanting to talk of heaven. And the way they say
they can pray the gay away
has turned me inside out. How proud so many must be
to be on the right side of eternity.
You know the unerased
names, I am sure you do.
You can think of every moment in the presence of those
who only drew you closer, who only saw you purer,
who only sang of beauty even while rocks were thrown through
the rainbow windows
where worshipers sang of peace like a river.
I will never join
missionary trips called Conquest
that take the message to Native Americans. How tone deaf
do we have to be? Don’t ever tell me again that you could
feel the oppression
once you crossed the boundaries of the reservation.
I felt it
walking down Wall Street.
And please don’t sing, “Brethren
We have Met to Worship”,
and clap with glee while immigrants are flown a thousand miles
away from your state. How much square footage, o Texas, o Florida,
in your mega churches?
It’s not for me to say
whose name is still legible in the book of life,
it’s not for me to critique whether your robes are clean or not.
All I know is, I’ve met Jesus.
And I cannot remember,
for the life of me, him ever turning away
the needy or oppressed. How confused do you have to be
Church
To have your ears tickled
by pretty music for an hour and
not feel a thing for those with dirty faces and fearful eyes;
you know, we’ve seen it before;
Jesus in disguise.
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