Parroted

Parroted

(“These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” Matthew 15:8)

Were your so worried about repercussions that you
turned down the plea of the ragged sojourner?
Did you insist on teaching her the holy lyrics that
you parroted on weekends to thin air?
Did you ask them how they voted to be certain
you had vetted their appropriate costumery?
You might stay with them while the daylight lingered,
but where are you when the shuddering night begins?

Did you inquire about their language, the chief way
you measured their worth? What were the weights you
manufactured to put around their necks again?
How many demands have you made of their antiquities,
how many reprimands for their wrinkled skin?
Do you expect everyone to hear the way your
doorbell announces the days, the hours, the power
that ignores the passion at your door that is stronger
than a ghost?

You wear a gun on your hip when you walk into worship.
The meek shall inherit the earth.
You hold meetings to discuss the upkeep of a building used
only a few hours a week.
The poor shall be filled.
You still smolder over stakes you have claimed that
left others in the lurch.
The peacemakers will be called the children of God.

You want a nation more than you love the church.
You want pats on the back for handing out tracts to those
who can barely walk.
You’ve drawn the line so wide that
it’s become a moat. And the drawbridge is never
lowered
for the occupants left on the outskirts of your hegemony.
You use your authority and excuses to reduce your own liability.

You’ll be shocked at the ones you held at arm’s length who
find God’s embrace before you finish public piety and amens.