The Tunes Still Haunt Me

 The Tunes Still Haunt Me

(“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.

Three Shelves

Three Shelves

(“’And now entreat the favor of God, that he may be gracious to us. With such a gift from your hand, will he show favor to any of you?’ says the Lord of hosts.” Malachi 1:9)

Isn’t it a heavy commentary, filling at least three shelves on a pastor’s bookcase,
saved up for, referenced over and over the first ten years, then unopened after
finding the groove and exploiting the popular. We refer to the Hebrew,
missing the irony in our entreaties. We explain the Greek, and for another dime,
you can buy,
on your way by the hospitality booth
a stapled tome squeezing the last life out of our
twisted recitation of reverence.

Isn’t it a well-dressed diorama, perfectly stuffed with bleached newsprint,
bones connected to calculated concrete to supply the effect which we
just have not found yet,
still underground yet,
and we will add them as soon as we find them,
and we will show you how we still know you would
see it our way.

Isn't it a bulldozer honor, the emcee rises with appreciation on his plate,
appointed to speak, well. Appointed to speak well of the one who led
them so far this far. So far, he’s only talked about himself. “And so, Moses,
here is the card we all signed.” The bulldozer turns, grunts and sits quickly;
the leader is frozen, and it is well past noon until anyone takes another breath.

Isn't it a pale righteousness, the hurt and washless occupation we cover with our
second-hand masks. Dad gave it to Mom, Dad died. Mom gave it to me, Mom died.
I believe, I’ll scratch my chin, I’ve given it to my kids: all three…first with pride.
But now I feel the blood leaving my face; the disgraceful way I never controlled
my passion, my smug, my rhetoric, my hugs meant to welcome, then turn you
to invest in your own

Second-hand masks to hand down with a shrug. “After all, a man of God
told me all about them.”