I was having a disagreement with a fella online. We were going back and forth regarding some political BS. Long story short, he proceeded to legitimize his credibility by saying he was a humanitarian and thus his opinion carried more weight and truth since he did an astounding amount of good works(deeds). I know by the fact he proceeded to roll out a screed of all his accomplishments from NC to Louisiana to etc., etc., etc.

I left off the discussion by quoting Matthew 6:1-4 regarding doing such work in secret. I always felt people who did this rode on the backs of the poor and downtrodden for their own notoriety. I’ve know many like him that do such work but never telling anyone about it and they constantly amaze me with their hidden magnanimity. I admire such people.

This poem is not one of those pat on the backs. It’s about churches and the cost of being a member. I left because the cost to my soul was more than I was willing to pay:

I step into the church’s foyer,
look around to see the riches of God’s grace…
come to roost upon this place.

The coolness on the walls,
the sheen of rich oozing out its pores..
of lavish, polished wood.

I gather wrinkly, ragged coat..
underneath me my feet float..
to a pew.

I await to tell my sins,
ask forgiveness once again,
as I think of family and friends..
shedding money for the wares..
being offered as the pastor stares.

I watch the old
as well as new and think..
of all they give and do..
to keep the church’s walls pristeen,
while at home it’s barely clean.

Should I buy food?
or pay the rent?
while bills pile high on my old table..
knowing well my check is just a fable.

Talked about,
never true,
just enough for maybe two..
or 3 days of drink

Then remember as I think,
I’m now sober..
cuz what’s left to the church turned over..
thanks to thee,
God bless me in my poverty!


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.