Part I
We barrelled into Church a motley crue,
composed of one shoeless screaming to be
shirtless, who wanted to run and climb.
Hung from the other arm was one whose
Only desire was to scream and run, but
Who had cried out “I want Jesus” in the parking lot.
I came for the Living Water. Broken, tired,
I came to hear Him tell me love exists.
My husband came for me, and for hope,
And for the sense that everything will be ok.
The Mass is hell with toddlers on board,
But we trust heaven in it, because He is there,
Even when the darkness seems too heavy,
We are there because He came.
Today, was different though.
The air was heavy when we woke, as if it knew,
We fought to Mass, starving for the Bread.
Instead, we were met with him.
The man of God, but just a man,
Condemned those who fight for God.
The devil works in those who think they are good,”
He said, “racism is worse in other countries.”
Before he violated children’s ears with graphic fear,
Stuffing modern justice warriors with straw
Until they looked like war.
Scenes of blood and pain despair far above their heads.
The children grew impatient, shrieking,
They ran around the columns gleeful in rebellion,
As he compared defenders of the dead to spoiled children,
Like a baby girl’s father is less than a playstation.
Livid, we planted our feet on Jesus,
Crying out to Him, we stayed for only Him,
Left quiet, muted, but present.
We begged Him for His presence amidst the dark,
And He had already sent love to us, A family
just across the tile, with horror written on their faces,
They let us know, this Church cares for all the races.
We cried and laughed in anger with them,
Reminding each other of who God is, not this.
Part II
We dragged through the wreckage of
broken desire to reach the altar’s hope.
Heads hung in fear of what the Church could mean,
I lifted my eyes to Jesus, begging for His love,
And His arms reached out over three children.
The children were black, condemned by proxy
Through the entire hour long sermon for hate,
They sat apparently complicit, imprisoned to the wait,
No part of him asked if these children might be afraid,
As he spewed terror from the pulpit in defense of the racist horde.
Helpless, I watched as one child’s eyes opened,
And I asked myself if anything could take away what happened,
They may always remember that moment,
And God willing they don’t think it was Him,
This is why spiritual abuse is a sin.
