Love the quick fix,
the annual budget
and hired staff with pay,
always want more of everything on the plate.
Fear the face on the front of the head,
and to be truly known.
And you will see what you really think.
No mystery in the path ahead and no danger.
Safe in your seat, just attending.
When your tithe is needed,
they’ll call you more than brother or sister.
When they want your last margins
they’ll pressure you.
So as those called friends
and not slaves by Jesus, dont.
Be loved and love as your creed,
for God so loved the…world.
Give until you know cheerful empty pockets,
the true poverty of liberated abandon,
waste it on the panhandlers.
Denounce the Pastor,
the Metropolitan and the Pope,
and embrace them like a bride left at the altar.
Cry your infidelity
to the One Holy Catholic Church
and wash your filthy garments in her holy waters.
Kiss the brethren and live like a virgin.
Be a friend to all that choose to say
they never knew you.
Don’t trust ‘em
cause you know
what’s in ‘em.
Pester them with questions
like a sugared up toddler,
invest in the nursery’s snacks.
Plant growing things in the parking lot,
and bring in a fruit plate to the narthex.
Tell everyone to meet on the beach
cause Jesus is teaching,
and save the sanctuary for tour guides,
and overdue energy bills.
Rejoice in the voices of the unprofessionals,
invest in congregational maracas.
Prophesy visions of dancing bones,
returning breath and armies of those
who only whisper their sins.
Hear the confession of the abusers,
and buy Kotex for the post-abortion bleeder.
Laugh at the end of all things,
light the match if needed,
you’ve read the end of the book.
Don’t give your ears to men or women,
the children are the last of the prophets,
ask yourself, “Can we play with it or does it rhyme?”.
Skip your kids 100th away game,
and return to signing to Jesus.
Take the visitor’s withered hand,
you’re the only one with the gift of healing.
Break your vows to the distractions
and swear allegiance to the Angel’s in disguise.
As soon as everyone knows your schedule, delete it.
Turn off the notifications,
and post a pic of your undone laundry,
instead of the sourdough
and wandering geese.
Be normal, predictable and boring,
settle for pretty average,
just someone who shows up,
and practice not being
the savior of every tragedy.
This poem is inspired by Wendell Berry’s poem: Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front (https://ag.arizona.edu/~steidl/Liberation.html)
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