Tears of faith or tears of sadness?
They line up like the people in the pews, ready to spew. One by one, trying to conceal their doom from a God that never cared anyway. A master who keeps track of your lacking mistakes. Tells you of hell, but promises to receive you at heaven’s gates. But wait, not if you happened to forget to repent for being gay? He’s got you in the palm of his hands, but he can’t lend you a hand to let you in for a sin you never did commit? Don’t worry, he’s not worthy to receive you, so only say the word and you shall be healed.
Shocking to say, this all leads to a faith; a game where there is no blame for the events of a day.
A confessional explanation and the price that you pay?
The way a child learns to fold his hands when he prays. The way his knees are sore from having kneeled for too long, waiting for the end of a church organ’s song.
So where was the love in books piled up of hymnals and songs to the one who would give it all up for petty little us? Your people are sinners but what have they done? Forgive them the lives they have chosen and won? That message is blurred, misguided, perverse. There is so much more about your universe you’ve yet to have heard -- from the mouth of a bird; the mouth of a river; from a shiver only real truth could have given you. The truth they denied you; they stole it away with indulgence and hate, for the fear that you someday might have learned of their rage. That you’d make them pay for the lives that never needed to be saved anyway.
Well what does this mean?
How should we know when the lies from the Word is all the truth we’ve been told?
A search light is on, but no one is looking for home. Like the first pitch of a fist fight when you’re fighting alone. Left swinging at ghosts: at the emptiness of what you were supposed to have known -- what the scriptures have missed, of what must have been skipped, the secrets kept as you were taught to forget. An original sin to withhold what they know and point out the madness behind all that you don’t.
Now, there’s barely a hopeful note left in a tune from long ago -- from a prayer now layered under inches of cold snow. They taught you to bury the gift that you hold in order to keep you pleading their savior to free you -- from all that you could have been on your own.
Instead of making him a friend, they’ve taught you how to make him a foe.
The PERFECT opposition to a rudely HUMAN soul.
If only you had known, he was the mirror image of your soul; maybe you’d be able to love the life of your own. And maybe you could love the way you smile and the curve of your bones.
They line up like the people in the pews, ready to spew. One by one, trying to conceal their doom from a God that never cared anyway. A master who keeps track of your lacking mistakes. Tells you of hell, but promises to receive you at heaven’s gates. But wait, not if you happened to forget to repent for being gay? He’s got you in the palm of his hands, but he can’t lend you a hand to let you in for a sin you never did commit? Don’t worry, he’s not worthy to receive you, so only say the word and you shall be healed.
Shocking to say, this all leads to a faith; a game where there is no blame for the events of a day.
A confessional explanation and the price that you pay?
The way a child learns to fold his hands when he prays. The way his knees are sore from having kneeled for too long, waiting for the end of a church organ’s song.
So where was the love in books piled up of hymnals and songs to the one who would give it all up for petty little us? Your people are sinners but what have they done? Forgive them the lives they have chosen and won? That message is blurred, misguided, perverse. There is so much more about your universe you’ve yet to have heard -- from the mouth of a bird; the mouth of a river; from a shiver only real truth could have given you. The truth they denied you; they stole it away with indulgence and hate, for the fear that you someday might have learned of their rage. That you’d make them pay for the lives that never needed to be saved anyway.
Well what does this mean?
How should we know when the lies from the Word is all the truth we’ve been told?
A search light is on, but no one is looking for home. Like the first pitch of a fist fight when you’re fighting alone. Left swinging at ghosts: at the emptiness of what you were supposed to have known -- what the scriptures have missed, of what must have been skipped, the secrets kept as you were taught to forget. An original sin to withhold what they know and point out the madness behind all that you don’t.
Now, there’s barely a hopeful note left in a tune from long ago -- from a prayer now layered under inches of cold snow. They taught you to bury the gift that you hold in order to keep you pleading their savior to free you -- from all that you could have been on your own.
Instead of making him a friend, they’ve taught you how to make him a foe.
The PERFECT opposition to a rudely HUMAN soul.
If only you had known, he was the mirror image of your soul; maybe you’d be able to love the life of your own. And maybe you could love the way you smile and the curve of your bones.
More happiness exists than you would otherwise know.
If you can hear this, then you’re calling. It’s time to come home.
On eagles wings. by Kimberly Manley is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
