He bleats a grey cardboard version of the word of God.
He makes me wish I believed in the kind of Spirit
which strikes men and women with prophecy
or else shuts their mouths to wait for a true saying.
Not the god of committee meetings, an ice-milk
calling no one else heard; a gentleman’s C
In Communications at a community Bible college.
He should have been a farmer.
Maybe then he would have understood
dry days and lightning on the plain,
What it is to work, curse and be cursed,
wrestle with God until your hip pops. He
should read Reynolds Price. He
should weep because he doesn’t understand,
not crow three points about how I don’t.
Oh, Amen! Fantastic write!
ha. do we got to the same church…lol…nah, but i been there surely…there are many a man or woman in the pulpit with no business being there…
I actually wrote this during the sermon. I’m going to hell, aren’t I?
Um yeah, I know these feelings. That whole part from “he should have been a farmer” on . . . wow. Way to drive it home.