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McChristianity
I am on top of this, the apocalypse,
hook in mouth, rod in hand, to prove that I am
a fisher of men; turning wine into
urination, this stream of consciousness
not enough to make me believe,
follow Him in blind faith. Yet you ask me
what I see. I see that He has come down
to reap the souls of the living and the dead.
I checked a box in a crowded church
that read, "Yes, I do accept Jesus as my
personal Lord and Savior," my search
having ended. All this time, though, I have
pretended, through the Sundays and the
lunches and the holy dunking booth.
It was all just a spoof, my outward showing
to cover my bases, hiding the lost soul inside.
McChristianity has taken its toll.
I ordered Jesus as I would fries to go
with a burger at the drive-thru window.
When they pass around the collection plate
I pay for my meal (and what a steal!)
The body and blood, I'll have seconds,
as I gave a little extra today.
Next week, I'll tell you which hymns to play.
You still do not recognize me, your stock
phrases, "God bless you," and, "Peace be with you"
same as they ever were, yet you seem unsure,
as if you don't know if you should release
the wafer to me; I might defecate
something consecrated, and there's nothing
worse than Holy Crap except maybe the
holier than thou crap that I've been pulling.
And what good is a bought Word, communion
with the undeserved, prayers unheard?
Simply a method to deal with mortality,
I think to myself, sitting next to a
weeping willow tree watching the leaves fall,
wondering where they go after they touch
ground. The wind whispers in my ear a
secret I thought I'd never hear: It's Him.
-Jeremy C. Garland