Here in GC land, we thought this poem was especially pertinent considering the recent brouhaha over Barack Obama’s minister.
Please remember to enjoy the genius of Sim Stafford responsibly.
We sat in our seats awaiting His return,
“In the meantime, a word from out pastor.”
It’s the same thing every Sunday, man:
What the devil are we here for?
When the collection plate goes by I remember
Why I leave my wallet at home: Sitting on it
So long throws my hips out of line. Good thing
We kneel, stand, kneel, stand, kneel, stand, but
Not before setting our tongues on autopilot
To reaffirm our ability to memorize and recite
In the drone of unison. Man, I can’t wait—
Oh! There they go, robes and all: Damn,
That’s my jam! A free (for me) live show
Every Sunday, and all I have to do is sit,
Kneel, stand, kneel, stand, sit, listen, nod,
Throw my hands up, nod, and repeat
After the loud guy with the complex
Stitching on his robe (the one at the microphone).
He’s read the Book front to back, back to front
At least thirteen dozen times; he’s visited
Us in the hospital; he speaks of love and hope
And redemption, but why is he yelling
At me, and commanding me to
Kneel and stand so much?
Why is he telling me what I did last
Night will ruin my plan (resting) for the afterlife?
It’s like going to a concert and getting bad vibes
After the man in the spotlight bites
Off a bat’s head. Will I be the next mammal
In the room to perish in the jaws of a
Mythical land of lions and tigers and
Rivers filled with sticks?—
Oh my Goodness!
There is no place
Like my home church.
See you next Sunday for communion.
Rounds of plasma are on me.