I get pins and needles everytime I think of church, everytime I think of the bible and sadly everytime I think of God, lately.
But there is bias to that too. Faith works for me, makes sense, when I am six feet deep in madness, and mostly in the sanctity of my solitude.
I get grace, that I am not worthy, that there is nothing I could do to deserve right-standing, and maybe what I need to work on is to accept that I am accepted.
But I get pins and needles every time I see you, brother, every time I see you, sister, sweating and shouting, thumbing and calling out the world, yet the world don’t know what you are good for.
You put work and formulae to what would get me to heaven, or to that bread I am really hungry for, dubbing oils, burning flames and planting into soil. But I don’t know, where in the bible does it say so?
Do you love me? Do you love me with the love of the Lord you are so eager to shove down my throat? Well I don’t see it. I’m looking but all I see is your robe and thick bible, and the mic in your hand and your finger-pointing arm so straight, I could swear I hear a bone break.
And as your voice booms in the p.a., and as your mouth sprays violent saliva rays, I catch my breath and wait for it. Without fail — I give you seconds no more than ten — you’ll ask for my tithe, and my wages, my two cents right after the alter call, right after your declaration of your burden upon your frame, that is me, my salvation, your calling, my prosperity and eternal life.
And surprise surprise, even after that I am never good enough. You come back for me and mine, Sunday to Sunday — whole Sabbaths, whole labour days.
And it’s beyond the coins. Because I could kiss your toes, dress up and serve you as a king, do whatever you want me to so I can be where I need to be. And you would let me. Sadly. Because you get the best of me in my vulnerability.
Yet here I am, now, dying and asking, and I see you see me in my plight. Still my instinct is to wriggle out, because all you give me are these pins and needles, a donkey’s work for something freely given.