(About a 1 minute read)
You are a mystery to me, preacher man,
A not-quite-Christian mystery,
How you stand behind a pulpit on Sundays
Wearing that ridiculous second-hand
Chicken-suit, thumping out words
Against homosexuals, fornicators,
Abortionists, feminists, liberals,
And just about everyone else,
Except those who march
In perfect step with you.
To me, your sermons are as relevant
To the spiritual mysteries of Jesus
As is your tenaciously worn bird outfit.
You don’t have the wisdom
Of most common people,
Let alone the wisdom of Christ.
I wonder where in all that you shout
Is God? I suspect when you say
You’ve found him
Somewhere moving inside of you,
What you found was intestinal gas.
I’ve read about your seven mansions,
Your impressive fleet of cars,
And your 26 million dollar private jet
That you’ve appropriately donated
To yourself, the poor in spirit.
I’ve also read about how
You at last take your bird suit off,
Revealing your true authenticity,
When you’ve flown into Washington
To deal out the Evangelical vote
To the false whores of politics and power.
I know my words can’t change you
Because it’s quite obvious
To all but your devout followers
That not even the Word can do that.
I’m just writing this poem to warn
Others there’s a man who stands
Behind a pulpit who preaches salvation
But can’t save himself and can’t love.