Notes on an Easter Pageant

Your thunder and flash and spectacle
Envelops us, fills space
Music swells, lights flare
Your sermon
Wrapped in drama’s clothing
Becomes our world.

You seem so proud
So sincere in your fervor
That it breaks my heart to say it

But your god doesn’t speak to me.

Your canned caucasian Messiah
Your plastic pageant prophet
Your scripted god of rote gospel–

How could this dead thing speak to the living?

How could this anemic American icon
Speak hope to the despairing
Justice to the beaten-down
Family to the despised?

Where is your god’s shoulder to cry on,
Breast to lean on,
Cup to share drink,
Hands to break bread?

How can this scripture-quoting mannequin
Reach into a haze of alienation and shit
To clasp a hand and hold it fast in love?

How can your frankenstein’s creature
Of mismatched doctrine
Share a meal with a junkie,
A drink with a bum,
A touch with a whore?

How can it look on me and love me,
Without judgment,
Help me bear my seething ball
Of rage and terror and loneliness and self-loathing
Without adding to my shame?

No, your god can’t speak to me,
Because your god
Is a dead thing of guilt and hypocrisy,
A mockery of a living, loving Yeshua

Systematically created to destroy
Every shred of harmony, freedom and community
That the living man worked to build.

It is a thing of Empire, of control,
A thing that comforts billionaires
While starving beggars,
Honors oppressors
While shaming the downtrodden.

Your god doesn’t speak to me,
Because your god doesn’t have love,
But an agenda,
Has replaced human connection
With a law of denial.

I know you prop up this dead Messiah
With the utmost sincerity.
And so I hate to say it
But I hate more to sit still
And take it.

Because the ones that this god will speak to
Have no idea the life of bondage
That awaits them.

The little ones tugging on shirtsleeves
Begging to know
What it all means
Will recieve, as did I,
Only a seed of guilt and slavery.

And that alone is enough for me
To invade your comfortable piety
And shout on the street,

Your god doesn’t speak to me!

But I don’t say this
With the sorrow you’d expect.
No, I say it with joy,
For the days when it did speak to me
Were a torment and a trap.

Now that your god is silenced
I hear so many voices!
Voices of love, comminity, wellness and strength
Voices of wind and sun, river and tree

As a wide world tells its story,
Pained and beautiful,
A world rushing in
To fill my senses with life
And life abundantly.

Since your god was silenced
I even sometimes hear the whisper
Of that living Christ
Echoing through time
Bestowing not proverbs,
But genuine relation.

So don’t weep for me.
But allow me some tears
For those little ones
Who will stumble into death today
As I entertain hope that one day
They will endure the pains of rebirth

When your god doesn’t speak to them anymore.



1 Response to “Notes on an Easter Pageant”

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