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| by Megan Hamilton |
We became our own gods,
the divine man on the stage
with his microphone, a scalpel
dissecting a story to find his own answer.
We talk about service but come every Sunday
we revel in the labour of another,
our chairs laid out, our coffee poured, our kids watched,
yet we worship at the altar of our own sanctimony.
The women are silent,
gagged by cloths they’ve sewn
and food they’ve cooked,
an offering to the false gods at the pulpit.
Our sermons are about love
but only if our plasticine congregations
fit our heteronormative mould;
church is not a place for sinners.
We preach about honour but there is no honour
in worshipping the halo of gold on straight fingers,
a noose to the single and those we deem unworthy,
whose matrimony we declare unholy.
We stand on our pedestals, safe
from the raining judgment we pass on others,
while the poor and the hungry are soaked
as they bang on our closed church doors.
If our idea of religion is a white man
standing outside a church holding a Bible
and asking for peace, then we need to bear witness
to the tear-gassed people he assaulted to get there.
We have severely misunderstood
the religious imperative:
Love. One. Another.
Not love one another
Except
Except
Except.
MEET THE POET:
Wonderful poetry!✌️
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