Dear Preacha, I Stand Amazed But Still Unfazed
My not going to church does not make me “unsaved” and your going to church does not make you “saved”
My not going to church does not make me “unsaved” and your going to church does not make you “saved”
By John W. Fountain
Dear preacha, I stand amazed and yet still unfazed…
You speak to me in tones of condescension. And yet, you accuse me of arrogance, pride and pretension.
You ask me if I am “saved,” your words judging, as if it was you who gave your life on Calvary. As if it was your blood and life that were sacrificed for me, dear preacha.
You stare down your nose, dear preacha, presupposing you have all the definitive answers as a “saint” and I a mere “sinner” — because I say to you, “I no longer go to church.” Which I know offends you, in your closed paradigm — cemented by unscriptural lies, passed blindly like sweetened Kool Aid poison from generation to generation.
Lies that have indoctrinated the faith. Blinded you to infallible scriptural truths glaring at your stone face.
Where were you when I had tears in my eyes? When my poverty ran deep and I stood in the welfare line?
And because I do not tow the denominational or religious line; do not subscribe to Constantine lies; do not extol the institution of church as the living organism that is the church, you ask me: “Is that a Masonic ring on your finger”?
You twice over me with judgmental eyes, in the usual faultfinding venture.
I know you caught the sparkling diamond in my left lobe. And that probably offends you too. …So sick of your holy side-eyed rebukes.
In your fear, you seek to demean me while you, dear preacha, seem content swimming in the waters of your own delusion. In this mass confusion that chooses tradition over the Divine vision of what the church was meant to be:
Not a religious hierarchical class of so-called righteous folk. Not a church perennially stuck playing a game of Hide and Seek. But a beacon of redemption. A resting place of eternal hope for the least of these, dear preacha.
“Come down,” you imply. “You’re much too high.” Except it’s your tone that drips with pure arrogance saturated with self-pride.
You sense, in the midst of my surety, a “lack of humility”? So you offer your prescription of church membership and “accountability”? Suggest that I submit myself to preachas like you. So that you can put your foot on my neck too?
Sorry, bruh. No, thank you.
Where were you when I had tears in my eyes? When my poverty ran deep and I stood in the welfare line?
Where were you when I couldn’t find a job, was hood consigned, or the night I was robbed — lying in the street, looking up at the stars, my papers scattered to the wind, dreams so far?
Where were you when all I had was the struggle? Where were you when all I could see was trouble?
And how much of what you prescribe is really about healing for me? Why you tryin’ to lock me down with your religiosity?
Tryin’ to make me church-bound when Christ has already set me free. How about you put your eyes on yourself and take your eyes off me?
…Dear preacha, I know, my words offend. You try and disguise your offense with smiling eyes that deep within lie the plain irrefutable truth I see:
That my truth assails the core of what you believe: That church is the answer.
Except church is not the Christ.
Church ran and hid when Jesus gave his life. Church does not save. Has no soul to give. No blood that makes me whole. No power to heal a sin-sick soul.
I see, in your eyes, staring back at me, dear preacher, only love waxed cold.
And I hear the same old tired familiar lie about how my not going to church somehow makes me less saved than you. Except there is not even one scripture that says that is true.
And I stand here amazed at how you can’t see the beam in your own eye. And yet, you so clearly see the speck in mine.
…Tell you what you ought to do dear preacher: Pass. Me. By.
Just pass me by…
Email: Author@johnwfountain.com
Website: www.author.johnwfountain.com
