Dear Preacher Man, Will You Hear My Sinner's Prayer?

In an age of Reverend Ike-ism and Facebook “like-ism,” of Black souls fields, where the harvest lies, where peace ain’t still, chaos reigns, bullets fly, mothers cry and children die, I ask, why?

Photo: Shutterstock; Design: John W. Fountain

By John Wesley Fountain

Hey, Preacher Man
I’m a believer 
But help me to see again
Beyond this sin
That is the hypocrisy of men
Who preach to me
About what Jesus said
But who live like kings
On poverty’s bread
Brothers blind 
To Black souls fields 
Where a plenteous harvest lies
Where peace ain’t still
And chaos reigns
Where bullets fly
Mother's cry
The children die
And strange fruit lies in shell case-laden streets

A boy holds a peace sign during a march against violence held by the Faith Community of St. Sabina. (Photo: John W. Fountain)

Hey, Preacher Man
We suffocate 
Annihilate
While you pontificate
While offering plates 
Circulate
On Sundays
But the church house is closed
On Mondays 
And the preacher vacays
On fun days
Retreats in splendor 
Hearts un-tender
To the plight of sheep
Slip
Slip
Slippin’ into darkness
While you
Sip
Sip
Sip 
Sippin’ on this madness
Big pimpin’ off this sadness
Preacher Man

A woman holds a peace sign during a march against violence held by the Faith Community of St. Sabina. (Photo: John W. Fountain)

And it makes no sense
That you offer no light
No lifeline
Only pie in the sky
And prophet-lies
Dressed in sheep-skin suits
And lizard shoes
With hungry wolves’ eyes
Chasin’ loot
Reverend Ike-ism
In an age of Facebook “like-ism”

Teddy Bear memorials like this one in honor of someone who has been murdered in Chicago are a common on city streets in Black and brown neighborhoods across the city. (Photo: John W. Fountain)

Among preachers nowadays
It’s hard to see the Christ in them
And yet, I hear brother Nat Turner
Screaming from the grave:
“It’s still better to die a free man
Than to live like a slave!”
Father Mike, I know
But who the f--- are you?
Only showing up for the cameras
Tryin’ to get on TV too
Old heads
Can’t get no respect
Still only talkin’ 'bout marchin’ 
But no action
And we still can't get
No satisfaction
Are we there yet?
Preacher man?

The portraits of Chicago murder victims on a memorial wall form the backdrop of the bronze life-like sculpture unveiled recently outside The Faith Community of St. Sabina in Chicago. (Photo: John W. Fountain)

Take us back to the days of old
When the Church House I once knew still had its soul
When the Preacher Man stood tall and bold
Before the hearts of many waxed black like coal
Back to the days when preachers 
Were not gods, but men
Before a Bling-Bling Gospel 
And faith-based sleight of hand
Take me back to the days of old
Way Black when
Before the Black Church lost its soul
Before it turned cold 
So cold
And preachers were shepherds
Meek and low
I’m still a believer, Preacher Man 
But help me to see again

Email: Author@johnwfountain.com

The sculpture of a weeping Jesus kneeling over the body of a young man in a hoody was unveiled recently outside The Faith Community of St. Sabina in Chicago. It is the work of Timothy P. Schmalz—a Canadian figurative artist whose pieces have been installed worldwide, including at historical churches in Rome and at the Vatican. (Photo: John W. Fountain)