Its been some time since I’ve explained meaning behind the prose. Of recent I’ve received a lot of new followers. I love and appreciate that a lot! I am really encouraged by the interaction with those in the wordpress world. Of any piece of writing style on this blog poetry has received the most attention.
This particular poem is putting together cynicism at the past and the body of Christ. The optimist in me believes in a lot of people and movements and my current church echoes of a cry for “revival!” But sometimes when you have heard one message with the same bullet points it becomes questionable not because of the information but because of the lack of transformation. Its mostly on me actually. Yes, leaders are accoutable more than “followers!” but who stands before the Judgment seat of Christ? How many parables point to leaders? Not many. Whether a wise virgin or a foolish one or whether you are a wheat or a tare or whether you are a coward and bury your talent in the sand we all stand before Christ. And its a one on one conversation.
How many things do we need to listen to that are not the bible. Maybe I am young but it seems like its a money maker to be “prophetic.” I have no interest in attending some flighty prophetic conference that will give a lot of words that I could have just googled. I am not picking a side or am in a position to criticize but what is the truth? And who is responsible for finding it out. ALL OF US. Its not on one person or one church or one leader. Its on you.
Sometimes there is no other way
Sidewalk chalk with His body on the pavement
Son of Man that made the payment,
Blood spilled dreams now fulfilled in You
Furiously free and never at ease,
Backyard talks with the sun free of charge,
Who am I without the tabernacle?
Who am I away from that place?
Blue floor turned to gray,
Millions that see it every day,
Trouble with your interpretation
For it seems like the only way to look
At things is the gnostic things,
The inner knowing from all the
Pressing, from all the dressing
Seems fake sometimes that no
One really has the answer,
Seems like a form cause there’s
Little power,
Fear of being wrong is worse
Then being right,
I am not young anymore,
I’ve hit the books like the rest
Of them,
I’ve hit the floor like the rest
Of them,
I’ve been through suffering
At the edge of dying,
At the piling up shame and
Regret,
Guilt has killed me worse then
Murder, worse then lust,
Worse than girls and going
Much to far—
Self righteous is a warning
From the man that had all
The sex and wisdom needed
To be a man,
False is not wrong information
But manipulation in the power
That you have been given,
Gentiles know nothing of
Being Jewish and we might
Never know what it is like to
Be bombed at everyday,
Who’s right? Probably no
One—who’s wrong? Probably
Everything I say and think—
Who is worthy? Not me,
To even speak?
To even talk of Holy things?
To even say that prayer is always
The answer is as good as curing
Cancer—its not an answer when
Someone is suffering,
So I am sick of church
Sick of the seats,
Sick of the liars next
To me, sick of all the probably
Messengers that have nothing
To really say,
Sick of language that is
Perverse, that is false but
Dressed up like righteous.
Most of all I am sick of me,
Sick of fear,
Sick of regret
Sick of looking at the cross
And not being changed—
Worthy is a worthless
Word to a lazy man that
Will not live different
Worthless is a show in the
Name of being different
Worthless are the bullets that
They fire, for I will not accept
Another’s calling when I am
Standing before Him,
No one really will matter then
But how I treated the confusion
And the cynicism, that is the greatest
Test of all
