A poem has changed since we were little;
“Here is the church, here is the steeple,
Open it up...”
And count all the hypocrites
And funeral picketers
And yes, that's right,
You've all seen the sight.
All sinners, the same.
Claiming to represent His name.
Handing out judgment, pointing out lies,
Without acknowledging the planks in our eyes.
Everyone's human, but apparently
For some it's just too hard to see
That people deal with different struggles alone,
So let those without sin cast the first stone.
Some use their faith like a cutting knife,
To section and dice another's life.
Stabbing at their wrongs.
Jabbing at their sins.
Several use their faith as a club,
Misquoting scriptures to draw others' blood.
Bashing at their lifestyle.
Bludgeoning their choices.
Still others use their faith like a whip,
Cleaving others' opinions, bit by bit.
Striking to the bone of who they are.
Stripping their individuality.
Oh, how that little poem has changed.
The people of the church are not the same.
I don't want religion.
I just want to be Christian.
To love my sisters and brothers,
Without hurting each other.
I don't hold up signs,
I don't condemn those of sin,
I don't demand that others change their lives to fit in.
But I do cling to hope,
For when you look really close
If you open the church,
And peek through the steeple,
There's others like me
Among all those people.