They know not what they do
Again my stomach turns as our church’s prayer thanks God for a genocide, for starving children, for houses burned because, you see, God is on Israel’s side.
I hear the sermon, once again forlorn, at how we always walk the way of our Barabbas: we’d rather wear red hats than crowns of thorns, and rail at Harvard, immigrants, or public-access.
How many crows will sound before you see the ways you deny Him, to stand closer to the fire? How many times will you, with glee, wage culture wars with Roman cruelty’s ire?
Oh Church, oh church of mine, can you not hear? There is none righteous; y’all need Jesus too! Sin’s not “out there” – it writhes within us here! See! Evil wears more colors than just blue!
Dismayed, I scan my Bible, grieved at you, when blood-red words pierce my anger as it burns, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” A rooster crows in my own inner ear, and in guilt my stomach turns.
To be read alongside: