When I look at a church today,
I walk past, shake my head, and think how far we’ve come:
From a threatened community to a threatening institution.
I was born to your ranks and taught all your ways,
but there are things I can no longer pretend to believe.
We’ve come so far, brothers and sisters,
from oppressed to oppressor.
Shouldn’t we know better?
It seems to me like we should be the last to throw stones.
If it’s the gays who are going to hell,
what about pastors who profess love and preach hate?
Why is it that I’ve seen more atheists practicing what we preach?
Why are we fighting for our rights instead of righting our wrongs?
Why do we care more about our guns
than the hungry child across the street?
When we say to turn the other cheek,
is that so we can slap the next one harder?
You disturb me in the best possible way.
When I see the hate you have, I am inspired,
inspired to be as unlike you as I can be.
Could I swim upstream,
away from the filth I’ve helped create?
And I begin to hope that, perhaps, I can live my life
without knowing the hate you know,
that you throw around to everyone who isn’t like you.
But then I realize it’s already too late for me.
I know the same feelings you display so liberally.
I know them every time I look in the mirror.
When I see the eyes of that stranger looking back at me, I get angry.
I’ve often considered shaving with my eyes closed.
At least then I wouldn’t have to be reminded of everything.
How can an opportunity I never took weigh so heavily around my neck?
Regret is the weight of things you will never know,
of things you never did,
of things you never should have done.
“I was hungry and you gave me something to eat,
I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink,
I was a stranger and you invited me in,
I needed clothes and you clothed me,
I was sick and you looked after me,
I was in prison and you came to visit me.”
I wish that were true.
“I was hungry and you tossed your leftovers,
I was thirsty and you emptied your glass into the sink,
I was a stranger and you shunned me with your friends,
I needed clothes and you had shirts you never wore,
I was in prison and you never wanted me to leave.”
I’m the problem with the world.
I want the hungry to eat, but I won’t feed them,
I want the lonely to be loved, but I won’t love them,
I want the worried to feel peace, but I won’t calm them,
I want the angry to forgive, but I won’t forgive my tormentors.
I want the world to change without inconveniencing me.
I want to be remembered without doing something memorable.
I want to change myself, but I don’t know how.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe what I need to do is nothing.
And maybe, once I am okay with who I am,
I can forgive everyone who tried to make me who they wanted me to be.
Maybe, once I let go of what can’t be done or undone,
I can move forward;
I can do and not do better and worse things.
Maybe it all starts with me.
Maybe I don’t have to change the world at all.
What if I see the world differently after I see myself differently?
What if I didn’t hate myself for things I can’t change
and instead lived life like I wanted to be here?
What if I weren’t a lost cause?
And what if I weren’t a loser?
And what if I had potential?
And what if I saw it in you?