Shortly after its birth it was carried to the front of the church and christened into an unfortunate journey.
First, messages of hope and love taught in Sunday school were ripped from its young heart by hypocritical parents.
It was taught that life and death were in the power of the tongue yet this lesson wasn’t heeded by family members who saught to kill its destiny with every spoken word.
As it grew older the demands of tithing and constant attendance to defunct ministries plagued with dysfunction, began to chip away at its faith as spiritual dryness left it thirsty.
Something was missing but it didn’t know what.
Tradition strapped it to a pew to be fed empty cliches by ministers who accepted the call,
but refused to live the lifestyle.
Ministers who preferred to read Bible Cliff notes rather than study the meat of The Word, so that their time could be devoted to sitting on prestigious boards and look important instead of feeding their hungry, emaciated and undisciplined members.
The soul was searching for peace and serenity but only found impractical teaching and religa-tainment.
Sunday mornings had little difference than the clubs of Saturday night.
Though words were different the hearts were the same: ME, ME, ME.
A choir director hooting and hollering in front of the congregation like a hip hop artist in a coliseum.
A finely dressed pastor spitting rhymes and charm like Dolemite on a mission.
A confused but devoted priest politicking to his flock like an incumbent senator thirsty for power.
A bishop twisting truth like Satan to Jesus in the wilderness, looking to validate their own sin.
So strapped to a pew by tradition the soul rotted.
No one heard its cries when as a young child a trusted companion violated its innocence.
It was told to simply pray when the pain of abuse cut deeply at its existence.
Inappropriate scripture was flung its way when a broken heart met them instead of love.
Its faith was criticized when the mind broke and mental illness took the place of sanity.
Instead of support from its Christian brothers and sisters they mocked its weakness.
The soul desperately looked to heaven and asked:
Where was the abundant life that Christ spoke of ?
Wasn’t His yoke supposed to be easy and his burden light ?
Did not his sacrifice come to heal the broken hearted and set the captives free ?
Where was peace like a river that flowed from the Cross ?
The answers were in the mouths of the knowing, but they were too busy to notice the smell of the rotting soul. Glued to the television waiting to give money for their next miracle they didn’t care about the tragedy taking place. Their true Christian faith had been replaced with a religion devoted to Jehovah ATM.
Obsession with their own prosperity caused them to ignore it when the soul took its eyes off of the Cross and began to look to a rope as its Savior. Instead of the pierced hands of the Messiah to heal it of its pain, the soul began to contemplate the saving power of a razor blade on their wrist.
The soul was simply tired of rotting and the emptiness.
Tired of the aching and the disdain.
Tired of broken promises that this medication would work.
Tired of prayers that seem to go unanswered.
Tired of the hopelessness and the pain.
Tired of eyes cried raw.
Tired of hurting others.
Tired of disappointing loved ones.
Tired of aborted relationships because of its own weakness.
Tired of rejection for not being enough for them.
Tired of words that tore away self esteem..
Tired
Tired
Tired….
So while the Master’s back was ripped open with 39 lashes, the rotting soul’s throat met 39 sleeping pills.
Then with sweet release it closed its eyes and rotted no more….
dedicated to Butch Ellis who sought his own peace April 26, 2009