THE RESPONSE
A Response
They listen attentively
the people
just short of mesmerized
while the homilist
says such nice things,
decked out in pious clichés
and spiritual euphemisms.
They, the people, are as happy
as children with Christmas toys
nothing he says disturbs them;
their complacency is reinforced,
no need for metanoia here
in this architectural salute to God
Like the neighbors in the synagogue
they wonder at the homilist’s wisdom.
They sing hymns not robustly
like those in beer halls
but properly, placidly;
they bow their heads
at all the proper times
as well trained as fire
extinguishers on Pentecost;
everything is pious, comfortable, complacent.
Then one Sunday the homilist
looked up from his fastening notes,
startled at his own thin daring
and said:
“War is a curse
wasted lives, destroyed wounded.
Our brave soldiers don’t sacrifice their lives --
their lives are brutally taken from them.
We must work for peace
in the cause of the Prince of Peace,
peacemaking is not an option.
There is a rumbling stir of discomfiture.
Politics don’t belong in the pulpit.
This priest is a flaming liberal,
a rabble rouser, un-American.
Like the neighbors in the synagogue
they take offense at him.
We don’t have to listen
to this drivel, slobbering
out of a radical mouth
into the ears of a captive audience.
We want to hear about
nice things, pious things
not this verbal trash about
peace.
The next step from the pulpit
will be a protest march.
The collection baskets
passed with officious care
that Sunday
were empty.
They listen attentively
the people
just short of mesmerized
while the homilist
says such nice things,
decked out in pious clichés
and spiritual euphemisms.
They, the people, are as happy
as children with Christmas toys
nothing he says disturbs them;
their complacency is reinforced,
no need for metanoia here
in this architectural salute to God
Like the neighbors in the synagogue
they wonder at the homilist’s wisdom.
They sing hymns not robustly
like those in beer halls
but properly, placidly;
they bow their heads
at all the proper times
as well trained as fire
extinguishers on Pentecost;
everything is pious, comfortable, complacent.
Then one Sunday the homilist
looked up from his fastening notes,
startled at his own thin daring
and said:
“War is a curse
wasted lives, destroyed wounded.
Our brave soldiers don’t sacrifice their lives --
their lives are brutally taken from them.
We must work for peace
in the cause of the Prince of Peace,
peacemaking is not an option.
There is a rumbling stir of discomfiture.
Politics don’t belong in the pulpit.
This priest is a flaming liberal,
a rabble rouser, un-American.
Like the neighbors in the synagogue
they take offense at him.
We don’t have to listen
to this drivel, slobbering
out of a radical mouth
into the ears of a captive audience.
We want to hear about
nice things, pious things
not this verbal trash about
peace.
The next step from the pulpit
will be a protest march.
The collection baskets
passed with officious care
that Sunday
were empty.
