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We paid to go see the psychic tell us about our lives,
with her gift from God that cost $45 per person—
and that was for the cheap seats.
The slick sybil dressed in glittery robes
accessorized by an infinity necklace
(that could be ours for $29.99) packed us in
like sardine suckers, then peeled the room open
serving up slices of our lives on a cracker,
telling us everything we ever wanted to hear
about angels watching over us,
spirit guides conferring all knowledge
and an opportunity to cruise mystic lands
on her tour of Egypt for a mere 3000 bucks.
Locked in our own solipsistic worlds,
we avoided eye contact with one another,
embarrassed that someone might recognize us,
or out of fear of discovering audience plants
who would reveal all as trickery.
We pay for the half-truths, the music, the hype,
glad to think there’s someone watching over us
who will give us what we want with minimal cost—
a gospel with no cross,
good news without bother of church.
Meanwhile, the Old Ship of Zion sails on,
its wave-battered vessel inching steadily toward
an eternally verbose sermonic promise
of a land shimmering on dawn’s horizon,
each day closer yet further away.
On deck, a motley crew laughs and sings
and fights together—all with passion
beneath the cross where blank canvas
catches winds of Spirit
too mysterious to master.
Working hand over blistered hand
they live together in spacious weathered truth
of human deception, and experience
divine grace even when no angels come in death,
and life just slips away
like a boat sliding silently into a dark river
on a moonless night.
At the helm stands no glamour—
just a soft-spoken preacher
whose stories ramble beyond any preset program of prophecy,
and cover wide fields of God’s disordered grace
without need of sound equipment or glitz,
no 8 x 10 signed glossies or tapes for sale in the lobby.
There is nothing shiny about this pastor
except his balding head haloing a glare.
The tattered robe his mother bought years ago
upon ordination is necklaced by the yoke of Christ,
a stole embroidered with the love of parishioners
in uneven stitches—a gift of thanks
for the times he held their lives up
in God’s darkly shining light of terrible glory
and saw through their guise of sin
the divine future of obscure eternity.