I am reading searching for sunday by Rachel Held Evans, recently and tragically departed. It seems strange to mourn the death of someone you never knew, grieving a friendship that didn’t exist apart from words on a page. Regardless it, along with the works of Pete Enns has spawned this somewhat angry poem, not directed at them in any way of course, but by elements of my own messy journey.
The world burns,
flames lick hungrily at barred doors, and still,
the bride cowers in stoic certainty, her attendants overwhelmed by deafening silence.
Defiant she braces against the tide, pugnacious, she feigns hospitality.
Self proclaimed heraldess of truth, she secretly harbours judgment and disdain for all those who dare question her.
All hail the word, lifted above the heads of the throng, to be worshipped above all else; idolatry tolerated.
The world burns,
flames lick hungrily at barred doors,
the wedding guests panic in the heat, their cries for sanctuary go unheeded.
Shameless and silent, she sits, confident, upon a crumbling throne.