My Come to Jesus, With Jesus
I sat in the pristine Catholic church
Surrounded by images of Jesus:
Hanging on the cross,
Hands, feet, and chest bloody.
Blessing the crowd gathered around
Him like a rock star.
Standing at the table with
His twelve closest friends.
He was everywhere.
It had been many years
Since I sat in his presence.
My faith left behind decades ago.
So, I stared at the gigantic stone
Image of Jesus on the cross,
Hanging high over the altar.
I placed my knees on the padded kneeler,
Put my hands together in the namaste
Pose, looked up at Jesus and
Gave him a piece of my mind.
I wouldn’t call it prayer,
More like vented disillusionment.
I knelt there with the sweet smell
Of incense lingering in the air
As I watched my concerns and disappointment
Bounce off his stone-cold heart
Without even chipping the paint.
I had my come to Jesus with Jesus
In a pristine Catholic church
Surrounded by his image.
I walked away supremely disappointed,
Because, before I turned to walk
Up the aisle, I saw that all of
My concerns were laying
In a pile on the carpet below his feet
Just waiting to be vacuumed up
As soon as the crowd cleared.
Roy W. Backes
© 2021
Roy W. Backes - Poetry 