The Sermon

The Pastor sweeps us with a searchlight glare

from his shiny wooden pulpit.

Sin and Repentance cut the air

as the red light from a stained-glass window

falls on his flowing white robe.

We are sheep, he says.

Woolly-minded, trailing after the Lord

on hooves clumsy with fearing Him.


The Pastor's hand slices through the air –

blissful halos on the right,

goat-horned perdition on the left.

If my father (un-saved, un-repenting) were here,

he'd raise his eyebrow at me and grin.

I'll never let that chopping hand

slice my dad and me apart.


God as I see Him

doesn't play favorites with His children.

He's not a cosmic Santa Claus

with a Nice and Naughty List.

He's a poet of living masterpieces,

the composer of the music of the spheres.

He loves every solar system in the universe.

He loves every creature on this planet,

including my father

and me.