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