No.161: Fashionably Christian

Cross on your neck,
death in your face,
some of us smell like the living dead,
and I'm starting to think we like it that way. 

Slow grind with Hell on Saturday nights,
then clean yourself at church
with a praise dance and some gospel vibes,
‘cause it's just a game ain't it? Sunday Fun-day.
I can hear the false lion roaring,
the snake hissing fallen melodies,
the liar snoring with a grin so wide
it could scare an unborn child,

but that's the life we lead,
spilling the blood of the King like it was free,
calling His name, claiming to be His sheep,
but leading astray would-be saints with ease, 
speaking His name as we toast to the other team
like He didn't already say you’d be better off
tying your neck to a weight and getting tossed into the sea
than misleading the young or spiritually naive.

Some of y’all living risky--
birthday suit on IG, call it Queen, then claim “God” on a beat,
I’m deceased. 
I feel the Invasion of Privacy, 
I’m starting to think
y’all niggas don’t really think before y’all speak.
I normally peep the feces then keep to myself,
but the Spirit blocked the pen, paused the ink,
told me to speak now or forever hold my peace--

it’s a No Brainer what I’ve chosen, 
I was born a savage. 
The Scriptures are my filter,
but lately, I been thinking I Might Need Security
‘round some of y’all goofy, loosey-goosey Christians,
I mean, I’m imperfect too, 
we're all on different journeys, so express your truth,
but for your sake, my dude, express wisely.
Run your race, I'll run mine,
but if the emperor has no clothes, 
I gotta call it out.

Tat 1-1-Six on my ribs and hang my jersey when I die,
make sure they know
I never took myself too seriously,
but what my life said to others about Jesus Christ--
that was never a joke--
make sure they know
not to talk about me in the past tense,
my God conquered death, on the third He rose,
then He called me son, made me a G, 
said the lost sheep mean everything,
so make sure they know
I don’t wear this cross 'cause it’s icy,
I wear it to remind me who I am,
who I belong to,
who I write for,
why I can’t treat these words casually,
or be satisfied with a cute Bible verse in my bio, 
or a tee that says I speak to God in public,
‘cause that’s not where He speaks to me.
That’s not where His word is.
And this cool, comfortable, cliche Christianity ain’t my purpose. 

But if I must be honest,
ain’t this the life I lead? 
Spilling the blood of the King like it was free,
calling His name, claiming to be His sheep,
but leading astray would-be saints with ease, 
speaking His name as I toast to the other team
like He didn't already say I’d be better off
tying my neck to a weight and getting tossed into the sea
than misleading the young or spiritually naive.

We would do well to suffocate on the imagery.
To fall on a simile and crack our teeth on the poetry. 
‘Cause the pain of rebuke
should be the last of our concerns
when our profiles and rings and necklaces
are holier than our lives.

Cover Photo by chase fade on Unsplash