Every Sunday.
Every Sunday--I sit down in the pews.
And look down at my shoes,
and stare.
Stare at my hands, wrung together.
White with tension,
ready for prayer.
Stare at this great big cross, looking down at me.
Then I begin to cry.
Thinking, “Forgive me Jesus,
but I’m not gonna lie.”
You’re not gonna save me, and I’m too ******* tired.

Jesus Christ! Here we go again.
This spiral into abysmal self-loathing.
And all because
I can’t open my mouth when we sing Christmas carols.
All because I find more Light in belly laughter,
than in the fervent begging that comes after confession.
Excuse me--for not believing my humanity lies in a little white wafer.
Your religion is a drug and your Faith, an ecstasy I cannot swallow.
Unlike the *******, who washed the feet of Jesus with her tears,
My tears are too muddied with doubt to save anything.
All because “Peace be with you” can never really mend--My fears.
All because
I see more hope when I see two men holding hands,
than in tense fists with wedding bands.
All because
I find *** a holy act--two awkward, laughing, comfortable bodies.
Making a pilgrimage, of the holiest kind.

I know, What will save me.
It’s those kind pats on the back, on a bad day.
It’s the feeling of exhaustion
after offering your heart to someone,
It’s the hope that sprouts from your tummy,
when you breathe in the Earth’s energy.
It’s the naked human body,
with its fragile human soul.
It’s the dancing we do, when we sit in silent meditation.
It’s the freedom to speak and think,
And the freedom to decide:
**What saves me.