A Dead Church Speaks
A Poem
They say I’m dead, out of touch, status quo.
Through my doors, they would never go.
I depend too much on books, creeds, theology.
Nobody will want to keep coming back to me.
I don’t understand marketing, lights, sound.
I don’t invoke strange tongues or trembling on the ground.
My patrons are sober & ready to listen;
They are sinners, but they are forgiven.
They say I’m dead,
And perhaps it’s true.
But Jesus bid His disciples
To pick up their cross and die too.
They say I’m out of touch,
And perhaps they’re right.
But Jesus said the world hated Him,
And evil men despise God’s light.
They say I’m following the status quo,
And perhaps that is correct.
But what of the Ancient Paths
Wherein our feet God does direct?
Love and greetings are heard in my halls.
Prayers of the faithful permeate my walls.
Blood of martyrs is my unseen foundation.
The blood of the Savior is my sanctification.
Let them call me dead. Out of touch. Status quo.
What does it matter, if through my doors they would never go?
