You may have to judge me

You may have to judge me…


I am 

that believer…

pastors warn  about,

that nondenominational

gad about

the one who passes 

on offering plates

but stops 


the city gates,

where lepers and poverty 

mill about-

that’s me,

cuz I see Jesus 

in dirty sheets

not laying on offering plates

but somewhere outside 

city gates

on streets

alone …


for pennies

that churches collect

for offering plates

each Sunday.

I see 


of loaves and fish

and healings where the lost 

or torn

not under 

but outside they’re born

outside picnics

and retreats 

of steepled skies,

where asphalt meets

the grit of lives

so many 


and left to die

go hungry.

I see 

the widow and her mite


Church’s pearly life

her offering thrown

on breaded seas,

she gives her penny

to those in need

while churchy folks in nice repair

hurry by her harried hair

hoping to avoid her stare

and mutter 

“but for 

the grace of God

go I there.”

But what if 

for the grace of God 

goes she


the white washed pews

breathes she

upon her matted sheet

prays for thee

to somehow find 

the King of Kings some other place

 than offering plates

on Sundays?


 I am 

that gad about

some pray for me 

to settle down

and find my rest on velvet pews

but I find fellowship 

outside the veins

of polished sermons and refrains,

my sermons bleed

outside the gates

on dirty matted filthy sheets

where Jesus walks 

through hungry streets

and asks me to accompany Him

 on Sundays…


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