Sermon Without Witness
What the Pastor Didn’t Say…
This morning the sanctuary glowed
like nothing in the world was burning.
Sunlight braided itself through stained glass,
the choir breathed out hope in less-than-perfect harmony—
and I sat there, heart pounding,
waiting for truth to tear through the script.
***
I waited for our pastor
to let his voice break open,
to say something—anything—
about the families dragged from their beds
before dawn’s first breath,
about mothers gripping children
like life rafts in a rising dark,
about the buses idling like beasts
ready to swallow whole neighborhoods.
***
But he didn’t.
He stayed with soft psalms
and safe parables,
smiled the kind of smile
that never has to imagine
the sound of a door splintering
under federal boots.
***
He told us about lilies in the field.
He told us not to worry.
Meanwhile, just miles away,
a father was begging in a language
this country refuses to hear,
children were learning how heartbreak sounds
when it comes in uniforms.
***
Every word he didn’t say
hung over us like smoke,
thick enough to choke on.
It felt like holy ground turning hollow—
like we were worshipping in a room
where the walls themselves
covered their ears.
***
And when he ended with “Go in peace,”
the benediction hit me wrong,
because peace isn’t ours to claim
when silence is the only thing
we’re willing to offer.
***
I walked out with the taste
of an unspoken prayer in my mouth—
bitter, burning—
knowing that faith without courage
is just another door
we keep shutting
on the terrified.
About the Creator
SUEDE the poet
English Teacher by Day. Poet by Scarlight. Tattooed Storyteller. Trying to make beauty out of bruises and meaning out of madness. I write at the intersection of faith, psychology, philosophy, and the human condition.
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Comments (3)
This is great. I find it difficult to create art from our current poltical reality. As for now anyway, I become too passionate for my own good. I'm older, so I have learned my limits. If I was younger, I'd be frothing and raging on social media. This captures the horror especially of having brown skin & speaking Spanish in America. I saw you subscribed to me. I've subscribed to you. It's a pleasure. ⚡️💙Bill ⚡️
Sounds like you should have been the one delivering the sermon. I feel like that sometimes here. like we write but do we actually change anything. Hopefully some of us do without having to be seen or heard. Great poem.
Thank you for this.