I TALK TO JESUS

i talk to jesus.

not in a church

not where belief is rehearsed.

i was there.

i sat in their pews.

i watched men in suits

dressed like sheep

 

the pastor sat like the king.

back straight.

didn’t speak much—

he didn’t need to.

 

they already worshipped him.

 

they passed the basket

like it was sacred.

 

twice.

 

asking for what they know

most people can’t give.

 

they shook hands

and prayed loudly.

 

closed their eyes

like that made them innocent.

 

me?

i kept mine open.

because i don’t talk to jesus

with my eyes closed.

i look him in the face

and wait for truth.

 

they pray for the sick—

but the sick still die.

 

every sunday, someone still dies.

 

what’s the point of a hymn

that doesn’t heal?

 

they kneel and pray to air.

they chant at ceilings.

they dress for god

but look at me

like i walked in covered in blood.

 

even the man outside—

the one with the cardboard sign—

looked at me with more grace

than they did.

 

i’m not disrespectful.

i just know what a lie sounds like.

 

they lie with their mouths

and call it gospel.

they lie with their glances

and call it love.

 

they eat wafers

and drink grape juice

like it’s divine.

like it’s the body of a man

who never lived.

a man who never healed them.

a man who never saved them.

 

and still—

they build altars in his name

and ask for two thousand five hundred

for a one wooden bench.

 

faith has a price now.

and god?

he keeps asking.

for more money.

more silence.

more obedience.

 

does he ever get full?

or is he always starving?

 

the father drives a 2025 Escalade.

exotic red.

clean trim.

paid for by a congregation

that can’t afford groceries.

 

he once said:

“if you’re holy,

your father will be holy.

if you sin,

your father will be evil.”

 

but i saw it in his eyes.

he was never holy.

even if his flock never sinned again,

he would still be corrupt.

still be cruel.

still be lying behind his collar.

 

god was never in that man.

 

i talk to jesus

because he doesn’t ask for anything.

he doesn’t sell me salvation.

he listens.

and never looks away.

 

when the pastor gave the final blessing,

everyone lowered their heads

like it would save them.

 

but i didn’t.

i kept mine high—

on a pedestal they’ll never reach.

not out of my own pride.

out of truth.

 

i didn’t find god in that church.

not in the father.

not in the pews.

not in the people’s eyes.

 

he really did die in vain.