Your Jesus
who dons a red cap
and brandishes
the American flag
on the steps of an earthen fortress
to demand the restoration of God’s nation
is not my Jesus.
Your Jesus
cover boy
of your eleventh hour attempt
to wake sleepers dead to the demise
of God’s chosen democracy
is not my Jesus.
Your megaphone message
on the public square
forcing repentance
lest we be damned
by our own folly
banned forever
from that apocalyptic dance
in the blood-soaked valley
called God’s Revenge
or, as in some modern translations,
God’s Promised Land
is not my Jesus.
I tune out revolution chaos
to meditate on
the outcast
sowing slow-growth seeds
which yield
love
joy
peace
patience
kindness
goodness
faithfulness
gentleness
self-control
He is unarmed,
waiting on the dawn-cool fields
of a buzzing harvest
to show you a better way
on roads unseen
through a country not yet born.
Life Out Here 