2000 years
transmuting
into a religion of comfortable raised hands
and reassurance that I,
out of all humanity,
(you too, of course);
have a reserved place
in some imagined paradise.
Soft and cloying.
He spoke of sacrifice and love.
Painful, bleeding;
counter-cultural.
Counter-economical,
giving stuff away.
Of taking the rejection
and persecution.
And of dying.
Love for neighbour,
enemies, too.
With a ratbag foreigner
made the hero
of a story about love.
Baptism into death,
and the cup of suffering.
Families divided.
Not much that can be recognised
in this baptised into prosperity
fearful of strangers
it’s all about me
Sunday religion of happiness and satisfaction;
while the planet grows hotter,
the innocent are brutalised,
and the wealthy grow even fatter
and more obscene.
© Ken Rookes 2020
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