"How Can You Say" : a lamentation

Oh Lord

How can you say that we should not be afraid

when children are being beheaded

and the pregnant women run over by tanks

and the starving people shot

and the men raped to death

while the people in the pews are silent

playing word games, tip-toeing, pussyfooting

and pretending it's a conflict and a war

and that "there's nothing we can do!"

Those who are complicit in a genocide now wear the faces of our friends,

our family, our church members, our pastors.

The murderers walk among us.

The liars wear gentle smiles and shake hands warmly.

We are surrounded by enemies

grinning like polite wolves through glistening teeth of niceness.

"Happy Sabbath! Welcome to church!"

The voices which should be raised in loudest protest, are raised in formulaic worship songs in churches; singing of a Jesus who is Justice itself,

and who calls neutrality in the face of injustice a sin.

These oh-so-nice wolves howl: “Peace!” when there is no peace,

and fear polarisation as though this in itself is a fault.

My God! The cowardice!

The clean people in their clean suits

and ties

with Bibles tucked neatly under their arms,

maintain their own innocence

by swapping out love with fawning,

and justice with cowardice,

and leadership with maintaining the status quo.

We are surrounded by monsters whose names we used to speak with affection, with familiarity

Surrounded by madness that claims it is sanity,

surrounded by traitors who claim they are righteous,

surrounded by creatures who drag their feet

when they should be running towards the oppressed with shields and allegiance.

Oh Lord

How can you say that you will be with us till the end of the age

when the end of the age is Hell

and you are silent.

How can you call yourself the Healer when you

are absent like a wound that won't heal.

Wherever you went you brought healing

There is no healing now

Where are you?

Did you expect us to just hang on to the faith with no assurance,

no word from you, no strength, no miracles?

We walk in darkness so normalised

that people usurping your name call it noonday.

We walk among pretenders who stay silent

as they butcher your children.

Oh God, we are abandoned and broken apart

We are wretched

We are dead people walking around as though we were alive.

Our insides torn apart by the death of our Palestinian siblings behind the wall.

I can't see another beheaded child.

I can't see another burned, charred child.

I can't see another screaming child.

I can't see another child with an Israeli bullet in their head.

But I continue to see and I watch and I scream.

Because it must be witnessed and I will not abandon them.

Why have you?

Oh GOD! There is no justice, no right, only blood.

Truth lies murdered in the streets, along with Palestine's peoples.

There's blood in Gaza's streets

and in Congo's mines

and on our pastors' hands.

Oh God! Condemn them! Let your wrath rain down on them with a fury I cannot summon and dare not speak.

For the pastor's hands are stained as he grips the podium like a life raft

and dares to speak your name each Sabbath,

while he betrays your Gospel every weekday

while his mouth refuses to defend Palestinians

and his finger refuses to type one solitary, lazy line of support

and his hands refuse to move an inch across his keyboard

for your children.

Oh Lord

How can you say that all will be well and healed

when we have passed beyond death, beyond Trauma, beyond terror.

The loss swallows us whole

We are in a grief so deep it has undone us

We are shadows of ourselves.

It has unravelled our strength.

We are holding on with vapours.

Lord, how can you say....

and why don't you speak?