"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.

We are surrounded by enemies

smiling like polite wolves through glistening teeth of niceness.

"Happy Sabbath! Welcome to church!"

The voices which should be raised in protest, raise 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.

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

and 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 were were alive.

Our insides torn apart by the death of our 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 see and I watch and I scream.

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

Blood in Gaza's streets and 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.

For the pastor's hands are strained 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 Palestine

and his finger refuses to type one line

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?