They talked
of Jesus
between bites
of bacon
and runny-yolk
soaked hash browns.
They talked.
They mocked
the bleeding hearts,
called mercy weakness,
passed the pepper.
They declared
their freedom
between buttered toast
and blackberry jam,
applauding laws
for someone else's life.
They talked
of Jesus
between slurps
of creamy cocoa
and bitter coffee.
The way they talked,
I knew.
They didn't know
the Jesus
I knew.
My Apologies
The truth is, I want to jump into conversations like this when I overhear them from the next table. I imagine all the things I could say. I rehearse clever responses in my head, picturing some perfect phrase that might make them pause mid-bite.
I never do.
Partly because I’d probably make things worse. Partly because it’s so easy to mistake being right for being loving.
Mostly, I just felt this deep sadness listening to people speak about Jesus in a way that sounded so different from the one I meet in the Gospels.
I hope that, if someone overheard me at the next table, they would hear a little more grace than certainty.