Sermon Without Witness

This morning the sanctuary glowed

like nothing in the world was burning.

Sunlight braided itself through stained glass,

the choir breathed out hope in less-than-perfect harmony—

and I sat there, heart pounding,

waiting for truth to tear through the script.

***

I waited for our pastor

to let his voice break open,

to say something—anything—

about the families dragged from their beds

before dawn’s first breath,

about mothers gripping children

like life rafts in a rising dark,

about the buses idling like beasts

ready to swallow whole neighborhoods.

***

But he didn’t.

He stayed with soft psalms

and safe parables,

smiled the kind of smile

that never has to imagine

the sound of a door splintering

under federal boots.

***

He told us about lilies in the field.

He told us not to worry.

Meanwhile, just miles away,

a father was begging in a language

this country refuses to hear,

children were learning how heartbreak sounds

when it comes in uniforms.

***

Every word he didn’t say

hung over us like smoke,

thick enough to choke on.

It felt like holy ground turning hollow—

like we were worshipping in a room

where the walls themselves

covered their ears.

***

And when he ended with “Go in peace,”

the benediction hit me wrong,

because peace isn’t ours to claim

when silence is the only thing

we’re willing to offer.

***

I walked out with the taste

of an unspoken prayer in my mouth—

bitter, burning—

knowing that faith without courage

is just another door

we keep shutting

on the terrified.