A poem in remembrance of Me
Shall I abide their farce in silence?
Suffer through the sham they make
Of holy meals with juice and crackers:
“Come, Drive-by Believer, slake
Your spirit’s thirst in your own style!
Eat what you like and sip
What flavors thrill your own two lips.”
Such tickled ears, itching to hear that
Do-It-Yourselfer’s holy dream.
Take whatever you want. Do whatever
You want. It’s whatever you make of it.
“This do” is their undoing!
Blasphemy parades as faith,
Such pious hearts the words
Rejecting, simple words “He gave it”
and “Take! Take, eat and drink this cup.”
No, take not from His hand or table, take
Whatever extra Ritz and juice you find
Upon your shelf yourself. “It is your supper,
Not the Lord’s you celebrate” did Saint
Paul write when those in Corinth
Sought to suit their appetite’s delight
And call it The Lord’s love feast for all.
Had they not “houses in which to eat
And drink?” Yes, Paul, of course we do, but
Our internet sucks! Let the reader understand.
Are not the pronouns of the Lord Demonstrative
Enough, when simply saying this “THIS do!”?
Where is His “this” in trite tomfoolery today?
No stuff of His Passover past, but grandstand
Picnics on display preferred to His own
Words. So pack a lunch for drive-thru Jesus dinner.
Do they reckon that He knew no “This” to
Demonstrate, perform, prescribe His will,
“My Testament” for them, for us, for perpetuity?
But “this” they have not believed at all
for decades, three centuries, or four!
“This” not “My body;” “This” not “My blood.”
This His “this do” no more. These do now “that
Which they will,” everyone is right in his own eyes.
What good are His words, “Do this?”
Just do something, what you want, ok?
That’s all He prolly meant, and who‘s this
Jesus guy to say? Snack and sip,
take a selfie in remembrance of me.
What’s righter for the eyes than public
Spectacles of faith-ishness and fun for all?
“Just do it.” Don’t boo it. Sip, chew it.
Airhorns and cheers for everyone!
But please, this do: recycle when it’s done.
“They know not what they do.”
This I hear Him also say upon the cross,
Pleading forgiveness for the indelicate way
They mock, defile and desecrate His body
There unto His death. A fit remembrance, that.
Silent, there I stand with Peter, warming hands,
Muttering as though I know no Rabbi, but now
Lost every ounce of bold fool’s pride. Destroyed,
This pretense: never I shall once deny, ignore
This Christ, This Lord, This Jesus nor a single word
He speaks to me, for me and His disciples
Scribed in certain, pure, true letters for all perpetuity.
Thus quietly I weep my bitter tears while a rooster
Pecks at crackers on the street and soon, thrice crows forth
The truth of my own farce: I do know Him. I know Him, and
I must remember now precisely what He said to me
“On the night when He was betrayed…”
Not so very long before this rooster ever crowed.
Isaiah 50:4 Blues 
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