To The Abuser Who Claims High Office in the Church
By Jane Wallman-Girdlestone
My soul weeps,
Hear the little ones cry out,
You, who abuse, manipulate, control,
Have claimed the power of high office,
The cure of souls.
The wounded ones of God
In the dark.
Keep our mouths shut;
Father knows best,
He has our interests engraved on his heart.
We cannot be silenced,
Even in the indignity of trying to forget.
You can sit there thinking
You’ve achieved so much,
You think you’re safe,
You know where
the emotional bodies are buried.
You’ve weighed the risk;
They’ll stay tame.
Hidden, destroyed and ridiculed
By the damage you caused.
Yet from where I crawl,
Your bloodied hands
And forked tongue
Leave a paperless, whiplash of a trail
In injury and death; damage and pain;
You do not shine the light on a spiritual truth,
Or preach a gospel I understand to be life-giving.
Your predatory actions
Feed your narcissism
Not our love-dreaming.
Your faithfulness to your own needs and wants
align to material gain.
Your god is so small
You can’t begin to open her box or re-frame.
I am ashamed of you.
When we need hope, you abuse,
When we claim power, you destroy,
When we need love, you teach us all that is left when we have burned out our hate
Is our passionate desire to expose you.
It cannot be that he who protested so much that it was the last thing he wanted,
Is allowed to lead a Church,
Impart his personal vision
That putting up and shutting up
Are not only the keys to salvation,
But sustain a corrupt and deluded leadership,
Overseeing the dying game.