You don’t know it, but I’ve got you already.
And the beauty is, you don’t know it because you don’t believe I exist.
Not that I mind. It makes things so much easier for me.
See, I know you.
I know you gave up long ago.
I know you look at the time you were passionate about your faith – remember that time, so long ago? – I know you look at the time you were passionate about your faith with a certain smirking paternalism, the same way you remember your youthful idealism when you got swept up in Trudeau-mania or the Young Communist Party or Greenpeace.
Your faith is like the rusty protest button in the bottom of your sock drawer.
I know you gave up long ago.
You decided there was no contradiction between being faithful and being comfortable.
See, I do know you.
Used to be, it was easy for me to pick out the Christians in the crowd – they were the ones visiting the sick, welcoming the stranger, working on the underground railroad, scouring pots in the soup kitchen, walking the picket line, going to jail.
Time was, the Christians not only went to jail.
They went to the lions.
They were known by their love for everyone, even their enemies. They recognized no distinctions of class or gender or race, and that made them stand out. Which made it easy for me to pick them out.
Which was not the same thing as making it easy for me to do my job.
But now? Piece of cake.
You have confused peace with not making waves.
You’ve become devoted to what makes you feel good instead of what mends the world.
You blend in with everybody else.
You’ve decided to be nice instead of to be faithful.
You are already mine.
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