‘Closed mouths don’t get fed’ It’s what mama always said. Yet somehow I managed to find a morsel. Every Sunday 10 am. Small town Sundays, sing a couple hymns, let the pastor preach. We stand, we sit, we clap, we greet one another. Surface. Never deeper or more. What were we there for?

Week by week I grew up. God must be. Just look around! Yet no one is hungry. We come empty, but bloated. The poison of life. Sneaky lies, broken hearts, broken eyes. Maybe if we just make enough rules this sick house will get well. Time after time. The latter condition of the church worse than the first.

Precious bride that she be. Has not made herself ready. Desperate and longing, but broken and unwashed. If only she knew the blood never stopped washing. The water never stopped springing.

Maybe it is true that closed mouths never get fed, but I’d like to remind you that open mouths do. Simple change in posture. Shift in desire. The one who seeks finds. The one who knocks is answered and welcomed.

Come broken. Come afraid. Religion is dead. It’s time to wake up sleepy head. Your prince is here to lavish you with his love. Wake up and rise. You’re beautiful in his eyes.