Sins of the Pulpit & The Broken Hallelujah
The preacher said God is good
but I heard God is tired,
burnt out from carrying the weight
of all this Black hope
through centuries of unpaid labor.
Tired as well buckets—
tired
of hashtags & marches & mothers
with altar-sized grief in their tears.
Tired of white Jesus still showing up
in Black churches like he paid rent,
like he built anything.
The pews are full but the prayers ain’t landing
like they used to.
They got TSA at the door now,
patting down the spirit for contraband—
even holiness needs to show ID.
These days, the pulpit feels like a TED talk
with better lighting.
The sermon got sponsored content.
Scriptures remixed to fit platforms
and the Holy Ghost glitching like bad WiFi
when real questions get asked.
Look—
I ain’t mad at the hustle.
We all trying to survive
the blood-soaked stain of Amerikkka.
Even Jesus had to flip a few tables
to make his point.
But don’t dare look me in the soul
and call it God’s will
when it’s just your agenda
wrapped in scripture.
These days preachers be sounding more like CNN
than the gospel.
Quote the Constitution
like it’s Corinthians
and I’m sitting there like
what are we doing???
We healing or campaigning?
The church bulletin got QR codes now.
Scan here for the vote.
Scan here for the food drive.
Scan here for trauma resources.
Scan here for a blessing,
limited time only.
I came looking for God
and instead got Google forms.
I sat near the back scrolling,
hoping the spirit would sneak past the firewall.
Kept waiting for the hush,
the one before the spirit shows up.
But only heard
autoplay from the livestream—
AC humming like it had more faith than us.
Someone in front of me filmed the entire altar call
for their story—added a filter,
captioned it: “God came thru 100%”.
I wanted to believe.
Wanted to feel something
between the hallelujahs and the hashtags.
But the amens felt like auto-replies
and the choir modulated
like they were singing to algorithms.
I spent the remaining sermon
wondering if anybody else noticed—
that we were witnessing performative faith
in high resolution.
Grace couldn’t even make it past the speakers.
If the church gon’ be a battleground
at least let the choir be armor.
Let the children still dance.
Let the spirit speak louder
than the talking points.
Bcuz I believe in a God who answers DMs
and speaks in TikToks
if that’s how the kids hear better—
a God who pulled up to Ferguson
& Minneapolis
& Jackson, Mississippi
wearing a hoodie & timbs.
A God who doesn’t need to be worshipped
to still be present.
So maybe
the preacher won’t say it,
but I will:
God is not a platform
but a protest / a witness.
That silence after the “amens”
when the whole room waits
for something real.
I’m still jonesing for a God
who ain’t got a country to prove.
Who shows up
even when the pastor has a meeting
with a senator.
Who doesn’t depend on votes
to love me.
A God who’s not running for office
but like Charlie Sheen… is still winning.
——-
Poem © DJ Benhaim
Image: CoPilot remixed