A Letter to the Church in America
M. K. Allen
What would Paul write,
if his hand found parchment in our age?
Would he marvel at sanctuaries swollen with sound,
yet thin with love?
Would he sorrow to see the name of Christ
wielded like iron,
instead of poured out like water
over dusty feet?
We strain at gnats and swallow camels.
We thunder doctrine,
but forget the quiet call to mercy—
to be bread in empty hands,
to be rest for the weary guest,
to be oil for the wounds of the stranger.
We rage over the price of eggs,
yet overlook the empty table.
We kneel to idols of flesh and power,
while the Lord of compassion
waits at the margins.
Our pride is our altar,
our glory, our shame.
What would Paul write?
Would he call us infants still,
thirsting for milk
though the feast has long been set before us?
Would he whisper again
that love is the greater gift—
greater than prophecy,
greater than tongues,
greater than every brittle knowledge?
What would Paul write?
Would ink blur with his tears?
Would his words flame with lament?
Would he plead that we remember the Cross,
that we remember the poor,
that we remember the Kingdom
is not the empire of men,
but the reign of Christ alone?
What would Paul write,
if he wrote today?
