Ode to Inspirational Gifts

Jesus Goes Shopping

O Christian coffee pods 
and Man-of-God nail clippers,
O cross-shaped glow sticks
and aprons shaped like Heinz bottles
reminding my followers 
to Catch Up with Jesus 
and Relish Him, 
O inspirational lip balm 
and stress balls 
ordered by the boatload 
to fill pink tulle swag bags 
at weepy women’s conferences, 
and plush, me-shaped slap bracelets
holding onto sweaty wrists for dear life,
my adorable sandals dangling:

You’ve put me in an awkward spot.

Sure, lots of guys have rightly earned 
their I Put the Stud in Bible Study
T-shirt, and those authentic 
mustard seeds trapped 
in gold-plated pendants 
probably do prompt some prayers 
now and then. And Gehenna–
if a plastic Full Armor of God play set 
(adjustable Breastplate of Righteousness,
Belt of Truth, and apocryphal Shin Guards 
of Peace included) gets the kid 
off the iPad for five minutes, 
I suppose I should be happy with that.

But take heed, guardian angel
keychains. Your microplastics 
gotta go somewhere, 
and that's straight through the gills 
of my favorite damselfish.
And you, Fruit-of-the-Spirit 
makeup bag for only $12.99?
The tiny Bangladeshi fingers 
that sewed you together 
cannot wriggle back 
into their mothers’ womb 
to begin a child’s one and only 
life again.

Everyone seems to think 
I’ll return any day now,
that the landfills leaching 
into the drinking water
of invisible strangers 
are, like, no problemo.
And I get it: flipping over tables 
of plastic cars and jumping frogs 
kindergartners earn 
by memorizing verses
doesn’t even seem worth it
when the whole world’s simmering 
in its own apocalyptic juices. 

But the people who buy you, 
O rustic wall hangings
of star-spangled trucks
hauling Farm Fresh Faith
to who knows where,
and Son of Man nesting dolls
snapping open every stage
of my sloppily painted life:
I just want them to love one another. 
I want them to think of me, yes,
but in real leaves inscripted 
with chlorophyll streams of life,
not factory-punched coaster sets
with the scattered crumbs
of my greatest sermon ever 
drowning in Mountain Dew rings.

I want them to find me 
in the noisy mess of screaming toddler
snot and rainbow dish soap bubbles
and bird feathers sticking
to the bottom of their shoes.
I want them to find peace 
in the dark, cragged Middle Eastern
face of their imagination,
not in a woven throw blanket 
with some vapid Nordic visage 
(that’s supposed to be me?) 
gazing straight past their exhausted souls.