#some call it sin

I have heard of faith.

It is that thing that those who name themselves

“righteous” seek. They claim

to hold faith, to know it’s grasp, like it is

a mother’s stern hands or

a father’s frozen facial features

reflected in the eyes

of a would-be gospel song

drowned before the end

of its first verse.

It is neither. Faith is

an echo in an empty room, it is

a dream you cannot touch the second you wake from its clutches:

it is called possibility.

I have seen faith.

And it is not made for the righteous.

It does not belong to the holy.

It is built, and nourished, and kept living

on the backs and on the sweat of we,

sweet sinners.

Faith has no reflection.

I cannot tell you what it will look like to you

when, or if, you ever see it.

Faith lives in periphery and in shadow - it is

felt, but unseen. The righteous claim

to know its face, give it blonde hair and blue eyes

call it “angel”, call it “for the holy”,

but cannot name a single place

that its footsteps tread. Cannot recall

a single heart

that they have blessed their so-called faith with.

True faith is bred from heartache,

not privilege.

True faith is sought, and earned,

not given freely upon asking.

True faith is born out of sin,

not into holiness - holiness!

Wholly empty faith.

Give me sin and I will embrace the faith that comes

or does not come.

Give me sin and I will find a story,

a lesson, a purpose, a meaning,

in almost everything my eyes touch.

Faith lives in downtrod doorways,

not in cathedral ceilings.

Some Call It Sin, I Call It Sainthood