THE INVERSE - A poem for the ones who left the church and built a smaller one

THE INVERSE

A poem for the ones who left the church and built a smaller one

I. THE LEAVING WAS REAL

Let the record show, before anything else is said:

The leaving was real.

The wound was real.

The abuse was real.

The bishop with the gentle voice and the closed door.

The interview that was not an interview.

The worthiness that was measured and the worth that was never enough.

The shame that was taught before the alphabet.

The prayer that was answered with silence and the silence that was called a test.

The family that chose the institution over the child

and called it loving you enough to let you go.

None of that is invented.

None of that is exaggerated.

None of that gets taken back in this poem.

II. THE FREEDOM

And the leaving was right.

The day the door opened and the air was real

and the first Sunday was quiet and nobody was watching

and the first I don't know was allowed to sit in the room without being corrected—

that day was a kind of resurrection.

And the ones who left deserved the air.

They deserved the quiet.

They deserved the right to say I was hurt and be believed.

They deserved to build something that did not have a lock on the inside of the door.

And some of them built it.

III. THE INVERSE

And some of them did not.

Some of them walked out of the building

and kept the building.

Some of them left the pew and kept the purity.

Some of them left the bishop and kept the judgment.

Some of them left the rules and kept the shunning.

Some of them left the God and kept the certainty.

And they called it freedom.

And it had a creed.

And it had a test.

And it had a list of the ones who were not welcome.

And the new list was shorter than the old list

and the new creed was more enlightened than the old creed

and the new shunning was quieter than the old shunning

and the new test was are you one of us?

and the new one of us was the one who had left the right way.

IV. THE NEW RULES

And the rules came back.

The rules about the right language.

The rules about the right politics.

The rules about the right kind of grief.

The rules about the right way to leave.

The rules about the right way to be angry.

The rules about the right way to heal.

The rules about who was allowed to still love the old music and who was not.

The rules about who was allowed to still miss their mother and who was not.

And the ones who broke the new rules

were the ones who said I'm not sure I agree

or I still believe something

or my leaving was complicated

or I don't hate the people who stayed.

And they were told they had not done the work.

And they were told they were still in the fog.

And they were told they needed to deconstruct more.

And the deconstruction had a shape and the shape was the new building

and the building had a lock on the inside of the door.

V. THE SAME BREAD

And here is the part that should stop you cold:

They are passing the same bread.

It is not Wonder Bread anymore.

It is sourdough. It is organic. It is gluten-free.

It is served on a slate board with a small dish of olive oil

and a candle that smells like cedar

and a playlist that was curated by someone with very good taste.

But it is the same bread.

It is the bread of we take care of our own.

It is the bread of are you one of us.

It is the bread of the ones who are not are not welcome.

And the ones who pass it are the ones who were once the lamb

and who have decided that the only way to stop being the lamb

is to find a new lamb.

And they call it healing.

And they call it community.

And they call it holding space.

VI. THE HURT

And the hurt they do is real.

The friend who is not invited to the new gathering

because she still believes something.

The parent who is not allowed to see the grandchild

because he did not leave the right way.

The one who is told she is still in the fog

because her grief is not the approved grief.

The one who is told he is not safe

because he asked a question that the new community had already answered.

The one who is told she is trauma-bonded

because she still loves the people who hurt her

and does not know how to stop.

And the hurt is not the old hurt.

The old hurt came from a bishop with a form.

The new hurt comes from a friend with a podcast.

And the friend with the podcast will tell you that the old hurt was worse

and that the new hurt is not really a hurt at all

and that if you feel hurt you have probably not done enough work.

VII. THE ONES THEY HATE

And here is the thing they will not see:

They have become the ones they hate.

They have become the ones who know what is best for you.

They have become the ones who decide whether you are worthy.

They have become the ones who shun.

They have become the ones who have a list.

They have become the ones who say we are only doing this because we love you.

They have become the ones who cannot be argued with

because they have already decided that the argument is the evidence of your condition.

They have become the bishop.

They have become the bishop with the podcast.

They have become the bishop with the sourdough.

They have become the bishop with the very good taste.

And the difference is that they are right.

And that is what makes them dangerous.

Because the one who is sure he is right and has the receipts

is the one who will never stop to ask if he is hurting you.

VIII. THE MIRROR

So here is the mirror, and it is the same mirror.

What did you leave?

A community that decided your worth.

What did you build?

A community that decides your worth.

What did you hate?

The certainty.

What did you keep?

The certainty.

And the certainty has a new book and a new prophet and a new set of rules

and the new book is the deconstruction and the new prophet is the podcast host

and the new rules are the rules about the right way to heal

and the right way to heal is the way that makes the new community comfortable.

And the fire on the old stone altar

is not in the new building either.

It was not in the old building.

It was never in a building.

And the ones who left the old building and built a new one

have simply traded one roof for another

and the fire has never once been under either.

IX. THE ONES WHO DID NOT BUILD

And there is another way, and it is quieter, and it is harder.

It is the way of the ones who left and did not build.

The ones who walked out of the building and kept walking

past the new building too.

The ones who did not join the new community

and did not join the new podcast

and did not join the new rules

and did not join the new list.

The ones who said I don't know and let it stay I don't know.

The ones who said I still believe something and I still don't believe something and both are true.

The ones who said I love my mother and I will not let her hurt me and I will not hate her.

The ones who said I was hurt and the ones who hurt me were not monsters and the ones who left with me are not saints.

And they are hard to find because they are not on a podcast.

And they are not on a stage.

And they are not on a list.

They are in the kitchen where two people are actually talking.

They are in the letter that was actually written by hand.

They are in the mouth of the one who says I was there, and this is what happened, and I don't have a clean answer for you.

X. THE FIRE

And the fire on the old stone altar

that never asked for a signature,

that the animals knew by,

that the boys knelt down at before the county ever had a form—

it is not in the old church.

It is not in the new community.

It is not in the deconstruction.

It is not in the reconstruction.

It is not in the podcast and it is not in the sourdough and it is not in the curated playlist and it is not in the holding space.

It is burning in the kitchen where two people are actually talking.

It is burning in the letter written by hand.

It is burning in the meeting that was never recorded.

It is burning in the mouth of the one who says I was there, and this is what happened.

It is burning in the animals who never once read the old rules or the new rules

and who never once picked.

And the old church could not put it out.

And the new community cannot put it out.

And the fire does not care which building you are in.

It cares whether you are standing close enough to feel it.

"Let the facts be submitted to a candid world."

And we mutually pledge—

to each other—

our lives, our fortunes,

and our sacred honor.

And to the ones who left the church and built a smaller one:

The leaving was real.

The wound was real.

The abuse was real.

And the new bread is the same bread.

Put it down.

Walk outside.

Find the fire.

It was never in a building.

Hieros Rev. Dustin Irish-Webb