Enameled crosses hang
above cushioned pews,
white hands lift in worship,
voices tremble at the name of Jesus,
while outside the sanctuary
another soul
is treated as less than sacred.

And heaven grieves.

For Christ was not crucified
beneath stained glass comfort.
He died brown-skinned, bruised,
beneath an empire
that feared the dignity
of the unwanted.

There is a racism
that no longer burns crosses,
because it has learned
to kneel politely in church aisles.
It sings of grace
while refusing to see
the image of God
in every face not its own.

This is more than hatred.
It is spiritual blindness,
baptizing comfort
and calling it righteousness.

But the Gospel is fire,
burning every false kingdom
built on supremacy,
shattering the lie
that one skin
carries more heaven than another.

At Pentecost,
the miracle was never sameness,
but holy belonging.

Yet Christ still stands
at the edge of our sanctuaries,
scarred hands open,
asking why His body
has been divided again.

The wound of racism
is not merely social.
It is liturgical.
Whenever one child of God
must prove their humanity,
the Church ignores
the wounded face of Christ.

As fireworks bloom
across another Independence Day,
their colors fade,
but the old wounds remain.

Is this the country we envisioned?
A land where liberty
stops at the borders of skin?

Perhaps patriotism
is loving a nation enough
to confess its sins.

Lord,
strip the scales from our eyes.
Break the idols
hidden beneath patriotism,
tradition,
and fear.

Teach us a repentance
that listens,
weeps,
and restores.

May Your Church forego being a fortress for the powerful,
and again become a table
where every tribe and tongue
finds bread,
finds dignity,
finds home.