Originally posted by Rachel Tompkins. Reposted by permission.
by Elizabeth Dilley
This poem was written by my dear friend K on the occasion of Pat Robertson’s death. It’s as profoundly theological as anything my clergy colleagues have shared, and certainly more theologically robust than anything I could say about it. I’m posting because I’m going to want to remember this poem for years to come. Maybe you will, too:
I don’t like to think
About Pat Robertson going to hell.
That lets him off too easy.
I like to think about
Pat Robertson finding himself
In a heaven he never believed
Would exist.
Where Divine is reading in drag
To the children murdered at Sandy Hook and Uvalde.
While Edie Windsor
And Gertrude Stein drink coffee
In the breakfast nook
talking politics with Harvey Milk.
Where Matthew Shepard relaxes by
A stream, reading poetry to |
A nameless young man whose family
Never claimed his body
when he died
Of AIDS.
Where the music plays loudly
Welcoming dancers from the Pulse
And Club Q to the floor where they
Twirl and vogue with
All the murdered trans women of color
Whose names we never knew.
Where Jesus puts his arm around
Pat Robertson’s shoulders and
Drapes them with a rainbow feather boa.
And, gesturing around him says
Come, meet my disciples.
Many of us grew up with Jerry Falwell, Jim Baker, Oral Roberts, and Pat Robertson. They are all gone but, sadly, their legacy remains.
