Ruminations on the death of Pat Robertson

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 

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.

Published by Bator Richard

Monk of Masturbation, living in Palm Springs, CA

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