When I Die, Please Hold My Funeral in a Church

When I die, please hold my funeral in a church:

Not some camera obscura where the spotlight stabs the stage,

And some upside-down celebrity reflects it from his teeth,

And the people sit in darkness as the mysteries unfold,

And sip sacramental lattes and the doughnut flesh of Christ,

And they rock in movie-plush seats to an "awesome" "worship band,"

And they scroll the iPhone NIV while texting to their friends.

But a church, please hold my funeral in a church:

In a cinder block Shekinah where the pulpit's made of pine,

And the chunky stained-glass windows turn the sun to seraphim,

And a preacher in a blue suit pounds the pulpit with a fist,

And the deacons serve out Welch's and the teeth of Pharisees,

And the pews creak as folks fidget as the choir sweats through their robes,

And they thumb through King James Bibles with those little index tabs.

Yes, a church - and please invite me to attend:

Do not eighty-six me somewhere else; I won't embarrass God,

And make people face a corpse and double-dare them to believe,

And proclaim that Jesus rose and that I'm no more dead than he,

And His mighty resurrection is the only hope I had,

And that I will be forgotten if the Lord waits long enough,

But that He'll remember me all right, however long He waits.

In a church: Please hold my funeral in a church.