Hordes gather in climate-controlled rooms
singing songs, lifting hands, dancing in
and out of aisles to fervored pitches.
They call it transcendence–bright lights, big holy.
Cries rise of “We want to know you, God.”
But God who knows all things whispers
from the rafters “I seriously doubt that.”
They cannot hear God’s doubts for God
speaks in the unknown tongue of stillness,
and sadly there’s no one there to interpret.
To know someone you must attempt to learn
their language. Mastery is not the goal but
rather the ability to carry on a conversation.
Then and only then can you with any believability
move ahead with claims of “Oh how I love you.”