To Make Me a Saint

If you want to make me a saint

You’ll need to break my hands

I apologize, friends and fellows

In this path toward Christ’s love

But, as we all know,

Any man willing to become a saint

Must be filled with vexing pride

And therefore has no business

Being made a saint

While living here on this earth

Though some may say

That the new tradition

Of--what is it?

Death and a hundred years?

That we should conduct

The appointing of saints

With that criteria

Is a bit extreme for me

When there’s a much simpler solution--

See who fights the hardest

And with the most humility

When this honor

Is bestowed upon him

And so here we are--

After months of silent campaigning

With letters and trips

To your various homes

We have finally reached a moment

I could only ever dream of

You have nominated me

For sainthood

And in order to certify

The edict

I must raise my hand

Alongside yours

In a unanimous vote

But brothers, I shall not

If you wish

To get me to raise my hand

And say, publicly, that I am worthy

Of being a saint--

--Something I’ve said

To you all privately

Dozens of times--

Then you must all hold me

And force my arm up

Breaking it, if need be

And my hand as well

Because only by a show of resistance

On my part

Can I now demonstrate
That I am ready

To take on the sacred position

Of Person Who Walks Around

With a Little Yellow Circle

Over Their Heads

Hmm?

Oh, a halo!

Yes!

Yes

I--Yes

I knew that’s what it was called

Yes

You see I was simply pretending

To not know what it was

To show that I am not so intelligent

I am an ignoramus

I am a fool

I should not be a saint

Buuuuuut I suppose

If you insist

And grab me--lightly

And compel my hand up

Then what choice shall I have

But to accept?

I do not wish to show

Disdain for the process

Which we regard as so holy

Wherein a group of old men

Gather together

Disrobe

Smear each other with sheep’s blood

And then elect those

They know Christ would love the best

It is a process built

On sanctimony

And if, to partake in it,

And come out the winner

I must be beaten senseless--but lightly

In order to prove

That I am the meekest person here

And therefore should inherit

Not only the earth

But six or seven virgins

In the township

Then that is what I must do

And if, after a little jostling

My arm accidentally shoots up on its own
I assure you, my brothers

It is not because I am suddenly overtaken

By the notion

That I should be a saint

It is more likely a muscular impulse

Uncontrollable by me

But! Not by God

And so we must take it into consideration

And then move onto other business

Because religion

Is all about procedure

Is it not?

Without that and pageantry

Where would we be?