Thoughts, Prayers & Art

A Pastoral Poem for Gaza, the Refugee, and the Crucified Truth

They say I’m radical
because I cry for Gaza
because I see God
in the dust-covered lashes
of a child whose only sin
was being born beneath the wrong flag,
under a sky that remembers war
more than rain.

They say I’m radical
because I still flinch
when drones hum like insects overhead
even when they’re not meant for me.
Because I count names
the headlines erase.
Because I see craters
where hopscotch once lived,
and graves where gardens should grow.
Because I call it
what it is:
genocide.

They say I’m radical
because I see through the smoke
and name what others won't:
That borders are built by men
but souls are not.

I will never accept cruelty as the norm.
I will never be baptized in silence.
I will not genuflect to the empire
while children burn.

Let me speak, then—
for the child in Gaza
who sleeps with ash in her lungs
and remembers the color red
not from crayons
but from her brother’s last breath.

Let me speak
for the boy whose father
dug a grave with bare hands
and sang louder than the missiles
because it was the only hope left
to give his son.

Let me cry out
for the mother at the border,
whose milk turned to dust
and whose lullabies slipped
through chain-link fences
like prayers through prison bars.

Let me lift my voice
for the man in an ICE cell,
wearing yesterday’s fear
and tomorrow’s uncertainty,
whose only dream was safety
and for that
he was caged.

Let me wail
for the names unspoken,
for Noor and Mateo
and the millions like them
children torn from stories
they’ll never get to finish.

They say I’m radical
because I pray in silence,
rage in poetry,
and still believe
that love is worth the risk.

Because I’ve seen too much
and I refuse to look away.

Each time you look away,
a child disappears.
Each time you bite your tongue,
a mother’s scream turns to dust.
Each time you say “It’s complicated,”
a soul is buried
beneath the rubble of excuses.

And the cross—
grows heavier
on the backs of the broken.

Call me radical
for caring too much.
But I will not build theology
that makes peace with abuse.
I will not preach peace
while they bleed.

Because Christ
was born beneath military boots,
fled as a refugee,
was detained without cause,
mocked by the empire,
and nailed to a cross
for daring to love
the wrong people
at the wrong time.

This isn’t politics.
This is crucifixion
again and again.

So don’t you dare say
“Keep the peace,”
when silence is suffocating the innocent.
Don’t you dare claim neutrality
when neutrality has a body count.

And don’t you dare call me radical
for believing the Gospel
still has teeth.

Let my tears flood
the altars of the comfortable.
Let my voice
be a trumpet
at the walls of indifference.

Let my faith
light a fire
the world cannot snuff out.

Because the Gospel was never meant
to comfort the empire
it was meant to raise the dead,
break the chains,
and set fire to the lie
that some lives matter more than others.

So yes
if this is radical?

Then let me burn.

Let me blaze
with the love of a Christ
who flipped tables,
touched lepers,
broke laws to feed the hungry,
and rose with scars still showing.

Let me burn
with holy defiance,
until cages become classrooms,
until deserts bloom again,
until swords are beaten
into plowshares
by hands once bound.

Let me burn
until no child knows fear
as their first language,
until no mother must barter
her body for her baby’s breath,
until justice rolls like water
and the empire finally drowns.

Amen.
And may we live
like we believe it.

Rev. Allison Burns-LaGreca
www.ThoughtsPrayersAndArt.com