“Fuck Jesus! Fuuuck Jeeesus!” Loren spews
his Diné fury calling the congregation to
nervous worship, spilling the anguish of
too many years walking ashamed
in the Anglo’s shadow.
He has come today to take us to church.
He won’t abide our hiding behind
a blonde, blue-eyed Jesus again.
“Fuck that guy!” He slurs and lurches
to clutch my arm and make his point.
“White Jesus,” he says, “Is a rickety
prop. What about your pale skin makes
you think you’re special? This lie
gives rise to unholy practice and
then it collapses from lack of heart.”
Hitching his pants, he squints one eye, and
points a finger to the far horizon.
“Hózhó,” He says.
“Walk with me in beauty. Forget duty.
Forget privilege. Forget the blessing
you hope to wring from a disapproving
Father. Your skin is thin and could be
thicker. Your vibe is winter to the seed that
needs it warm to grow. Let it go.
For fuck’s sake, let it go.”