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The Offering Plate

The offering plate 
started at row one
I was in row ten.

I reached in my pants
knowing I had a five
down there somewhere. 

I pulled a crumpled wad
 from my pocket.
A receipt from MacDonalds,
 couple of one's and a----
"ten"!

I jammed my fists back
into both pockets.
Where was it,
that five that I was
so generously going to give.

Monuments and statues
were to be 
erected in my honor
for the noble contribution
of that five. 

"But ten?"

Did God really need
that extra five,
more than I did?

Thinking about the
theological and
the existential implications 
hurt my head.

The plate was starting 
the second row.
Going from one generous hand 
to the other.

Five is one thing,
but ten?
I smoothed out
the wadded ten, 
as I tightened my grip on it.

The plate was
on row four.
The passing plate
seemed to accelerate. 

Do I give it?
I saw my monuments
and statues crumble
right before my eyes.

The plate was 
at row six.
What happened to
row five? 

My heart quickened, 
the breathing became 
more shallow.
My fingers held tightly 
to the ten like it was 
my only child.

The plate was steaming
along row eight,
like a piston,
faster and faster.

My eyes darted between 
the plate and the ten,
as my grip tightened
 like a vise.

Beads of sweat
began to appear.
My mind raced,
ten or no ten.

Righteous obedience 
or succulent avarice. 

The plate has now
cleared row nine.
It feels like
my eternity hangs
in the balance.

The plate comes 
to me.
With gritted teeth,
and gritted heart,
I drop the ten in.

The ten snuggles
into the plate,
up next to a "twenty."

It's funny,
but ï didn't hear
the Hallelujah chorus
as the ten left my hand.
Nor did I hear: "Well
done my good 
and faithful servant."

The offering plate continued 
it's one way journey.
Songs were sang,
the preacher preached.

One last question 
entered my little mind:
Was God impressed,
or embarrassed? 

5-7-17
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