believers (a Sermon)

Brothers and sisters of the flickering faith,
come ye beneath the painted tent,
kneel before the box that hums and glows.

For tonight, the prophet of the hour
preaches from the Newsreel of the Nation,
and the country, ever faithful,
bows once more to the holy screen.

He speaks of peace through testing,
and war through mercy.
He says the bombs are holy,
the prices high
but that is the price we pay
to believe we are right.

And every fire sent skyward
counts itself as mercy.

And the people nod
their faces washed in the warm blue light
believe.

Once, the Newsreel told us what was.
Grainy, gray, truth unglamorous
a man’s voice like gravel and gospel,
the facts marched past like soldiers of certainty.

Now the Newsreel sings.
It smiles in HD.
It sells to your sated gaze.

The facts have gone soft,
dressed in color and opinion,
lipstick for belief.

And under the bright lights of the hour,
the prophet spoke in circles
not reading, but selling.

A tonic for the nation, he called it,
brewed from memory, ego, and charm.
He held up each claim like a bottle of cure,
the label glittering with conviction.

The crowd drank deeply through their screens,
and felt, for a moment,
the sweet burn of belief.

Truth stood outside the tent,
shaking its head,
watching the bottles empty
and the hearts fill.

The hour passed,
and the people were full,
their facts skewed to new truth,
fed on fantasy and miracles and flags.

And somewhere,
a small voice whispered corrections into the wind.
But the wind had ratings to keep.

The prophet smiled.
The host thanked him.
The crowd applauded.

And the nation
believed.

Epilogue

And when the crowd was gone,
I stood in the sawdust still warm from their feet.

The echoes of applause hung like incense in the stale air.

I looked for the truth—
maybe under the benches,
maybe in the dust where the spotlight had burned out.

I did not find it.

But I thought I heard it breathe,
softly,
somewhere beyond the tent,