Black Sheep Clergy

Black sheep in the clergy stall,

ink on my skin, so they question my call.

Baggy clothes, honesty raw—

they label me unworthy, mistaking truth for flaw.

Too fat, too real, too rough to bless,

as if God only moves through Sunday best.

So I walk with pagans who don’t pretend,

who don’t judge the shepherd for not fitting in.

The zebras guard the pews with pride,

black‑and‑white stripes where the fearful hide.

If you’re not like them, they push you out—

unity spoken, division lived out.

I didn’t want to speak, but silence breaks—

the church feels scared, and the ground still shakes.

The Great Commission turned omission clean,

churchianity replacing the official Christian team.

I’d rather preach Christ where the weary meet,

in a dim speakeasy than a timid seat.

Don’t tell me “easy”—the gospel’s not soft;

it calls us to leap, not to doze in the loft.

So here I stand, the black sheep free,

clergy by calling, not conformity.

If different means faithful, then let it be—

I’ll follow the Shepherd who still seeks me.