I’ve stood in the bleachers of churches that smell like burnt incense and cheap perfume, watched the same people who preached about “love” turn their backs on the homeless in the next block. I’ve seen the real work of faith—blood on the pavement, tears in the dark, the weight of a body that’s been broken by the same gods they claim to worship.
This ain’t the America you think it is.
This isn’t the “spiritual” revolution they’re selling you.
This is the real state of religion in America: a fossilized religion that’s been turned into a fucking brand. They’ve got their tithes, their influencers, their Instagram filters of “prayer and peace,” but when the storm hits—when the economy crashes, when the schools burn—they all disappear like smoke. They’re not serving the people. They’re selling the people. They’ve got more money than they’ve got care. More prayers than they’ve got action. More “love” than they’ve got lives.
And I know it’s not just me.
It’s in the way the pulpit’s got a better voice than the people in the pew. It’s in the way the Bible’s been rewritten to fit the next best sales pitch. It’s in the way they call it “faith” while they’re doing everything in their power to keep you out of the fight. They’ve got their own little kingdoms now—where “god” is just a title on a coffee cup, a hashtag, a performance for the camera. They’ve got the No Bullshit Bible? Sure. But they’ve also got a better version: one that’s got less words and more profit.
So here’s the truth I spit out like a street preacher who’s seen too much:
Religion isn’t broken.
The system is.
We’ve been told that you are the problem. That you are too much, too wild, too real. But no—they’re the ones who made us too much. They made us uncomfortable. They made us uncomfortable enough to need a real religion. A religion that lives. Not one that’s got a logo and a list of what you should do. Not one that’s got a church in the sky but no church on the ground.
I’m still smiling.
Because I know my love has already brought me great things in return.
I will defy them with every laugh.
With every smile.
This isn’t healing.
This is heresy.
And I’m not if I’ll do it.
I’m when.
I’ll go out and love, love like my fucking job.
I’ll bleed so you don’t have to.
So don’t call me too much.
Call me too much—and let me do the work.
Let me rise.
Let me rise.
Let me rise.
Neti. Neti.
Not this. Not that.
The truth is the only thing that’s left.
I am the foul mouth philosopher.
And I am not going back.