Little Boxes
Perhaps you've experienced such. You meet someone, and then you stop and chat,
And at some point, up comes that curly question whereby everything goes flat.
“So, tell me now, what church do you go to?” — and, "Oh dear," you inwardly sigh,
For when you give them the answer, they suddenly have some reason to fly.
I'm exaggerating? Well, perhaps I am, but that's sort of how it goes,
For there's that body language, and that look — yes, some how or other it shows.
You see, instead of them seeing you now, they’re just seeing a little box,
One that has you neatly packaged and labelled, and that sports a dozen locks.
Yes, instead of seeing you now, they can't see past what’s in that little box,
One that appears impossible to empty, because of those little locks.
You’re no longer who you are, or were, but simply the contents of their box,
Which all too often, (or so it seems to me), a possible friendship blocks.
Yes, even though you're an individual, you’re no longer seen that way,
For now you’re a certain religion, or so their reaction seems to say.
It's so sad that all these biased little boxes have people pigeon-holed,
For all such little boxes do, is, just prevent any good that could unfold.
Given we’ve our individuality, we shouldn’t be pigeon-holed,
Simply because of the religion, or faith, that we practice and uphold.
For whatever one’s religion is, whatever one’s denomination,
There's definitely no excuse for such bigoted discrimination.
I'm simply who I am, a person, (a fact which also holds true for you),
I’m just me, not some religious label, and differently may well do.
Yes, the path that I have chosen, may be one that is different to yours,
But when it comes down to friendship, no barriers should such a fact cause.
Thus, do we really need to ask, “So, tell me now, what church do you go to?”
For isn’t such totally irrelevant from a friendship point of view?
I've no doubts that there's a time and place where asking may have some merit,
But where such isn't necessary — for friendship’s sake, let’s not hear it...
please.
By Lance Landall