I don’t know your name and I doubt we will ever meet.
I always see you at your church. I live across the street.
I sit out on my front porch and wave at the passers by.
You never wave back. Maybe the sun is just in your eyes.
I shout a hello to your family as the church doors you walk in.
I hear a muttered statement about missing church and sin.
If the doors are open I see you there for every event that’s held.
Services, potlucks, and picnics. Oh, the food that I’ve smelled.
I can hear the instruments and voices as you praise your God.
While I enjoy the music I must admit that I find one thing odd.
I sometimes hear your pastor preach about spreading the word.
I scratch my head and wonder if any of you really heard.
Cause I don’t know your name and I doubt we will ever meet.
I always see you at your church, but none of you see me.
Since our church doesn’t own a building, we don’t have “neighbors” in the sense that Mark is talking about in his poem. However, we do have neighbors. What kind of neighbor am I?