My God Wears a Screen
Worship doesn’t need stained glass, just studio lights and curated feeds,
A thousand faces kneeling beneath the pixel’s glare,
waiting for the next to lead.Her lips are perfect, her voice rehearsed,
he broadcasts miracles on live at nine,
The new messiah wears sponsorships,
his gospel always ready to monetize the line.No incense burning,
just the ozone whiff of fresh-bought fame,
No preacher in the pulpit—just a man who changed his name.He sells hope in dopamine,
comfort in a post,
His flock is an algorithm, devotion just a boast.
The old rituals gutted, replaced by vlogs and sponsored grief,
Sermons buffered, edited, then cut for time
and brand relief.The prayers are hashtags, the offerings likes,
The worship is a streak, the confession
swipes.The congregation tithe in monthly fees,
Streaming faith in HD, hearts on their knees.There are no hymns,
only theme songs,
No sacraments, only discounts on thongs.
God wears a screen, preaches in pixels,
Promising paradise, but selling the sizzle.The soul gets buffered,
the pain is sold—Heaven’s not golden, it’s just enrolled.The priest is a model,
the model a brand,
Faith repackaged, always on demand.Sinners forgiven by verified check,
Grace measured out in follower spec.The influencer saves the saved,
Then edits the tape,
Turns to the next one,
And closes the drape.
Worship is no longer sacred, it’s slick and bright—A thousand holy moments,
all shot in perfect light.God wears a screen,
and love’s just a view—A loop of salvation with ads breaking through.And
when the faithful fall, he turns off the cam,Uploads the tears,
and calls it the plan.In this new cathedral,
the flesh is unseen—Salvation’s a number.God wears a screen.