Subongtsungba Longkumer
I know your name, but do you know mine?
I know the road that leads to your home — do you know the path that leads to mine?
I have heard you preach on Sundays with a voice that commands attention, but I have yet to see you preach on Mondays with the quiet kindness that changes lives.
Your words are polished, your illustrations striking, your delivery sharp as a sword. The crowd leans forward when you speak, and perhaps Heaven leans in too. But tell me — when the pulpit is empty, do those same words still live in your hands, in your steps, in your eyes?
I understand the burden of a large flock. I know you cannot walk into every home. Yet I also know the story of the Shepherd who left the ninety-nine to search for the one. And sometimes, in the shadows of the back pew, I wonder if I might be that one.
I see you drive past in your car, the windows rolled up. I imagine you stopping, even for a moment.
But tell me honestly — is there something I must prepare for such a visit? An envelope perhaps? A gift wrapped in a ribbon? A table spread with meat and fruit? Or must my cracked walls be rebuilt into polished marble before your feet can cross my doorstep?
I have seen you at my neighbours house the other day where the floors shine and the chairs are soft. I prepared my home too — swept the dust, washed the cups, brewed tea — but you never came. I told myself you must have had urgent work. I will prepare again.
I see you at funerals, weddings, and birthdays — mostly where the music is loud and the decorations rich. When the homes are small, it is your assistants who come instead.
Tell me, Pastor — does poverty smudge your robe? Do broken doors and leaky roofs make you uneasy? Does our brokenness make us unworthy of your time?
I have heard the story of Jesus — the One who touched lepers, ate with tax collectors, walked dusty roads, and never needed a palace to enter a home. I believe that story. But I confess… I have not yet seen it. Is that because my eyes are blind? Or is it because the story has not been lived out before me by those who speak of Him?
On Sundays, the offerings are read aloud. My name is never heard. Is it because my gift is too small to be counted? I thought giving was for God’s eyes, not for the ears of the congregation. But perhaps I was wrong. If it takes giving like the rich to be seen, perhaps I will give more next time — not out of love, but so I am also seen.
When revival season comes, strangers arrive at my door. They tell me what not to eat, what not to do, and remind me to be in church every day. Suddenly, we are “remembered” — not as brothers and sisters, but as sinners in urgent need of fixing. But it seems our prayers are not loud enough to be noticed. We pray at home, we worship as a family, but that never seems to make us “holy” enough. Still, we will pray more. And we will wait for you.
Now some children tell me they do not want to come to church anymore. They say they would rather go elsewhere — somewhere they are more than just extra hands for church work. They say they are never noticed for encouragement, only called when there is a task to be done. They tell me they are not fed with the Bread of Life, but with tired jokes that leave them hungry still. And when they once asked the board of deacons for a small amount to buy guitar strings for worship, they were told they “spend too much money.” Tell me, Pastor… is this how the next generation is raised to love God’s house?
In church, we are never ushered to the front. Is that space reserved for those who matter more? If so, we will stay at the back — there is safety in being unseen.
My neighbours say you watch their social media updates but never ask how they are. Their children say you have never asked about their struggles in college or work, yet they see your photos of travels, dinners, and vacations, and they silently wish for a life like yours.
Sometimes I wonder — are you weary? Are you burdened? Are you always in a bad mood? Or have I offended you without knowing it? Your greeting is rare, your smile even rarer. You rarely greet me, and when you do, your reply is cold. If I have wronged you, I ask your forgiveness.
Pastor, I love the lights at Christmas. I love the flowers on Sunday mornings, the careful arrangement of special programs, and the beauty of the church building. But forgive me I must tell you — what I do not like is what I see inside the church.
Oh Pastor, my Pastor… this is not meant to wound. It is meant to be truth wrapped in longing.
This is not rebellion. This is not gossip.
This… is my heart, hoping to be seen.
~ Subongtsungba Longkumer