Old Arthur and Martha were brittle and grey,

With knees that would knock when they started to pray.

They sat in the pews of the "Crystal Cathedral,"

Where the carpet was plush and the sins were all lethal.

But the Pastor, a man with a smile like a blade,

Had promised a trick of the spiritual trade:

"If you pray for your neighbor, the gift will rebound!

For every soul saved, there’s a buck to be found."

Now, Martha was frugal and Arthur was tight,

They counted their pennies by dim candlelight.

But the Pastor had told them, with sweat on his brow,

"You want a Mercedes? Then start praying now!

The Lord is a Banker, the Heavens a Vault,

And poverty's purely the worshiper’s fault.

Look at my mansion! My jet! And my hair!

I bought them with fervor and selfless-ish prayer."

So Arthur leaned over and whispered to Mart,

"Let’s save some poor souls, dear, and let’s make it smart.

If praying for others brings gold to our door,

We’ll pray for the wretched, the weak, and the poor!

We’ll intercede hard for the lost and the low,

Until our accounts start to ripen and grow.

I’m tired of the Buick, it’s rusted and slow,

I want a car with a twin-turbo glow."

The Intercession of the Silver Spoon

They started that night with a list of the damned,

Their bedroom with brochures of Lexuses crammed.

"Oh Lord," Martha cried, with a saintly grimace,

"Please help Mrs. Higgins with her legal case!

She’s lonely and bitter and losing her mind—"

(She whispered to Art, "Is the leather-trim lined?")

"Yes, heal her arthritis and mend her old hip!"

(Art checked the MSRP for the dealership).

"And Lord," Arthur groaned, with his hands in the air,

"The orphans in Bristol are stripped and are bare!

Please clothe them in wool and please feed them with cake!"

(He thought of the dividends he’d soon partake).

"We pray for the sinners who drink and who swear,

While we pick out the tires and the mahogany flare.

It’s a win-win scenario, holy and sweet:

They get their salvation; we get the heated seat."

They prayed for the plumber, they prayed for the vet,

They prayed for the cousins they hadn't seen yet.

Each "Amen" was whispered with visions of chrome,

Of marble-topped counters inside of their home.

"If I save the milkman from paths of the dark,

Perhaps I can get the upgraded Park-Assist spark?"

The piety rose like a cloud of thick smog,

As they traded their souls for a high-end catalog.

The Theology of the Turbo-Charge

The neighbors all marveled, "How noble! How kind!

The most selfless couple that you’ll ever find!

They spend every evening in spiritual labor,

Just begging for grace for a wayward-bound neighbor."

But Martha was eyeing the Pastor’s Gulfstream,

While Arthur was lost in a V-12 dream.

They weren't being "good" for a crown in the sky,

They just wanted toys that the tithers would buy.

"It’s genius!" cried Arthur, "The loophole of grace!

The more that I care for the whole human race,

The more that the 'Return on Investment' kicks in—

I’m literally washing away my own thin

And pathetic bank balance by scrubbing their sin!

It’s a spiritual Ponzi, and we’re going to win!"

He prayed for the heathens in distant Bangkok,

While checking the price of a Swiss-movement clock.

She prayed for the blind and the halt and the lame,

Then looked up "Range Rover" and highlighted the name.

They were "vessels of mercy," or so they would claim,

While stoking the fire of a greed-centered flame.

The Miracle of the Dealership

Then came the morning, a Tuesday in May,

When the "blessings" finally headed their way.

A check in the mail! An inheritance found!

(From a distant third cousin they’d prayed underground).

They didn't shed tears for the relative dead,

They raced to the showroom with grease in their head.

The salesman approached with a grin and a tie,

"Can I help you, good folks?" with a glint in his eye.

Arthur stood tall, smelling faintly of pews,

"I’ve come for the stallion, the one you call ‘Zeus.’

I prayed for the homeless, the hungry, the cold,

And the Lord turned my copper-clad spirit to gold."

Martha caressed the Italian-stitched dash,

"It smells like forgiveness and cold, hard cash!

Who knew that by asking for others to thrive,

I’d end up with such a magnificent drive?

Let’s pray for the salesman, Art, right on the spot,

Maybe we’ll get the sunroof for nothing or naught!"

The Moral of the Manifold

So they drive through the town in a shimmering blur,

A saint in a tuxedo, a martyr in fur.

If you ask for a prayer, they’ll oblige with a smirk,

Because they’ve got a system they know is at work.

They’ll beg for your soul with a tear in their eye,

Then calculate gas-mileage as they drive by.

"True charity," Arthur likes often to say,

"Is making sure someone else's debts go away...

Because if I ask for your cupboard to fill,

The Almighty pays for my luxury bill."

They’re the holiest couple you’ll ever behold,

With hearts made of plastic and plated in gold.

For why walk the path that is narrow and straight,

When you can pray for a neighbor—and buy the whole estate?

They’ve mastered the gospel of "Gimme and Get,"

The finest disciples that money could vet.