All together now by Bob Hicok

I bet Jesus would mow a mean lawn, and be really good at edging, and pet your dog if it got loose in the yard

All together now

by Bob Hicok

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Wasn’t Jesus an illegal immigrant? 
He just arrived in Israel without papers or history 
or sex, so wouldn’t He be deported today 
if He were mowing lawns in America? I bet Jesus 
would mow a mean lawn, and be really good at edging, 
and pet your dog if it got loose in the yard 
and wondered who this stranger was. 
And isn’t shooting a priest in the head 
with a pepperball during a peaceful protest 
the equivalent, by proxy, of shooting Jesus 
in the head with a pepperball, which, by extension, 
is the same as shooting God in the head 
with a pepperball, which, for those of us 
who don’t believe in God, is like shooting the sun, 
or the moon, or the air in the head 
with a pepperball, which is easy to do, 
including for me, even though I only fired a gun once, 
at a steel chicken, who was at a disadvantage 
and should have been given a head start. 
The priest was telling the man who shot him, 
a federal agent on top of a building 
wearing a mask, the man, not the building, 
that it wasn’t too late to save his soul, 
a very shootable offense if there ever was none. 
The man, the building, the gun, the pepperball, 
are all part of the process of “mass deportation”, 
the effort to rid America of those 
who don’t blend in very well 
with snow, or paper, or snow. “Mass deportation” 
sounds as if you’re deporting mass, including 
the communion wafers, or the snack 
bearing the body of Christ into the world, 
and the only thing I liked about church. 
Jesus said two things I often quote verbatim: 
love thy neighbor, and ouch. When I try to imagine
nailing someone to a cross, I get as far 
as holding a spike against his palm 
but can’t strike the spike with a hammer,
even in my head, where nothing is real, 
it’s just pictures and words, like a bald TV. 
And maybe Jesus actually said, Deport thy neighbor, or, 
Arrest thy neighbor without a warrant, or, 
Wear as much military gear as possible
to make it seem we’re at war with ourselves, 
I don’t know, I wasn’t there, but I am here
and think we can all agree 
that priests are meant to be lied to 
during confession, not shot in the head
with pepperballs or speedballs or spitballs or any 
kind of ball or bullet or spite. And aren’t we all 
illegal immigrants, given we can’t 
actually prove where life, or language, 
or square dancing, or our boundless desire 
to know where we came from, came from? 
So if you set me free, I’ll set you free, and if you 
hold on to me, I’ll hold on to you, 
and if you step into the mystery and sing,
I’ll ask what you’re singing and try to sing along.

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I’ve long admired Bob Hicok’s ability to look directly at the world — its violence, absurdity, tenderness, or its lack thereof — without flattening or flinching away from it. “All together now” is a perfect example of that gift. It begins with a question that sounds almost playful: “Wasn’t Jesus an illegal immigrant?” and then unfolds into something far more urgent and heartbreaking. The poem spirals through theology, protest, and the everyday comedy of being human (“I bet Jesus would mow a mean lawn”), all while carrying the weight of what’s unsaid: that compassion has somehow become a radical act.

What I love most here is how Hicok makes space for humor without losing moral clarity. And that he doesn’t shy away from sincerity. The absurd image of “shooting God in the head / with a pepperball” captures genuine outrage and sorrow. It’s a poem that refuses to turn away from faith, from hypocrisy, from the mess of living in a country that so often forgets what “love thy neighbor” actually means.

And then that transcendent ending: “if you step into the mystery and sing, / I’ll ask what you’re singing and try to sing along.” In a world that thrives on division, that simple offer of accompaniment feels like grace.