The Sortitionist - Poem

 

That's a compelling and provocative line — it immediately reframes common political binaries and introduces a less familiar but deeply democratic concept. Here's how you might expand or refine it depending on your purpose:

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Original Line:
Jesus wasn't a capitalist, neither was he a communist or a socialist. He was a sortitionist.

Expanded Version (for clarity or emphasis):
Jesus wasn't a capitalist chasing profit, nor a communist enforcing equality through the state. He wasn't even a socialist redistributing wealth by design. He was something else entirely — a sortitionist. A believer in the radical equality of people, chosen not by power or party, but by lot and by grace.

As a Tweet or Tagline:
Jesus wasn’t left or right. He was a sortitionist.
Forget capitalism and communism. Jesus chose people by lot, not by class — sortition, not stratification.
Not profit. Not party. Not power. Jesus called fishermen and taxmen alike. Sortition in spirit.

As a Discussion Opener:
If you're aiming to write a piece or start a broader conversation, you could use it as the hook:

For centuries, we've tried to retrofit Jesus into our political categories — capitalist, socialist, revolutionary, reformist. But maybe he fits none of them. Maybe the better term is “sortitionist.” A leader who chose apostles not from elites, not by ideology, but from the crowd — at random, by fate, by deeper moral character. What might that mean for democracy today?

 

The Sortitionist

He came not on horseback, nor throne made of gold,
But barefoot through wheat fields, breaking the mold.
No title, no ledger, no sword on his side—
Just calloused hands and truth as his guide.

He dined with the taxman, the leper, the thief,
He healed without charging, brought rebels relief.
He cast no votes, he made no decrees,
But gathered the lowly like wind gathers leaves.

No stock to his name, no state in his palm,
He preached under fig trees and oceans gone calm.
Not capitalist chasing the gleam of the coin,
Nor socialist grinding the rich into join.

Not communist dreaming a new world by force,
Nor liberal lawyer with contracts, of course.
He walked outside systems, in sandals of dust,
Choosing not power, but radical trust.

Twelve men he gathered, not kings nor elite—
A zealot, a fisherman, a trader of deceit.
They did not apply. They did not campaign.
They were chosen by chance, not for profit or gain.

This was the way — divine allocation,
Not rule by the rich or the will of a nation.
Not ballots nor bullets, not dynasties grand,
But drawing from many with heaven’s own hand.

Sortition, they call it — the drawing of lots,
The leveling justice forgotten in plots.
A priesthood of people, not picked for their fame,
But called by the silence behind every name.

He flipped the tables, not just of the trade,
But of all the false thrones that mankind has made.
He mocked the Caesars, the robes of the law,
And wrote in the dirt what none ever saw.

What if today, in the halls of our time,
We heard his footsteps, still clean of our grime?
Would he not weep at our gold-plated halls,
Where justice is auctioned and mercy is stalled?

Would he not whisper through algorithms’ reign:
“You do not know me. You only know gain.”
Would he not cry in the chambers of power:
“You chose the best talker, not the one for the hour.”

He would not build armies nor brand a new creed.
He’d point to the crowd and ask, “Why not lead?”
He'd gather the names — the teacher, the clerk,
The nurse, the poet, the one out of work.

For who said that wisdom wears only a tie?
Who said that justice must sell or must buy?
What if the kingdom was structured like this:
Each given a voice, none promised a fist?

So bring back the jars, the stones and the lot,
Forget all the rigged games the powerful plot.
Let strangers be chosen, not rulers rehearsed—
Let leadership come not to those who thirst.

Let chance be a mirror where judgment is blind,
Where courage is common, and duty aligned.
Let the first be the last and the lost take the lead—
Not kings crowned in votes, but the planter of seed.

For Jesus, you see, broke more than just bread—
He broke the idea of rule by the head.
He offered the heart, the soul and the call,
To lead not by rising, but kneeling for all.

Not red, not blue, not hammer or cross—
He counted the lilies, not capital’s loss.
He spoke not of systems, but something more just—
The reign of the random, the rise of the dust.

So say what you will in your echoing fist—
But Jesus, my friend,
Was a sortitionist.