What am I doing?

This is a pretty strong poem that I wrote some time ago. Normally I write stuff that rhymes, but this time I was experimenting with another style. It didn't work out so well, but the resulting thoughts still hold true. It was not written to offend, but rather as a reflection on how I was and where I came from. It is here, not for its poetic mastery, but because the words are still just as powerful, and just as true.

Here inside these four old walls I listen to a preacher preach up a storm He rants and raves and carries on But although I agree, what am I doing? Meanwhile outside people are starving Homeless wander past while we blare out worship songs Claiming that we love our saviour Jesus But proclaiming Him only to the heavens above People freezing without clothes to their name But I am here all cozy warm My bottom pampered by some plush seat My shoes resting on luxurious carpet What am I doing, what do I believe That Jesus can do it all without me Why do I sit here, why do I sing When all that I am is a white washed tomb Where is the truth to all I proclaim My faith is not more than an empty gong Fooled to consider I am secure in salvation When my actions are directing me straight down to hell