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A poem I had written about non-fictional events that occurred in my hometown church. |
Sunday mornings, the man of God preached from his pulpit of fire and brimstone, sweat pouring from his face, voice high risen as he jumped up and down, trying to save souls. While the collection plate passed from hand to hand of his glorious flock, music would begin playing behind him like the organ keys hit notes of praise for donating to the Lord, monetary system only, so I tossed in my quarters, an unusually observant child, I wondered what Our Father needed to buy in Heaven? Perhaps the streets of gold needed mending, Angels with broken wings could afford the hospital bills, then daydreaming, I watched as every Christian, men and women, would sing Amen, except for the Pastor's wrinkled wife staring around with her beady hawk eyes, telling each child to sit or stand or hush as if her main duties were to make sure the heathen kids were listening to her husband's words about Christ rising. After she passed on to seek Eternal Life, I wondered if her husband was in shock, or maybe he did not shed tears in front of others, he mourned within the walls of his home alone. When the dedicated members of the Church of God discovered he wasn't going through his sorrow without the Treasurer making certain that she was comforting him during his grieving, scandalous gossip followed while choir members lip synced hymns recorded onto old cassette tapes. Suddenly, the church that stood as if overlooking the town had nobody sharing the meaning of Bible verses. All the cash to repave those streets above had been stolen and vacation became the code for stealing from these lost sheep, fornicating before the soil settled over his deceased wife. Tears of betrayal stung the follower's eyes, except wasn't they putting too much faith into another human being. Soon another man replaced the one who had prayed before him but I was already finding inconsistent teachings. My teenage ears heard contradictions until I no longer could believe in anything. I crossed my fingers that the members wouldn't worship a mere man nor try to judge him for being a sinner, he's not God. |